


Sight Comes to Mind

by lovebargain (coyotes), psychedelia



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Chaos Rituals, Desolation!Tim, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Domestic Fluff, Doppelganger, F/M, Gender Issues, Hunt!Martin, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Minor Character Death, Original Artifacts, Possession, The Unknowing (The Magnus Archives), Time Travel, spiral!martin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:14:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 96
Words: 773,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22903012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coyotes/pseuds/lovebargain, https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychedelia/pseuds/psychedelia
Summary: The Archivist tries to play his own hand and remove himself from the Beholder's sight; Jonathan Sims wakes up on his first day as Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Gerard Keay, Martin Blackwood/Gerard Keay/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood/Michael Shelley, Michael "Mike" Crew/Gerard Keay, Sasha James/Tim Stoker
Comments: 284
Kudos: 698
Collections: Sight Comes to Mind





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The thought process behind this is-- what would change, what would remain the same, and what would Jon fuck up in the process of trying to fix everything, if he was suddenly transported to his season one environment? The answer is [peggle gif] TWO archivists! This started as a long, complicated slow-burn between Jonathan Sims and Martin Blackwood. Over time, it became… a little more complicated.
> 
> The timeline for this is that Jon knows everything up until the end of Mag154. He's had THE conversation with Martin, but nothing after that; he attempts to remove himself from the chess game soon after this conversation. He is immediately transported to Mag1.
> 
> Because it was written originally as an RP, the POV shifts between characters throughout; we found both POV's to be extremely important to the flow and development of the story, as both Martin and Jon step into unreliable territory quite often. Over time, more characters and thus more POVs are introduced. Most of the ships you see in the tags weren’t planned; they happened organically through natural development as we wrote out the scenes. Whoops! 
> 
> We’ve tried to find ways to sum up this story, or to explain some of the important tags, but it’s really hard! This story is a deep dive into complex reactions to trauma. The E tag is for adult content (alcohol/drug use, graphic depictions of gore, violence, heavy themes such as suicidal ideation, trauma, etc. that are typical of this universe). There are only a handful of sexually explicit chapters, and each one of them comes with a warning. 
> 
> Without spoiling too much, we took great care in developing our own universe around what we were given with canon and it is a hugely personal work delving into aspects of PTSD, complicated relationships with gender, sexuality, interpersonal relationships, the fallout of abuse, and other topics neither of us find explored often or well in fictional works. Everything we’ve written has been done with love.
> 
> You can find me and Jack on tumblr at [Whitmanic](https://whitmanic.tumblr.com/) and [Shock](https://shock.tumblr.com/), respectively. Enjoy!

The pain is like no other. It is a searing, white-hot thing of misery, anguish, destruction and, with the final click of the staple gun, The Archivist screams, openly weeping tears in equal mixture as blood. A great yawning pain flows through him, but it's _wrong_. His head splits into an agony, a roar, and he collapses fully to the ground, his palms flying not to his broken eyes, but to his head. 

He Knows, with startling clarity, that he is not allowed to do this. 

His skull feels as though it's splitting open, cracked down the middle, some divine being wiggling its way in and telling him _No_. The screams echo through the office, and his voice goes raw, and-- 

\--and-- 

\-- _and_ \-- 

“--and held out my tobacco towards them, though I didn’t approach, and asked…” Jon takes in a steadying breath, the rhythm in the statement lost, the gorgeous, haunting flow quelled for a just a moment, and unlike usual, no pain flares inside his skull, telling him (demanding him) to continue, to keep on reading, to consume, and watch and Know and Behold.

He trails off, confusion blooming in his chest, and leans back in his chair, his limbs slowly growing stiff and tense, his eyes scouring the page before him and-- Wait. That can’t be right. He all but falls from his chair in his shock, landing roughly on the floor of the office, his fingers pulling and prodding at eyes that should not work, should not be, should, if anything at all, be little more than messy organs threatening to kill him from blood loss. He should be-- 

He should be free, and yet, though distant, he can feel It, feel It here with him, in this Office, and he almost wants to shrink away and hide beneath his desk, his heart fluttering so rapidly it’s all he can do to just breathe. 

Jon does, then; pulls himself all the way under his desk and darts a hand on top of the desk to fumble around until his hands hit the familiar texture of the tape recorder, one hand staying pressed to his eyes the entire time, as though lifting his fingers will make the world melt away, reality to resurface and his eyes to once again bleed. 

The office doesn’t smell of stale cigarettes. Neither does it have the harried and chaotic mess that Jon has learned to deal with, over the years; it is neat, impassionate, nothing to clutter but several Banker’s Boxes tucked on and around the small chair that serves as an uncomfortable seat for a visitor, filled with files and tapes.

By rote, his thumb rewinds the tape, to hear from the beginning, to steady himself in something. The tape settles into place, and his own voice plays back to him, soothing, almost, as it struggles to be louder than his own panicked breathing. He needs a fucking cigarette. 

“Test… Test… Test… 1, 2, 3… Right.” 

Jon sucks in a terrified breath, and has to pull his hand away from one of his eyes with a hiss, as he’d been holding onto his face so tight, his ring finger had slipped and pressed deep into the socket, a flash of pain accompanying it. 

“--Bouchard, has employed me to replace the previous Head Archivist, one Gertrude Robinson, who has recently passed away.” 

“No,” He whispers to the recorded cadence of his own voice, and curls against his legs tighter, and suddenly, with level-headed clarity, he knows he will find no tobacco in this office. Jonathan Sims wasn’t smoking when he first landed a job as Head Archivist. He lets the tape play a little while longer, just enough to know, for certain, that the story his voice narrates is that of the Anglerfish. What does it mean? What is-- what--?

He tries to cast out, to Know, but it's like there's a stopper in his brain. Pressurized. A wine bottle with the cork pressed down so tight, there's no hope to aerate until the next kind soul pulls and pulls and pulls until it pops out with a violent explosion of blood-red liquid.

It doesn't make sense. It really doesn't. In a fit if frustrated, helpless anger, he throws the tape recorder at the wall near the door, and the thing crashes with a horrible crunching sound. "No, no, no no!" Even half-mindless, Jon shivers; it's not Right to break them, to render their Watching meaningless. Jon presses fingers all over his body then, searching for scars and marks and the burns and the raised, lumpy aberrations where once worms attempted to bury into his flesh. None of it. It's all gone. His skin is smooth, markless, the map of his trauma erased with terrifying ease. That, more than anything, gets to him.

It's not as though Jon Sims is one to break down easily. No. But his reality, as ever, has increasingly become fragile, strings holding up his weight on the tightrope, and with this… aberration , he feels himself falling down, down, down to the ground, plummeting with a hitherto unknown despair that he can feel crawling up his throat like a many-legged spider. He curls as tight as he can under the safety of his desk. 

The implications of what this is, what has happened, what-- What anyone with half a brain would conceive as a Punishment, clear and stark and almost screaming into his brain, hits Jon like a wave. 

_You are bound to this. You are mine._

The Archivist weeps.

\----

Martin flinches at the impact, muffled as it is behind the door. It takes him a moment to stop completely, as though his legs struggle to break the rhythm of routine, but he finds himself lingering in the hallway long enough to hear a few more equally concerning noises. Now that he's stopped, he finds it difficult to push forward. Beyond a surface level worry for someone clearly distraught by something, he wonders whether it's even his business at all. 

Jonathan Sims has not been particularly kind to him. 

Yes, of course, Martin did fudge a few credentials to land himself the job and therefore has a few odd ways of going about his work but it's still his job, and he's worked hard to make it so. He has his own set of skills he brings to the table regardless, and, well, at this point he's worked hard to... keep up with the image. The degree he'd chosen to run with was broad, broad as the convoluted nature of the sprawling city of statements the Institute was collectively tasked with babysitting. 

Point is, present the details humbly enough or confidently enough given the situation, and coworkers generally tend to trust your judgment in a place like this. To Jonathan Sims, however, judgment comes quite naturally. Naturally enough that he seems to have already made up his mind about the kind of person Martin is. Not a very useful one.

Still, he closes the distance between that daunting door and his position in the hallway for no reason he can consciously justify. If something had happened and someone was hurt, he didn't need the weight of guilt on his shoulders, if nothing else. Moves to cradle the box of wrinkled papers he holds between his hip and arm to reach up to the door, to knock with the back of his pointer finger. A gesture light enough that, should he prefer, Jon could quiet himself and have Martin walking away like nothing happened. 

"...Jon? Are you… is everything alright? In there?" His tone is by no means confident, but not from worry. His words reflect the knock - quiet, just above a mumble, and easily ignored.

\----

Jon stifles a sob mid-cry, his body tensing and freezing in place. Chaos swirls within his mind, a multitude of emotions that never cease, never _will_ cease, will always flood to the forefront of his brain the moment he lets himself slip. 

_Martin_. 

It's all that floods him now, though, just the singular thought of him, him, him. _Asking_ after him, wanting to speak to him, not-- not-- Martin isn't avoiding him. 

For a moment he's dumbfounded, confused, suspicious; what would bring Martin here? To him? Has Lukas seen him weeping and sent his little _assistant_ over to see how _weak_ their Archivist is, just another nail in the coffin for him to slowly drift away, to distrust Jon? But-- 

Jon take in a shuddering breath, one that hiccups and hurts the edges of his lungs, and he sits up, raking his hands through his hair. It's not as long as it should be, just barely at a length to _maybe_ pull back if he really tried, and he desperately tries to push it behind his ears. There's not enough strength in his body to fully extricate himself from his nook, though, his hands shaking and his eyes nearly sightless through the tears.

This is-- This-- He remembers this day. His first day as Head Archivist. If this... Punishment is what he thinks it is, then this Martin isn't _his_ Martin. But it's hard to think of the correct recourse, and even as he's trying to think, to be logical, to shutter away his emotions and breathe, he feels himself gasping out, loud enough to be heard through the door, " _Martin."_

How can he not? What deity would cast a cruel eye to him and deride him for this one weakness? He scrubs the back of his hands against his eyes, and lets the frame of glasses he evidently _needs_ again fall back over them once he's got the majority of the tears wiped away. Won't do much for the puffiness in his cheeks. But it's all rote motion, each movement just a distraction from the migraine building up in his head, a distraction from _thinking_ through the implications that shadow over his soul as thick as the Darkness.

\----

"Odd" isn't the word Martin would use to describe the sound Jon makes through the door, but he doubts there's one that could fully contain the sheer weirdness of it. It's just his name, but he's never heard it said that way. What way that is, he doesn't have the tools to describe, either. 

It's just a way. 

What he does know, however, is that something must be very, very wrong for Jon to sound so openly pitiful. Martin mentally cards through his options too quickly to settle on any of them, sees the idea of bringing someone else over to check on him fly past his head, and he's already opening the door. Then, because he's only planned this far, he decides he's gone far enough, now awkwardly hovering in a doorway less than halfway open like the wood is a shield. Martin scans the room, settles on the desk and the emptiness around it. The image of a mousetrap strangely comes to mind. 

"Are you under your desk right now?" It comes out colder than he meant it to, but in his defense he was in the middle of doing his _job_ before whatever this is… happened. He turns slightly to confirm what he'd heard slam against the wall, frowns at the sad carcass of the tape. "Did recording _really_ go that bad?"

\----

Martin, his presence, standing willfully and openly in the doorway, is enough to get Jon to at least begin the slow process of uncurling himself, but the most he can get out is another gasped, "Yes," as he slams a hand up and grabs hold of the edge of the desk. 

He pulls himself together in increments. First evening out his breathing and then slowly, slowly trying to get his voice to _work_. For a long, terrifying moment, his chest feels like it's full of dirt and he wonders if this is just a hallucination of the Buried, if he's not just pressed on all sides and frozen in a sarcophagus of his own making. 

"Yes," He says again, and it's marginally less pathetic, "recording went. It went bad. What day is it, Martin?"

\----

Martin's fingers tighten around the knob as Jon surfaces from the dark, dragging his body upwards in a way that makes him look like a drunken corpse. Still unwilling to break the threshold, Martin maintains a healthy distance between him and the office proper. He almost wants to start helping, to bend down and recover the recorder's innards, clear the space up, but this is foreign territory. Getting snapped at for some personal slight is not on Martin's itinerary for today, no thank you. 

"Er, your - your first day with a promotion, Jon? Do you mean the _date_?" He doesn't answer that, hoping that at least Jon's coherent enough to know and maybe Martin just misunderstood his question. "Do you - I can call someone?"

\----

" _No!_ Don't call-- I want you." Jon twists and grabs hold of the desk with his other hand and finally manages to pull himself up enough to raise his eyes over the edge, squinting over at Martin. No heavy shadows beneath his eyes, no twisted natural downturn to his mouth. Just Martin, eyes wide and confused. 

He feels deathly pale; a vampire's victim somehow still alive despite the odds. 

"The year, Martin. What _year_ is it?" But he knows. Of course he knows. It's not a Knowing, not in the way he's grown used to since waking up, but he knows nonetheless. Despite what... Others.... Might say, Jon Sims is no idiot, and he's still, somehow, got his eyes. He knows the date. He just wants it confirmed, out loud, before he-- What? Falls apart? Gets his hopes up? This is Terra incognita; he doesn't know what he'll do.

\----

Martin returns the eye contact, though he doesn't like it one bit. Gives him that slimy kind of shiver that crawls up your arms a day before the flu sets in, where all you can do is wait for the inevitable. 

Jon is sick. Must be. Couldn't be - they'd passed by one another just this morning. Looked as normal as Jonathan Sims _could_ look on a good day. 

Martin casts a nervous glance behind his shoulder, finding no rescue in the woefully empty hallway. No one to give him an out. No one to pawn it off on. What was so special about _him_ ? Not afraid to have some bizarre mental breakdown on the job in front of Martin, who's barely a person in his eyes? Right, probably. When he brings his attention back to Jon he leans in a bit closer and lowers his voice. For Jon's sake, at least. "It's _2016_. Jon, you realize you look like a complete lunatic, right?"

\----

"2016," He repeats numbly, and he feels his gaze blurring. 

He knows this, he knows what _bloody_ year it is, but hearing it spoken aloud, seeing the fresh naivety of a Martin who-- Oh god, hasn't even met Jane _Prentiss_ yet-- forces him to acknowledge the truth. 

It feels as though all the air is sucked from the room, a suffocating absence of oxygen that leaves him dizzy. He's holding himself up by the desk one moment, and in another, he's on all fours, dry-heaving onto the old floorboards, and for once, he's thankful of _one decision_ his past-self did; he remembers it clearly now. He didn't eat breakfast that morning, too nervous and anxious to scarf anything down, afraid of blowing chunks in the bathroom the second he arrived to the offices. It doesn't make it _pleasant_ , though. His stomach convulses, and he groans, the wracking heaving pausing just long enough for him to spit out, " _Fuck_ " and " _This is-- So-- bad_.”

\----

"Right. Okay. It's - it's not the _best_ year, by far, but it's no _2008_ , and - Jon?" The urgency of the situation hits as he blurts out the last word, and Martin huffs out a breath as he crosses the arbitrary line of personal space he created at the doorway. He doesn't rush to Jon's aid, not immediately, first unloading the box onto the desk to do away with it. Once his hands are free, he's still not entirely sure what to do with himself, or with his now-boss he'd hardly want a water cooler conversation with, let alone this, now horrifically retching on the ground. 

There was never any training for this. What if he's contagious? No, could be just - stress? Is that a thing? Stress sickness? Obviously, Martin, of course it is, but sweating profusely for a job interview and crying in the mirror beforehand doesn't quite hold a candle to whatever this whole mess is. 

He bends down near Jon, just out of arm's reach, waiting to see if maybe he'll sober up on his own. There's a million things he could say of various degrees of helpfulness, and the temptation to be a little hard on him for all he's put Martin through is a bit too present, but he opts for nothing at all. Just a face full of equal parts worry and frustration.

\----

"I'm-- Sorry," Jon pants, and slowly, by measure, the convulsions of his body slow, and he sits back on his haunches, pulling his glasses back off with a furious gesture, in order to once again stab his palms at eyes leaking from swollen sinuses. "Sorry." He says it again, with slightly more gusto, and resists the urge to reach out, to touch, to ground himself in Martin's presence. He breathes slowly, and after a minute he says, quietly, "It's just-- I've done all this before."

\----

"Done… what, exactly, Jon?" Martin tilts his head, relieved that Jon's done choking to death before his eyes while simultaneously struck dumb at the implication of what he's saying. That is to say, he's not sure what implication there even is. Or whether he should expect an ounce of coherency out of him at this point. Mystery illness. 

"If it's, uh, if you mean crying on the floor, I believe you? I think?" He decides it's better to be at Jon's level than above him, it just… doesn't feel right, so he settles down on one knee. In case he needs to bolt up in the near future. He's actually not sure when the last time he heard Jon apologize for something, if he ever has. That holds enough weight to keep him there, enough for him to let himself care. Make an effort to give the man _some_ dignity

\----

" _No,_ don't be stupid," He all but snaps, and then winces, raking his fingers through his hair, not caring that at this point, his hair must be a bird's nest testament to whatever insanity plea Martin is currently drafting up to be court-ready by Monday. 

"Well-- Maybe. B-But that's not--" He breathes in. Breathes out, and looks at Martin, catches his eyes, and says, "I've lived this before. This _day_ . I've done _that_ \--" He jabs a finger through the air, sharp as an arrow, towards the wall where the mess of a broken tape recorder now lies in a heap electronic guts. "--Statement before. The bloody anglerfish." "I shouldn't be _here_."

\----

Martin frowns, but he's not surprised. Of course. Stupid, useless assistant. "You mean, what, like deja vu? O-or, you can't mean _literally_ -" Martin pauses to stare, gears turning in his head as he gauges the situation. Tries to piece together whatever events might have led up to their improvised meeting at the ground level. The noises, the panic, the-- the everything. All of it together. 

"You _did_ do that statement before. You read it, you had-- you had Sasha on that one, didn't you? You're just recording it now-- do you remember-- "

For a second, he debates asking at all. But it would make sense, and he does need to know, especially if this is about to end up with a trip to the hospital. Martin fidgets with his hands, shifts the focus of his eyes somewhere _near_ Jon, but not _at_ him. "--did you hit your head? When you fell? Because I'm-I'm starting to think… that… maybe you shouldn't be here, either?" Flawless execution.

\----

"I didn't hit my head," He says slowly, "My eyes-- I was not _here_ , and now I-- Am." He stares, openly at Martin, a gift he has never really allowed himself to do before. Especially not then, when he was so far up his own ass that he could barely think for a _second_ about anyone but his own preoccupations. "I've _recorded_ this statement before and it's-- It's not 2016! The Eye--" 

He cuts himself off, eyes widening as a slow-trickle laugh starts to fall from his lips, at the realization that in this space, in this moment, in this _body_ , he's as human as he's been in years. He's _human_ , and the world hasn't all gone to Hell quite yet, and the only thing he had worried about in this moment was whether he could get through the Anglerfish statement without feeling himself flinch in embarrassment. Jon slaps a hand over his mouth to stop from laughing anymore, breathing heavily through his palm.

\----

Of course he didn't hit his head. He's completely rational. Entirely sane. Martin catches his eye and there's something so foreign about his face, the way Jon's just - he's just looking at him. That's what throws him off so much. The childish glares Jon's thrown at Martin's back when he thinks Martin hasn't noticed, the way Jon will refuse to look up from a page to give Martin the human decency of being recognized. The way he'll keep acting like it's just too _important_ to waste the energy it takes to take his eyes off something that isn't going anywhere, it's been in the archives for three decades. That's what he's used to.

It must have been a hard fall. 

"Please. You're not exactly helping your case by cackling like a maniac after telling me you're from - what, the future? Jon." He'll probably feel guilty about it for weeks once they get to the hospital and find out Jon's internally bleeding from his brain, but right now it's so absurd he can't help the smile betraying how stern he's trying to sound. How that smile warped what was supposed to be a short 'Jon' into having a few more 'o's. He pulls the back of one hand up to his own mouth to wipe it away. 

"It's 2016. And you need to have... what do they do, where they take a flashlight and wave it around your eyes to see if you've got a concussion? That. I think you need that. At least."

\----

Jon all but _harumphs_ and finally tries to stand up, bracing himself against the edge of the desk once more and deciding instead of being slow, he'll do it all in one go so he doesn't have to think about the nausea and anxiety pooling in his gut. He all but falls immediately, his head swimming so fast he has to snap his eyes closed while he lets the vertigo pass. When he can see again, he says, "Martin. I'm not concussed. You don't-- Oh. I've no way of convincing you." He says this last bit quiet, almost a mumble to himself, trailing off slightly. 

It's 2016, and this is a Martin who thinks his boss _hates_ him. This is a Martin who hardly knows Jon, who clearly couldn't care _less_ about his boss. His boss who by all intents and purposes just had a mental breakdown on his first day as a boss. 

For whatever reason, the Eye sent him back. Regardless of its intentions, Jon isn't going to squander whatever this is by virtue of being committed by a man who wants nothing to do with him. He's staring at Martin again, his mouth slightly open, just... Watching him. The way his nervous hands stand as wayward points for Jon's gaze. The way his humor transforms his face, even when it's a quiet, accidental humor. The way he is _here_ , and not whisked away in a stench of sea salt and despair. How could he stand to watch Martin on the precipice of knowing too much about the world, without feeling like a cruel fist? 

Jon swallows, and says quietly, with as much conviction as he can muster, "I'm fine. I didn't fall-- I... Well, I climbed under there. I-- I apologize for worrying you."

\----

"Fine." Martin matches the volume but his words are hollow. Empty, mentally washing his hands of this. If Jon doesn't want confirmation he's not dying, at least he was somewhat more polite - within his range - before succumbing to the hemorrhage. "It's fine." It's all too much like being dissected, and the cracked open door is a tunnel with light at the end. 

Martin doesn't push the issue, bowing to the idea that he can't be convinced to believe in whatever fantasy world Jon's weaving. Jon's right about that, at least. Martin grips the desk for leverage and hoists himself up.

As much as Jon frustrates him, especially now, he is technically still his boss. While it was impossible not to graze by Jon's bad side on the average day, Martin has no intention of landing himself punishment for seeing… this. For seeing him vulnerable. Not that he's sure there would be any retaliation for that, but it would match the man. "I could grab a broom for the… for the tape. Did you just have the one?"

\----

"If I toss that one, another will just show up again," Jon mumbles, and slowly brings himself to sit heavily in his chair, exhaustion pooling over him like ice cold waves of the ocean tide. "Nasty habit of theirs." He fumbles through the desk drawers, then, searching almost frantically for a cigarette he realizes, dully, that he doesn't have. No rolling papers, no tobacco, not even a lazy pack bought in desperation that he can think of. He wasn't smoking then, having quit for nearly two years before picking it back up again after Prentiss' attack. So he gives up, and drags a weary hand down his face.

\----

"That's how it works when you've got a thousand of them stowed away for recording," Martin says as he watches Jon root around in his desk, nearly deciding it's not worth it. He could just take his box off his boss' desk and go back to work. Back to his favorite rolling chair and sound-blocking headphones he now so deeply regrets leaving back in the archives. He bites his tongue before he asks what Jon's looking for, thinking it might be another can of worms he's not paid well enough emotionally or monetarily to deal with. 

"It's - I mean, for the bits. There's _bits_ of it exploded in your office. If you trip or - or something…" he trails off, words falling away into still air.

\----

"Oh," Jon says softly, suddenly, and looks back up at Martin, blinking owlishly at him. "I forgot how kind you were. I've- I've been a prick." It’s said with a quiet astonishment; this juxtaposition between the world he knows and the world he once inhabited. 

He leans back in his chair, pulling his knees up to lean against the edge of the desk while he pulls his hands to his face. The wary exhaustion in Martin's expression, this flighty dance between wanting to leave and please his ornery piece of shit boss... It's too much for Jon. "I really wasn't fair to you."

\----

For the briefest of moments some unidentified feeling he'll have to process on his own time and in the comfort of solitude skates over Martin's heart. "That's a revelation, isn't it?" He shoots back with a smile that can only be described as the vitriolic politeness you give a customer when you're bagging their groceries and they've just made some remark you have a _million_ things to throw back about, none of them good. You know you could say something, get that catharsis in the moment, but you're the one who's going to suffer for it in the end. 

He reaches forward to haul the box off Jon's desk. "Look, Jon, I'll just leave a-a broom outside the door, and if you feel like leaving it there for me to deal with later, just put it back outside the office when you _leave_."

\----

"I've never understood why you _do_ that," He mumbles, and there's a bite to it, an accidental poison that slips through his teeth. He's never-- he's never _noticed_ how he snaps at people. Not like this. "You clearly don't _want_ to but--" He makes a frustrated noise, dragging his hand down his face again. By day’s end, he's going to end up with an acne filled face from how much he's touching his skin. "Right. Of course. Just your boss, as of yet."

\----

"Of _course_ I don't want to spend my day picking up _bits_ , Jon, but any normal person would be worried about you after - after whatever it is you just did in here you keep _insisting_ was fine." He's gripping the sides of the box with both hands but still hasn't gone anywhere, like it's weighing him down. Like he can't be the one to walk out, like he can't leave until Jon tells him to. "Maybe it's just something nice people _do_ . They - they offer to help, I don't know why - obviously nothing comes _out_ of it, they just do." 

Martin grimaces, but this time it's at himself. Running over a pattern in his mind, a history of contempt aimed inwards instead of outwards. It keeps him from saying anything else, though, which is probably a good thing. It's part of his job. To assist. It's just his job, of course he's doing things he doesn't want to. Including being present in this room. Including holding a longer conversation with his new boss than he thinks he might've ever had.

\----

"... I think this is the most honest you've ever been with me," Jon says, and finally wrenches his gaze away from Martin. The urge to Ask is there, but the familiar coolness that sits within his chest when he does is gone, hidden away from him. Is he meant to miss it? Miss what he's been turned into? It almost makes him laugh bitterly. He does. Not even an hour into whatever this is, and he misses it dearly. He feels blind here, even knowing the patterns, the events, the bloody _future._ He knows everything, but like usual, he knows nothing. 

"I'll clean all the--the _bits_ \--" Despite himself, there's almost a smile at the edges of his lips from the quaint vocabulary choice of Martin's fretting. "--Myself. You've done-- you've done more than enough."

\----

The mental whiplash is driving Martin up and down the wall at astonishingly high speeds. He doesn't want to call Jon's behavior pathetic, because somehow that feels wrong. Exposed might be a better word, and while Martin isn't a good enough person to resist temptation to bite back when he finds the chance, he's good enough to see that he's not getting the whole picture. That there's clearly something going on that Jon is struggling with, and it's not _about_ Martin. While he doesn't like it, it's more comforting to think that Jon has a lot on his plate and Martin happens to be close enough of the time to be an easy outlet… than that the problem _is_ Martin. Some fundamental wrongness about him. It's not that. 

And he's lucky to have thought that just before Jon speaks again, because if he hadn't he might've read the parroting of his own wording as an insult. For whatever reason, he didn't feel that's what Jon meant. "Okay, Jon. Just - take care of yourself, yeah? You know as well as anyone the Archives aren't running themselves." He wants to say something more, maybe, but has no clue what. A comment about honesty? About _wanting_ to be honest? He's looking too deeply into it, feeling like there's something he's supposed to address. Worried that once he leaves, Jon might pretend this didn't happen, so he's got to get all his brutal asides and opinions out now. Nah, it's fine. He has his own ways to cope. Like taking his sweet time exiting the room.

\---

Jon nods, and watches him retreat, his head heavy and foggy as the adrenaline leaves his body, leaving him feeling empty. But-- there's something else. It's one thing for _Martin_ to see him like this. Another altogether for the office for-- Oh. Sasha. Tim. His voice gets choked up again."Martin. Don't-- please don't tell the others about this. I would-- I would appreciate it if this was kept between us." He can't bring himself to look at Martin.

\----

"I won't tell anyone in the office you think you're from the future on two conditions: first, send me the winning numbers to the next lotto." He speaks deliberately as if crafting a ransom, voice flat and serious to highlight the absurdity in a way he hopes urges Jon to pay more attention to what he says next. 

Martin leans up against the doorway with one shoulder, the box held in both his hands before him. Cracks a genuine smile, or at the very least what looks like one. "Next, would you just go and get your head checked out so I don't have that on my conscience, _please_? I can't put these files in order for you if I'm worried about you slipping into a coma mid-recording."

\----

Jon can't help himself; he laughs with an intensity that fully outweighs Martin's tone, a hysterical note flying through him like a whistle. "I promise I won't slip into a coma yet."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now, some exposition; Jon catches Martin up to speed over coffee.

Well, the rest of Martin's day had been blessedly normal. Interfiling was a meditative task, repetitive and simple and helpful. Martin has all the motions committed to muscle memory by now and in the transition to new management, his schedule's been… somewhat comfortably light. Aside from Jon's bizarre outburst, things had pretty much gone without a hitch. And for what it's worth, he did leave something for Jon to clean up the mess should he find the time, but he  _ also _ avoided passing down that particular hallway on his way out. Just to avoid any inclinations he might have to do it himself. Because he didn't want to. Absolutely not. 

He never saw Jon leave, but that was normal. He was unnervingly quiet when he felt the need to escape potential conversations with certain individuals, and their schedules hardly aligned. It's not like he and Martin ever strolled out of the offices together. Martin figured that he must have left early, hopefully to some type of clinic. If fate was merciful, he might even be recuperating at home. 

But everything's the same as he left it yesterday when he arrives at the office the next morning. Broomhandle up against the wall beside the door standing stoic and watchful. 

Untouched. 

Martin sighs, and tries to will away both scenarios popping into his head. The first, that Jon left it there for him to clean up on purpose, some outcry for power in the aftermath of vulnerability… or something. The second, that there's a dead body behind that door. With the nature of the things he reads day in and day out, it feels normal to come to that conclusion. 

The most obvious  _ third _ conclusion is that Jon left and forgot, or found himself too ill to do it. Martin knocks, confidence in the motion to force that option into reality. No one's in there to hear the knock, a knock is a knock. He never saw Jon come through. It's likely he didn't. "Jon, you in yet?"

\----

Jon jumps dramatically where he sits on the floor of the office, the unlit cigarette he managed to find-- a stash very well hidden amongst his work bag and proof incarnate that he'd never  _ really _ wanted to quit after all-- very nearly falling out of his mouth. He darts a look towards the door, and his heart almost stops in its tracks as reality sinks in for the first time in nearly twelve hours. 

Fuck. The floor is a mess. His desk? Almost buried beneath the mound of files and tapes and notes he'd scrawled throughout the night. It's why he’d moved to the floor; more space allowed him to dump more boxes, sort more files, more information, his hands and mind and eyes a flurry of never-ending, frantic motion. 

Jon's eyes sting as he stares at the door in mute shock. Maybe he'd overdone it. Bone-weary tiredness afflict his limbs, and he notes numbly that there’s a manic tremor to his fingers. 

And maybe-- Oh, Martin won't be pleased. He clears his throat and curses how dry and raspy his voice is-- clearly he hadn't been hydrating enough in his impromptu all-nighter. "Ah, well, yes!" He calls. "G-got an, uh, early start." It's a brutally obvious lie; he'd never been good at covering his tracks, even at the most important of times.

\----

"An early - an early start?" Martin echoes the words, incredulous. No effort to hide it, the sound of Jon behind the door startles his filter right out of him. What does he mean, an early  _ start? _ He thought he'd been clear enough, he was clearly unwell, and Jonathan Sims was an adult-- Oh, Martin isn't pleased. 

Martin presses close to the door and stage whispers-- loud. A level of sternness not meant to come out of his mouth with his own voice. He's not even sure what compels him to do it. Maybe he's just feeling a bit brazen after that first confrontation. 

"Did you  _ leave _ yesterday?"

\----

"Well--" He considers lying again. But there's no way to keep the sleeplessness from his voice, nor the tinge of manic energy from creeping into every syllable. Besides-- it's hard to lie to Martin when he speaks like  _ this _ . "Not exactly." He sniffs.

\----

Martin tests the door to see if it's locked, but halfway through his hand takes over to finish the motion without his conscious control. Ripping off the bandaid, so to speak. He doesn't feel like being tortured with Jon's complete inability to act as if he's totally fine. 

The scene before him is so convoluted, he doesn't even try to comprehend it all just yet. Instead, he looks straight at Jon. There's a burst of panic clear on Martin's face as he checks him over for - he doesn't know what he's looking for. Blood? Martin's no doctor. Jon's on the ground. Again. Thankfully, enough light comes in from the doorway that his imagination can't run wild. He's conscious. Thankfully? Eh. He eyes the cigarette, looks back to Jon, repeats the motion one more time before finally settling on Jon's face. If there was any position for Martin to be justified in expressing judgment, it's this one. 

"Please tell me what I'm looking at right now, Jon."

\----

Martin walks into the office, and Jon freezes, not expecting to  _ see _ him so soon. His breath catches in his throat, and he has to mentally tut at himself; of course he gets to see Martin twice in two days. He's not trying to disappear from the Earth quite yet. 

Jon lunges for the lighter left abandoned on a stack of manila folders and lights up the cigarette, buying himself precious seconds from answering by pulling a drag from it and sitting up straighter from his position cross-legged on the floor. He's hesitant to completely divorce himself from the files. There's a precious, careful organization to the mess, and he's afraid of forgetting where he's placed everything if he gets too distracted. But it's not like he has a choice. 

Something tells him Martin won't leave him be, this time around. 

"Organizing," He mumbles around the cigarette. "I- I really forgot how much of a  _ mess _ Gertrude left behind. Guess I can't blame her. Not like she preemptively went 'well I oughta clean up the office for when I get  _ murdered _ '." He grabs one final file that he knows belongs in the "Vast" pile and tosses it in the general vicinity of the pile, then lets himself be captured by Martin's gaze once more.

\----

"This is the opposite of org--" Martin tracks the furious scrambling for the lighter and just barely swallows a pained noise, afraid Jon might set the whole room ablaze. Afraid that might be the plan. Afraid that maybe Jon actually  _ had _ a plan, and this was some kind of-- some kind of act. 

He relaxes once he figures out Jon's just going for the cigarette, but the tension lights up again--  _ Jon the ashes--  _ His voice cracks as wires cross in his brain. "Murdered?"

\----

Jon opens his mouth to say something rude, and snaps it shut in the same moment, flicking ash onto the hardwood, his brow furrowing as he thinks. "Oh," He mumbles, and takes another frantic drag, "We didn't know about that yet."

"It's quite hard to remember what and  _ when _ everything happened. That's what I've been doing all night, you know. Getting it all-- sorting it all."

\---

Fear and frustration teeter on a scale inside Martin's mind, and after a pause it settles right. He breathes harshly through his nose and walks sideways through the door, leaving it slightly cracked. Breaks the stare he'd locked on Jon to make his way into the room, does his best to avoid the piles of statements coloring the floor. He's taking a gamble with this, but - he doesn't know  _ how _ to calm Jon down. He hasn't figured that  _ out _ yet. The process of getting to that point holds the same stress as defusing a live bomb. 

Martin bends down beside Jon - close enough to reach but not as close as you might with a friend - and holds out two fingers to ask for his cigarette. "What've - what've you been sorting?

\----

Jon hands it over to him immediately, his chest all but melting at the idea that Martin would want  _ anything _ from him. His hand lingers for a beat too long before he pulls it back, a slight shake to his fingers as he grabs the furiously scribbled notebook that he'd been placing his thoughts into.

"Statements I have; statements I don't. What I could  _ reasonably _ put together without-- well, without Elias' direct contributions. Obviously the live statements, too. Anabelle's." He waves the notebook in the air and the pages rattle audibly, like they're a living, breathing thing. "What I remember."

\----

Martin pulls it away from him gently, forcing himself not to make any sudden moves as he does. He doesn't consciously recognize Jon's tics as meaningful in any way - there was some way to chalk it all up to a general weirdness about him.

He thinks about putting it out completely, but decides he might need it  _ slightly _ more than he needs a room that is not on fire. He also happens to trust where he's dropping sparks, a trust which does not extend to Jon. 

Martin inhales deeply around the thing to prepare for the conversation. He makes no effort to return it to Jon. "Start somewhere else?" Martin adds to give him a chance, trying to bring clarity to his previous question. He doesn't think he can convince Jon that so far  _ none _ of this sounds reasonable without Jon hearing it out loud himself. "Somewhere that makes sense?" The notebook is not something Martin thinks he wants to open or - or even touch, no thank you.

\----

"I--" He sighs, and thinks, pulling the notebook flush against his chest, and ignores the way he shakes. He's getting too old to pull this kind of manic power-through. Even when he started this job he was, and  _ god _ , he feels ancient. 

"You wake up, and it's three years earlier than the day before. You wake up and  _ nothing has happened yet _ . It's- it's. It's reasonable to assume I might  _ forget. _ I'm not strong enough here, yet. So I write down  _ everything. _ " He doesn't care that his eyes are blown wide, pupils nothing more than a shadow of Fear. He clutches the notebook because he can't hold onto Martin. 

"I can't afford to lose-" you. "I can't forget."

\----

"You're not - Jon, you're not-- you don't  _ believe _ this kind of stuff, I thought? What-- murder conspiracies, t-time travel? You don't  _ talk _ like this, Jon. I'm worried, I think? About you, now. You didn't even go in somewhere, just--just to be  _ sure _ ?" Martin's flustered, and he's not liking the steady downhill of his vocal control. Jon is so passionate, it must  _ feel _ real, and he's not exactly the best actor. 

Unless he is, and Martin just doesn't know him. Most of his understanding of the type of character Jonathan Sims is simply comes down to a need to stay out of his way enough to not have his own day ruined. If Jon's just amping up his hatred with some long con game, if he’s  _ that _ kind of person, Martin wants to be prepared for it. 

Really. He'd taken the cigarette his boss lit in his own office to smoke it himself as he crouched on the floor in his boss' office with him. His boss who Martin didn't even know  _ smoked _ . Who took his job painfully seriously and did not try to throw the entirety of the Archives into his office to - to predict the future? Who was a complete and total hardass, consistently, every day? He's trying so hard to figure him out, but he can't pin the man down. Makes him feel on the verge of his own existential crisis by proximity, a contagious disease.

\----

Jon feels his eyes roll skyward, the movement painful from behind the dull aching migraine that's been threatening to bloom into a full painful aura for the last few hours. "Of course I  _ believed _ . Believe. I- I Just didn't--" He  _ has _ to get a hold of himself. It's excruciating, being cast away from his peripheral senses the Sight that's become so second-nature to him as to feel like an extra limb. 

Cast blind, cast  _ human _ , he's a bumbling, neurotic mess, and even in the midst of his panic, he's smart enough to see that he's  _ scaring _ Martin. It almost makes him choke on his own tongue. 

"You think I would-- What-- Just make this all up?  _ Why _ ? What motives? Do you know how  _ insane _ that would be? Are you  _ listening _ to yourself justifying my-- My 'head injury'?"

\----

Martin, for his part, doesn't help to de-escalate the situation in the slightest. He's overloaded and fretting without direction. Like everything coming out of Jon's mouth is meant to fuel him to push back, tick him off, and he doesn't have some innate reflex to try to take care of him, console him. Like-- like this is a test, or something - anything but Jon actually being capable of time travel. Not  _ Jon _ . Not someone dedicated to debunking every detail of every story told by someone who seemed as frightened as Jon is radiating in waves. 

"Would you believe  _ me _ , Jon, if I came to you spouting  _ nonsense _ about teleporting through time and throwing things at - at walls?" He tries to bring some composure into his voice, gesturing vaguely to where the remains of a tape still dot the floor. "You'd be going on about how ridiculous I was, and - and how I should probably take an extended vacation, because I don't do anything useful  _ anyway _ . That's  _ exactly _ what you'd say."

\----

"And I'd be  _ wrong _ !" He shoots back immediately, easily, with disdain soaking the edges of his voice in spades. Not towards Martin-- towards himself. He pulls his legs up from their crossed position, pulling himself up into a squat, and he jerks out his fingers for Martin to give him the cigarette back. He's not getting through this morning without nicotine.

"I'd be  _ wrong _ , and  _ stupid _ , and I  _ was _ all of those things. The things I urge you to do--" He sucks in a stuttering breath and lets the notebook fall to the floor with a solid  _ thump _ . He thinks about the worst part of all of this; that Elias now knows,  _ knows _ , that he can use Martin against Jon. The thought of Elias makes his blood run cold and he almost starts dry-heaving again, but he manages to stay composed, stiff and tense in a way that somehow makes him seem even smaller than he is.

"I can't say it all here," He says, quietly, terrified, an edge of familiar paranoia leaking back into his voice.

\----

Martin visibly flinches at the outburst, and he relaxes his grip the second Jon enters his personal space just to have it over with as soon as possible. He's not going to wrestle with Jonathan Sims on the floor for a cigarette. He will not stoop so low. He does have to mentally convince himself not to snatch it back, though, and that's already so close to too low.

"The things you urge me-- what, my job?" He's able to keep his voice down again, from the shock of his admission. Thinking on it, though, Martin's inclined to agree. About here not being the best place for this. Not for the same reasons, he thinks, but good ones nonetheless. Some relatively fresh air, out of the cramped office, visible enough that Martin could maybe get someone else to help. Positives across the board. "Nevermind. We could-- erm, go on a walk. If that might... help."

\----

Jon's gaze slides off of Martin's as he thinks, and after a long, long beat of silence, he nods. Not that it'll do much; it'd be a fool's folly to think Elias isn't going to listen in to everything Jon says now, but at least it'll put distance between it all, make it  _ harder _ for the bastard to hear. Make it harder for the others in the archives to overhear. And, well-- 

Maybe, even if Martin doesn't have the full picture,  _ maybe _ , it'd be a good idea to stretch his legs and breathe fresh air that isn't clogged with decades' old papers and the stale stench of cigarettes. 

"...Alright." He nods, and then nods again, and says with more gusto to his voice, "I can acquiesce to that."

\----

Martin lets his shoulders slump as he sets free the tension. Finally they can agree on a completely reasonable plan. Maybe in the halls they'll spot someone Martin can throw signals at, maybe they won't even make it out the front doors. There's no way they'll get that far. 

"Alright." He replies, building up on that shaky foundation of confidence. He presses both palms at a spot just above his knees and lifts off the ground with a short puff of breath. 

Hesitates to start navigating the paper maze toward the door before he knows how Jon's coming along. "There's no way you can't see how it looks - from here, from where I'm at, right? It's - you'll have to fill me in, I'm sure in your head it makes sense, and I'm sure there's a fantastically reasonable way to frame this in a way I can understand even though right now I  _ don't _ , at all, and… " Martin chokes himself off before he can keep rambling. "...and I'm getting off track, it's fine. I'm fine. Ready when you are, Jon."

\----

Jon groans as he stands up, and his back makes a sickening crack as he does so, knees popping and his body swaying as he steadies himself. Okay. Maybe he should have drank more water last night. When the darkness wades out of his eyes, he says, "To be honest, it's hard to See anything, right now." 

He shrugs on a jacket hanging over the back of his desk chair-- God, when he used to dress like he was a tenured professor in ethics-- and stabs his hands in his pockets to avoid doing anything rash. Before he leaves, he grabs the small notebook and shoves it into his pocket, the bulk of it making an awkward geometric indentation in the fabric. 

"I know it's not fair to put this on you." He says the moment they're out of the confining prison of the office. "But I don't have anyone else."

\----

All of this is putting Martin on the path to thinking he's about to have a new boss very, very soon. Jon looks like he'll blow away with the wind. If he'd been in there that long, holed up in that rat's nest he calls an office, he might just. Had he even eaten? 

Ah, there's another alternative. Maybe the crafty bastard just wants Martin to get him free lunch. No, that's almost as absurd as time travel. Unless. Unless it's not. Martin initiates their voyage to avoid the thought. 

He’s glancing about for anyone to make contact with as he walks a few steps ahead of Jon, but his curiosity gets the better of him. He's calling bullshit, Jon never cared about him before. "Why me? Since when am I someone you  _ have _ ? Or - or even want to have?”

\----

It's a large enough question to make Jon's tired steps stop in their tracks, his shoulders hiking up in clear duress. He lowers them consciously, digging his hands deep into his pockets, and then gives a vague shrug, a loose motion that he  _ knows _ he wouldn't have done in his first month here. God, he remembers it so clearly now. The postured sense of academic realism. The cold, detached persona he felt he had to embody in order to rise to the occasion of such an illustrious job that he was no doubt unqualified for. 

"I don't know," He says, honestly, and his eyes dart about the hallways, as though he'll see the prying eyes and ears that he knows are hanging on to every thread that comes from his mouth. He purses his lips and walks faster, trying to push Martin's pace to match his. He doesn't speak until they reach the lift. "I suppose three years and a coma softened me."

\----

He doesn't know. Isn't that helpful and informative? Martin's being strung along, knows that by speeding up and sticking close to Jon while he anxiously checks the path, he's inviting the label of unwitting accomplice. It's frightening. He's getting caught up in it. 

The thought hits him as he's standing there quietly in the lift with his neurotic boss going on about a coma: this would be an incredible set-up for leading someone to a surprise party. Honestly. As terrible as it is, and as obviously Jon is suffering through this, Martin laughs. Short and high and unfiltered. Quickly follows it up with a "sorry, sorry", a bit muffled by the way he's trying to cover his mouth long enough to stop it. That trick doesn't work as well as it had before. "So the brain damage comes later, then?"

\----

Listening to that laugh, to the myriad of apologies fluttering from Martin's mouth, Jon wishes he  _ was _ just concussed, or ill, or brain damaged or-- whatever it is Martin wants it to be. Him being a lunatic is easier than the truth. The truth is crazier than reality could ever be, and standing here, facing the doubts of a past that hasn't yet unfolded into the horror that is-- was?-- Jon's life, it's almost easy to sweep himself into the idea that he's just that-- ill and experiencing some sort of mental break. 

The grip on the notebook in his pocket tightens. He can't doubt himself further. He can't  _ afford _ to. And he can't exactly read the situation and Know things yet, can't compel, can't-- Can't do anything but watch Martin try to laugh off the insanity of his hardass boss and make it through his 9-5. 

So he thinks, and thinks and remembers poring over his memories the night before and scrawling half-remembered  _ stanzas _ , words that he'd admittedly listened to on tape over and over again, his heart heavy and his eyes tired in the lead up to one apocalypse after the other, and he says, "’ _ My heart leaps when I behold blossoms on the springtime breeze, blowing hither, twisting yon.’ _ " He keeps his gaze carefully fixed forward.

\---

Heated embarrassment crawls up Martin's neck and sets in as he listens to his own words recited back at him. It settles hot and confusing along his ears and cheeks with no intent to leave. He chances one quick, complicated look to the man standing next to him, and just as quickly pulls back to stare at the closed door of the lift with his eyes a tad too wide. 

Jon could never have heard that.  _ Absolutely _ not Jon. Remember it, much less so. Reproduce it with so much clarity - impossible. 

The laughter had died by the time he'd processed the third word, gone now like it never existed at all. Now there's only a flashbang ringing off the walls in his head. 

Slowly lacing his fingers together in front of him for the sensation, the tiniest amount of distracting stimulation, Martin is suddenly very polite. He could spend time putting the pieces together later, maybe he'd left a note or a document or - no, his memory wasn't bad enough for that, he knows it's not - that's not - he would rather be quiet, for a moment. To recover from whatever this is, is all. 

He's starting to get a little claustrophobic

\----

The lift doors open, and Jon feels himself spilling out like a flood of sea-foam, and with it, bubbling words of, "A year from now. Or so. I hear that. You taped them. N-Not that I know  _ why _ , but you taped them, and I listen to  _ all _ the tapes in the Archives, you know, and--" 

He breathes out and looks around the lobby of the Institute, making sure not to catch eye contact with anybody milling about. "I could recite more, if you don't believe me.

\----

Martin makes his own personal exit much slower, but he's still following after Jon's lead now. Bit like a shadow, really. He's mentally indisposed enough to forget his quest to find a life preserve in the form of another Institute employee, but now he's not so sure what good that would do. 

"It's-I--I have drafts," Martin says meekly, and he hates how it sounds. What is he supposed to say? He's just ruined his chance to convince Jon he's not well--is  _ still _ ruining that chance by way of his continuous flustered loop. "It's not done." 

He leaves the decision to break the silence again up to Jon's discretion, because he's listening now. Despite himself, he's on the strangest-- and first-- walkabout with his boss. His boss who knows… pieces of the future? Bizarrely specific pieces. He would've preferred lotto numbers as proof.

\----

Jon taps a finger to his temple. "I've got them up here. At least-- for now." His eyes, despite himself, drift upwards, as though he could see Elias' office space through the floors. 

He quickens his pace until they reach the double doors to outside. His head pounds at the first increment of light, but he just squints against the sky and sighs a breath of relief once he can taste the disgusting London air. "I like them, always have, for what it's worth," He says after a few mute seconds of just breathing, the cool chilly air a balm to his skin.

\----

"Thank you," Martin breathes earnestly, caught up in his own emotional slurry as he stands a couple steps short of next to Jon, watching his back. He has no right to be proud of some baseless compliment on his work by someone who  _ couldn't _ have seen it but  _ has _ , and… yet. He's afraid to like this new personality of his. 

"Do you - " Martin clears his throat, trying to fix that thick muddy water feeling in his chest. "Do you like it better out here? For-- er-- talking? You never said  _ why _ you couldn't, back there. I'd like to know?

\----

Jon takes them down the steps and onto the sidewalk. He closes his eyes for just a moment too long before saying, almost sheepishly, "Elias. He can probably still hear us, honestly." It's a dangerous gamble. Speaking  _ any _ of this out loud. But, he supposes, it's not as though he hasn't already been played by the man once, and even in his own time, safe from his influence on the grounds of his prison sentence, Jon isn't so sure there weren't marionette strings poised over his body limply, just waiting to be pulled taught. "He can hear everything in the Institute."

\----

He's almost sad they moved on to something else, but Martin keeps up with Jon without much hesitation, freshly determined to see this through. He's technically still on the clock, so. No harm done. "What, with cameras? I figured-- I mean, isn't that... normal? I'm sure it's just a precaution, you know, for stealing?" It's the wording that throws Martin off, and obviously it must go deeper than just  _ cameras _ with audio recording.

“Why don't you want Elias to hear this? Don't you think he might be-- mm, better... equipped, to handle this, maybe?" Martin's not sure what he means, except that maybe Jon needs some professional advice. Martin is not on the list of professionals.

\----

Jon laughs, a hoarse, weak thing that belies no humor and only works to make him look ten years older than he is. "Oh yes, better equipped indeed." He pauses, trying to figure out how to  _ word _ Elias' peculiarities without frightening Martin right off the streets. It's not like they ever truly needed to word it, before; they all understood it, comrades in their circumstances and context.

"He can... I don't know how, as of yet, though I have some suspicions. He can see and hear what he puts his mind to, should he choose to concentrate on it." Jon sniffs, self-consciousness flooding his cheeks. "No doubt, after my... ahem... outburst, yesterday morning, he's keeping his Eyes on me.

\----

"I'm not sure that's a  _ bad _ thing. Can't anyone do that? It's called-- iit's called listening, Jon." It sounds cruel as it comes out of his mouth, dismissive. To Martin there is no difference between eyes and Eyes, nothing that makes what he's describing seem significant. 

Jon's a bit of a private person when it comes to emotional expression, maybe it just feels that bad to him. But it matters to Jon. He knows how it feels to have a boss that sends him into a panic. "Well, I'm keeping my eyes on you, too. If that helps." 

It actually makes him feel useful, important, and while Martin's not inclined to believe he's seen as either of those things, he's still roped in. Moreso now than he'd been just a few minutes ago.

\---

Jon almost stops in his tracks, annoyance flooding him momentarily. He's never had large reserves of patience, but something tells him he'll need it, that there's no use trying to strongarm Martin into believing him. Even so, his voice is stiff as he says, "Would you-- For the next ten goddamn minutes, will you just  _ go _ with it? Be a non-believer all you want by the time we reach--" He blinks, and has to quell the exhausted confusion that rushes over him, "--Wherever it is we're going. Just  _ go with it _ , on the way there?"

\----

Martin shoves his own hands in his pockets and mimics the shrug he'd seen Jon pull just before entering the elevator. Internally, he's actually quite frightened. Thrilled, too, but mostly frightened. He wishes he could have prepared better for this, kept a knife or-- or something on him. In broad daylight, he could still get out of his if he needs to. Unless Jon's plan is to lead them into a dark alleyway. 

He thinks about joking around, about telling Jon  _ fine _ , sure, as long as you're paying for drinks, but it catches in his throat. Jon doesn't like his jokes. Jon doesn't think Martin is funny, or smart, even if he does somehow like poems he hasn't finished. And he has a short fuse. 

"Okay, Jon. It's 2016, and you're from-- what, three years, right? Three years in the future? You think Gertrude Robinson was--" he keeps pace beside Jon, bringing his voice down again, " _ murdered _ , and that Elias is watching you, and…?" Martin looks to Jon, giving him the chance to continue

\---

"--And all of the files Gertrude left behind are true." He shoots Martin a look of gratitude, his expression softening somewhat. He knows Martin doesn't  _ believe _ , but even this act of offering a patronizing olive branch is enough to get him to relax somewhat. He tries to organize his thoughts into a  _ timeline _ , but it's just so much, and he feels the headache coming back in folds. 

Mumbling, "God, I forgot how hard regular thinking is," he pulls his notebook out and opens to a dog-eared page, letting his eyes drift to the hastily scribbled words, trusting Martin to navigate the both of them through the busy London streets

\----

"--And all of the files Gertrude left behind are true. Right." Martin repeats it not to patronize, but to process. The vagueness of that lets his thoughts run rampant, and he needs  _ less _ of that right now, not  _ more _ . "Can you give an example? One that's easy for me to-- to digest? One less  _ vague? _ " 

Caught up in the questions, he almost doesn't notice Jon's attention has shifted away from their walk. Luckily, Martin doesn't keep his eyes in any one direction for very long, and there's only so much to look at that isn't him. Idiot's going to cause a scene. 

Martin grabs Jon's arm and pulls him a couple inches short of shoulder-checking some poor woman before he can think to control himself, letting go the second they're off to the side. 

"Wait, first-- can-- can you tell me where we're  _ going _ , at least? So you aren't maimed by a car or a-a speeding cyclist?" He huffs nervously, before adding a softer, "Sorry." The sorry is for touching him.

\----

Jon blinks wide at him, and tries to ignore the almost preternatural ghostly tingle from where Martin had touched him. His hand instinctively flies to brush fingers against the spot Martin had touched, and he stammers out a nonsensical string of, "I-- well, I-- we--''

He blinks and pulls himself together enough to say, "Anywhere. Coffee? I need caffeine." He lingers a little too close as they walk. "Easy. Hm. The problem is, it's all so  _ complicated. _ I guess vampires are easy. That's not connected to-- much. Yes, sure, we can start with vampires."

\---

Martin feels guilty watching Jon cover his arm, hoping he hadn't grabbed  _ that _ hard. He couldn't tell. But it brings Jon back to reality, and that's a small price to pay. "There's a shop a few blocks up ahead, it's-- it's alright. Not the best, but-- I guess it's a start." Keep your opinions about caffeinated drinks to yourself, Martin Blackwood. Vampires are actually a much more easily tackled subject. Martin did agree to go with it, after all. 

"Oh, I can believe that vampires are real. We don't really know much about how our physiology can get warped, or, well - " Martin pauses, hoping Jon isn't goading him into embarrassing himself. Hoping it's a genuine discussion, taking a chance. "If you look, I mean, okay,  _ tigers _ , right? Nothing's stopping a tiger from doing it's-- it's business, until we show up one day, and we have tools, and we start hunting them, just like that. Some birds, they can make all kinds of noises, they can sound like human speech, s-so, you know, it makes sense, they can do some  _ strange _ things, and... we're still finding new species of animals, ones that are  _ really _ good at hiding. That-- it makes sense, there might be something out there. Doing the same thing to us?" He wishes he isn't looking at Jon for approval. He also wishes he isn't pre-prepared to be made fun of.

\----

Jon nods, and sighs in faint relief. If Martin couldn't handle  _ vampires _ , it would have been an even bigger upward battle. As it is, evidently, vampires are just an anthill. When he had been here, the first time around, he'd scoffed at Martin's ability to believe in the... Occult. Had scorned him for it, even as deep down he hypocritically believed some semblance of it himself. God, what an utterly unpleasant person he'd been. 

The notebook sits heavy in his hands, the words proclaiming his guilt over Prentiss' obsession with Martin like a sigil of fear wedged deep within him. "Exactly. I never learned-- exactly where they come from, bigger things to worry about. But they're out there, preying on humans. They can't speak, but you can understand their hypnotic intent like they  _ were _ speaking." He thinks through Martin's words and repeats faintly, unease stirring in his gut, "Tigers doing their business."

\---

"What, like pheromones? Or - I don't know, have you ever read about Cordyceps? It's a fungus-- er, I think there's different kinds, maybe? It makes ants just… walk away from their nest, and sit somewhere until they die so it can come out of them. I know you're about logic-- w-well, usually-- but a lot of these things really  _ do _ check out. There's more than just animals, we see plants do this kind of… this kind of stuff all the time." 

Martin keeps his hands in his pockets to avoid wringing them nervously. "And people have been afraid of vampires for-- for a lot longer than we've been around, they had all their weird rituals to keep them away-- I'm guessing only being allowed into someone's house  _ invited _ is fake, though, right? It's always a messy game of telephone with... paranormal things, and the like."

\----

Jon nods. "The line between... Ritual intent--" He almost spits the words out, bitterness inadvertently leaping to his throat like barbed wire. "--and the truth is often blurred." He goes quiet as they walk, trying to sort through his thoughts and Martin's words. It's almost overwhelming; this is the most Martin's said to him in one go in… A long time, and part of him wants to hang on to this, to drop the paranormal all at once, to drop their circumstances, and just ask him questions, get him to talk and ramble, worship in the sunny basking of his voice. 

But, like everything in Jon's life, he doesn't have a choice to take the hedonistic route. Not any more than usual. 

"Cordyceps-- that makes for a good analogy. Things controlling us. Things... Greater than us, controlling us. Vampires are monsters-- not much more than that from what I can gather. More of a nuisance in the grand scheme of things." He tilts his gaze to Martin, and knowing the answer to something before he asks is a pleasant, familiar sensation. "Have you heard of Robert Smirke?"

\----

“Mm.” Martin hums, satisfied with the praise. Not so much with the implications, but they’re not about to be accosted by some starving vampire out for blood. Martin’s sure of that. The most dangerous creature on the path to the coffee shop is probably Jon and his precious notebook. 

“Oh, have I.'' No point in hiding that specific brand of coworker-related anguish. “Tim’s obsessed, isn’t he? I swear, he kind of sounds like you do now when that name comes up.” Maybe it’s too soon for some friendly ribbing at Jon’s neuroses, actually. 

Back on track. “The architect. Bit of a lunatic, lots of ghosts about him. The things he made, anyway.” He’s afraid to ask why. He can blather on through reasonable discussion about vampires, even feels a bit confident while he does it. Dead historical figures that he’s already learned to tune out discussions about? No… probably not.

\----

"Tim," He says quietly, and covers the facial flinch that takes hold of him by running a weary hand down the expanse of his face. "Tim has every right to be obsessed. There's bigger things out there than mere  _ monsters _ , and Smirke's architecture was specifically designed for it." 

They're going nowhere with this pace. By Friday they'll have gotten through two Entities, max, and Jon's still uncertain of his timelines. When everything kicks into gear. Whether-- whether his presence in this timeline will expedite things. After all, he  _ knows _ the path he embarks on. Wouldn't it stand to reason that his precarious humanity will slough off his bones much faster in a psyche already bound to the Watcher? "Do you believe in gods?"

\----

Okay. Don’t insult Tim. Noted. Some tiny spark of jealousy lights up inside him, reminds him of the reality of his daily life before yesterday. Tim and Sasha, useful assistants. Martin, the waste of space. It-- Jon's next prompt actually startles Martin into a short bout of laughter. 

“Well, that’s a question.” He doesn’t think anyone’s ever asked. At first that strikes him as weird, but strangely enough it’s not that frequent of a topic with his company at the Institute. Comes up in statements, sure, but he genuinely… doesn’t have the practice, discussing  _ that _ . And it’s not like he gets out of the office much, he’s not going out and having cocktails with attractive strangers over religious alignments. “Sort of? I haven’t thought about it, really. I think there’s-- there’s kind of like a-- mm, what are they called-- self-fulfilling prophecy, there? If you believe hard enough, and it’s real to you, and you do things because of it-- I think if a lot of people believe in something, there’s some kind of power in that. Has to be, or they wouldn't keep... doing it. Believing at all.”

\----

"Hm. Very Aleister Crowley," Jon says, and sighs again, his fingers drumming on the binding of the small notebook for a while before he speaks. He starts a couple times and stops mid-syllable, not knowing exactly how to lead Martin into this. Not sure he  _ wants _ to. 

How do you explain to the man you-- how do you explain to someone that this is the first time you've been human in  _ years _ ? He supposes he'll get to that if it comes up. When, maybe, if his theories on how quickly he'll deteriorate (rise, progress, advance, his mind supplies unbidden, and even now he can feel the urge to Know, to Ask, to Listen) come to fruition. 

"Rituals are a part of it. At least in our present situation. But more than that-- what are beings of life most ruled by? And don't say love."

\----

Martin snorts, adding a comical lilt to his voice. “‘ _ Such lights she gives as guide my barque, but I am swallowed in the swell’ _ ,” he pauses as he recollects what he read, mouthing pieces to himself before he finishes. “ _ ‘Of her heart’s ocean, s-sagely? Sagely dark, that holds my heaven and holds my hell’-- _ " 

Loses the sing-song gimmick. "He goes on about how small we are, how great we are -- people, that is-- he- he was a poet. He made poems.” Yes, that’s what being a poet  _ entails _ , Martin. 

He quickly continues. “What, did you  _ assume _ I’d say love? It’s--“ Something he has about as much experience with as religion. “Surviving, maybe? A need for it? I guess it comes down to that, that’s the point. We do a lot of things we don’t like to-- to make that happen.”

\----

Jon loses his train of thought for a scant moment, staring openly at Martin as he recites poetry.  _ Crowley _ , no less, but he doesn't let that macabre fact distract from the fact that Martin's voice is a heavenly, gorgeous thing, lilting and full of passion in a way that Jon has never managed to captivate without dipping into a mania. Martin is akin to an opal, and Jon doesn't know what to do when he finds another facet in the cut. 

He clears his throat and forcefully tears his gaze away, certain he's revealed everything about his heart with just that one worshipful gaze. 

"Fear." His voice is thick. "We are ruled by fear. Survival is just one aspect of it. The fear of death. The fear of drowning. The fear of being-- being alone-" his voice catches, and he covers it with a cough. "The fear of being watched, and controlled, and made mindless, of being  _ things _ ."

\----

He’s not used to feeling put on display, not used to whatever the look Jon’s aiming at him means. Martin’s not even sure that, if pressed, he could define it. It’s all too easy to mirror the action of severing eye contact and find some crack in the pavement unnaturally interesting. How he could feel so antsy and confident at the same time, Martin wishes he knew.

Oh, Jon's listing off fears. Fantastic. 

Martin slows to a halt outside the place he mentioned before, some chain he passes by but hardly orders at. It’s mostly empty, with its main clientele now settled in their own private cubicles until evening, and Martin’s relieved. It’s different in the Institute where he could flag down someone who might understand. Out here he’ll just be associated with the deranged ramblings of a lunatic. 

“And aren’t those all things that get in the  _ way _ of-- mm, hold on.” He grips the handle and swings the entrance open, holding it for Jon. “Order me a chai latte. I’ll find us a table,” he points at Jon with his free hand, “ _ You _ can tell me whatever else it is you have to say about fear once I’m sitting down.”

\----

"O-Of course." It's not even a question; really, it just frees up the paralyzing panic that threatens to set in when Jon has to take control of the situation all on his own. He'd never been a brave man, and probably never will be. Martin, on the other hand, has an uncanny ability to choke it all down and act. 

So Jon, by rote adherence, talks to the counter and quietly orders what Martin wants, getting himself whatever the fanciest latte on the menu is. The barista gives him a piteous look, and for the first time since leaving his office, Jon wonders how much of a mess he appears. He catches a reflection of himself in the silver metallic lining of the espresso machine and grimaces as he fishes out whatever cash past-him had shoved deep into his jacket pocket. 

His hair is haphazardly clipped back from his face with bobby pins he'd found in his bag, and it looks greasy and unkempt all at once; the very visage of a scientist who has given up. The bags beneath his eyes are pronounced, and his lips keep tugging down into a miserable little frown. Jon, quite on purpose, rarely chooses to inspect himself in the mirror. Have enough worm scars, and mirrors aren't exactly your top priority. But even unblemished, he looks like a haunted man, and his fingers suddenly twitch in pursuit of a cigarette again. 

The barista has to jerk him from his thoughts so he can grab the drinks, and he has to do so with a huffing " _ Oh, _ " as he's forced to shove the notebook into his armpit to free both hands. She gives him a piteous smile, and Jon turns quickly away from her to find Martin.

\----

Martin's coasting the ego rush of ordering a technical authority figure around, but by the time Jon returns it's mellowed out considerably. He's found a spot by the window, far back enough that so long as all the other seats nearest the entrance aren't occupied no one will end up too close. Visible enough that he's not acting suspicious by default. And Martin likes to look out past the glass. The motion of cars and pedestrians gives him a free out for eye contact whenever he needs. Might do Jon some good, too. 

He hears Jon approach but doesn't look over immediately, waits until he's close enough to sit down to start paying attention out of politeness. Out in the open, his boss looks like even more of a wreck than he did in the dim light of the office. But Martin prefers sneaking glances and slowly gathering details rather than boring right into Jon's soul all at once, so he doesn't pry. Just looks down at the steam curling out from his own cup as he holds both palms around it, eyebrows knitted in concentration. "I'm still listening."

\----

Jon watches the steam from their cups curl delicately into the air, and after taking a shaky sip of his own, he nods, settling into the seat by pulling one of his legs up on it, wrapping an arm around his knee. It's not 'professional', and he wouldn't, he knows, be caught dead doing something so  _ informal _ back when he had just taken over the Archives, but that time is long past, now, and he can't bring himself to care about maintaining the illusion cold, academic profession. 

He isn't an academic, he's an unwitting host for fear. No use pretending it's anything but, this time around. 

"Imagine worshiping a fear. Fears that can manifest in grotesque representations of our dimension, our reality, pushing and prodding at us to drink in that essence." He closes his eyes for a moment, the words falling from his lips like dewdrops. "Feeding off of such sublime  _ panic _ , and  _ terror _ , consuming it for strength and-- And a perverse love." He opens his eyes again, and realizes he's holding onto the coffee cup  _ very _ hard, his knuckles pale in their tension. He relaxes consciously. "Fear wants to rule us. And what better way to rule us than to  _ exist _ beside us, trying to push their way fully into our dimension to have a pasture full of fear-cows ready for the taking."

\----

Martin makes a face as he lifts his own drink and swallows. He could make the same thing at home taste so much better, he’s sure of that. Wouldn’t it be nice, to quit and start a humble business. 

The disconcerted look remains there for other reasons-- mainly, because Jonathan Sims is stressing him out with verbiage. Secondarily, because one of the women behind the counter keeps making eye contact with Martin, like how dare he bring some vagrant ruffian into their fine and polished establishment. Martin does his best to put off a warm and welcoming air about him instead. 

“You should be the one writing poetry, Jon.  _ Fear-cows _ .” Martin does a half-baked impression of Jon’s own scratchy voice. It's bad. 

“Okay, I’m imagining it. Some concept of fear that can’t keep being something worth fearing unless it keeps people afraid. I assume you’d only worship a fear to make sure you end up on the right side of whatever happens when that fear of-- of whichever thing gets big enough to hurt people. So fear cults. Are-- you're not-- not trying to get me to join a  _ cult _ , are you?”

\----

Jon's smile is a stiff, jagged line across his face. "That brings me to my next point, unfortunately." 

He pulls his hand from his mug to rest against his chin, trying to think of a way to explain this, to ease him into it, to-- But there isn't one, and it's not like  _ they _ were eased into it the first time around, anyways. 

"You've already joined one, I'm afraid."

\----

"Jon, I stack papers. I - I sort evidence. I move boxes from one end of the Institute to the other. I check public records. I order office supplies. I'm not in a  _ cult _ ." 

"You caught me - I'm - I'm hard at work with my grand plan to bring the great and terrible fear of a normal person knocking on your door to ask you a few questions into this world." Flustered, he tries to cope with a healthy swig of caffeine. 

When he next plants the cup firmly on the table, his voice is dejected. "I just burned my mouth."

\----

"So you're not one of the Desolation's," He mumbles, and he sounds so downtrodden; how can he not, ruining Martin's world? Kill the Messenger, indeed; Jon certainly would. He sighs, and begins to flip through the notebook, finding the page where he'd scrawled the entities and their purposes down. Just in case. Just in case he forgets. 

He doesn't yet push it over to Martin, instead musing, "Don't you find it odd that you're massively under-qualified for your job?"

\----

Martin holds his voice steady. "I  _ am _ qualified for my job, Jon. I've been doing my job long enough to prove that, haven't I? I was interviewed. I was hired." He sighs. "Do you really hate having me as your assistant  _ that _ much? What have I ever done to  _ you _ ?"

\----

"Oh-- I. I didn't mean--" Jon sucks in a breath, pulling his eyes down. Embarrassment floods him, terrified that he's ruined whatever small-term camaraderie he had with Martin. Leave it to him to fuck up explaining  _ cults _ . 

"I didn't mean it like  _ that _ , Martin. You haven't-- I  _ like _ you. I meant-- Your degrees. Your-- There's a  _ reason _ Elias wanted you in the Archives." Shame still floods his cheeks. If this is how he expects Jon to behave, it's really no wonder Peter Lukas was so tantalizing to him. It's no wonder he wanted to escape Jon's influence the second he could.

\----

“One. I have  _ one _ degree, Jon.” Martin stammers, gaze fixed down at the empty space between them on the table. Easier for him to pull off the words that way. Less pressure to trick his brain into thinking he’s talking to some inanimate object. 

“You don’t-- you don’t count it like that when it stacks, you go with the highest. It’s not like-- like having two master’s degrees. It’s-- what, are you trying to blackmail me, or-- or, do you want me to quit? I’m not part of a cult. They wanted me in the Archives because they thought I could do what I said I could.”

\----

"You can. You're good at your job.  _ Too _ good, when I let you." He pauses, and muses, "... I just didn't let you, very well, before. Fuck." 

He huffs and chews on his bottom lip. "That wasn't-- I'm not trying to  _ insult _ you, I'd never want to-- I'm trying to  _ explain _ it." He gives a humorless laugh. "Besides, you Can't quit."

\----

Martin wants to focus on whatever that all means, on how he’s done good and that someone else is even noticing him enough to say so, but he can’t. Each one is drenched too thickly in layers of confusion, he can’t see them for what they are. Not the way he thinks Jon thinks he’s supposed to. 

“You can’t just cryptically accuse someone of being in a cult and-- and pull out a notebook, like it’s an interrogation, and then wait around for a reaction  _ before _ you elaborate. I’m-- just start with what you’re  _ not _ trying to accomplish by-- by whatever this is. I’m  _ not _ quitting.”

\----

"You  _ can't _ quit, Martin. Not-- I'm not telling you what you can and can't do just because-- Because I'm a dick! You physically can't leave the Institute. You are  _ bound _ . You are--" He finally jabs a thumb at the first line on the page, twisting the book so he can read-- "You are  _ bound _ to the Eye." 

The scrawl is messy; Jon's handwriting had never been the greatest, unless he were to sit there and labor over it for hours. And in the thrall of a manic whirlwind of organization and sorting, it's even worse. But this one, more than the others on the page, is neat, tight, a reverence showing through in its detail. 

**THE BEHOLDING-- THE CEASELESS WATCHER -- THE EYE**

He leans forward then, his voice a tight whisper. "Elias is one of it’s servants."

\----

Martin pulls his hands back, positioning them with the cup at his lap like the book will bite him. Like the gnarl of letters forming words he’s not fully able to comprehend will jump off the page and go for his throat. He’s afraid of what happens if he doesn’t go with it. If he doesn’t keep prodding Jon to elaborate even though he really doesn’t want to. Even though he’s never been in a situation like this before and doesn’t know how to tackle it, and he’s afraid of what happens if he gives the wrong answer, or an answer Jon isn’t satisfied by. 

Clearly, he knows some things-- potentially something that could lose Martin his job, despite what Jon keeps telling him-- but as Martin flicks to the words and back to Jon, he’s more in a state of bewildered shock than genuine fear. Like instead of drawing someone into a conspiracy by presenting something organized, something that builds off each proven fact in increasingly strange ways, he’s being slapped with shorthand code for complicated concepts understood only by that theory’s most devoted followers. 

His one-word reply comes out like a hiss.  _ “And?” _

\----

" _ And _ ," He says, his thumb still poised dangerously on the paper, most likely smudging the page with the pressure he's pushing into it, "I think he wants to start the Beholding's apocalypse. I--It's. I could-- It was so  _ easy _ to justify, before, when there were  _ other _ rituals to attest for, a-and I didn't  _ know _ everything, b-but--" He sucks in a deep breath, pausing. 

The side of his hand, when he pulls it away from the notebook, left open on the table as an omen, is smudged in ink from the way it had traversed through fresh pen-markings all night long. "Martin, I can change-- If I'm here as a  _ punishment _ , I can change things. This time around. I can  _ fix _ things." His voice warbles with adopted optimism.

\----

Martin’s posture, pressed back into his chair to keep distance while cradling the cup as an anchor, makes him feel too small. An idiotic child who can’t keep up. He pushes his eyebrows closer together, but keeps a comment he thought to make-- about how it  _ must _ be punishment for him if he’s trapped here with Martin of all people-- to himself. 

“What... am  _ I _ supposed to do about it? You’re starting with things-- things that are relevant in… in three years, right? What’s relevant right  _ now _ ?”

\----

That focuses him. So strange, to have a question angle  _ him _ into a barrage of exposition, rather than the other way around. It almost makes him laugh-- almost. 

Instead, his lips quirk up and then immediately fall as he remembers,  _ remembers _ what comes next. "The Corruption," He mumbles, almost as an aside. His finger flies toward the page on the center of the table again, dropping down to his scant, messy notes on the Corruption. "I send you on a terrible, terrible errand. I guess I won't do that, this time."

\----

"On purpose, I'm guessing." He sighs it out, lifts his head enough to watch Jon's hands but not his face. Somehow it's kind of worse, in the moment, to have Jon tell him things he's thought about doing-- did do, apparently, and maliciously. Toward him. It doesn't make him feel good, at the very least. It doesn't comfort him. 

"I appreciate you pointing at words as you say them, Jon. I  _ really _ do. But I know what corruption means by definition, not with any other context. Where did you send me?"

\----

"To follow up on a statement," Jon says, and he's properly cowed, now, his head hung low and his voice sheepish. Hindsight truly is a bitch. His eyes raise towards the ceiling, as though the Watcher can see him squirm and relish it. 

It probably can, and is. 

"It won't mean anything to you. Yet. Jane Prentiss. She's a parasitic hive of worms. You... attract her."

\----

"I… do what, now?" Martin can't hide his curiosity. This is a more stable arena. No apocalypse, no sickening words outlined in capital letters screaming at him from a page, just a normal name. A normal parasitic hive of worms. Not the weirdest thing he's heard about by far, so he's definitely more at home right here. Worms are worms. 

He hopes Jon can adjust-- can keep it that way, maybe. "Can I see it? The statement."

\----

Jon nods. "It's at the office. Several of them. I think you should stay in the Archives. It's safer." His eyes are blown wide, the words falling from his lips without much thought going behind them before they're vocalized.

\----

Martin squints at Jon, his first eye contact in a good minute. "You're getting cryptic again, Jon. Few steps back, try that again? Please?" Oh, God. Does he die? Does he die because his shitty boss sent him on a mission he never came back from? Martin translates the fear into rebellion and squints harder, somehow, as if preemptively judging him for a hypothetical crime.

\----

Jon stiffens, and nods slowly, then faster, digesting that. He's right; of course Martin is right. He nods again. 

"She stalks you. To your apartment. I don't see you for  _ weeks _ , and I find out it's because you were locked in your house. I mean-- All things considered, it's a smart move. You don't leave your flat, it's-- pragmatic. You avoid being-- You know. Infected." He rubs self-conscious circles in his face, a tic he picked up when his scars would ache and turn red and purple in the summer. Scars that no longer exist.

\----

"Oh, fantastic!" It is not fantastic. 

Martin sort of hopes he never finds out whether Jon is telling the truth. That it doesn't happen either way. Either because it was never real, or it was stopped. He's not too picky. "And why is - why is Tim not sitting where I am, having this conversation? Or Sasha? Wouldn't they be, I don't know, more helpful? Resourceful? And--" Jon's distracting him with those frantic motions again, it's amping up Martin's own anxiety. "And you won't have a face left if you keep doing that, would you  _ stop _ ?"

\----

Jon freezes all but immediately and drops his hands to his lap guiltily, his leg dropping underneath him as well. "I don't want to tell Sasha or-- Or Tim." He says, and avoid eye contact as much as possible. "They wouldn't listen like you and--" He swallows, and shakes his head. "It just wouldn't be-- I trust you more."

\----

Ah, there goes Martin's heartbeat again. At least he listens. It's very ni--

He couldn't see until Jon put his hands down, but there's a few prints, a couple faint smears of ink on Jon's face. It's... so sad. Juxtaposed with Jon's submissive revelation about trust, the evidence in the smudged book before them, the delivery of it all, it's almost hysterical.  _ Martin _ feels crazy. This is too much for one day. This is too much for any day. He laughs because it's better than crying, laughs until he has to put a hand over his forehead to shield his eyes with his fingers as blinders, tilted downward, to marginally quiet down. He can't stop giggling but his shoulders are shaking with the effort anyway, he really is trying. 

"I'm really  _ not _ qualified for this, am I," he manages, shaking his head.

\----

"No," Jon says, and his voice holds no humor in it, his gaze downcast. "But I guess that's the point." 

He can't focus on the near-tears Martin's in, can't attempt to dissect any of that, because if he does,  _ he'll _ freak out and all the work that's gone on this morning will for not. "Which is why I don't know  _ why _ I'm here. It's so much easier to indoctrinate people who don't know." And yet, he already knows it'll be easy to fall back into it all, to align himself with the Eye, above all else.

\----

Jon's reaction makes it worse, and Martin has to bite down at the second knuckle of his free hand's pointer finger to cut off the cycle of laughter. He forgets to pull it back until he's already got the first muffled word out. "Filing a complaint that my boss knows my poetry before I do and that the apocalypse is coming will have me institutionalized, right. Who'd believe us, anyway?" 

He's almost there, almost back to normal. "I don't know why I'm here, either. I wish I did." He sniffles, blinking wetness from his eyes. Absolute shitshow.

\----

"Who would you file it to? HR? Elias' people?" He laughs, then, a clear little thing that is  _ almost _ clear of derangement. "I don't know what to do this time around. What will stay the same. What will change? I want it to change. I-- There's so much I would do differently."

\----

"I'd file it straight up the pole to God himself." Martin nearly whimpers it out, threatening to cave in to laughter all over again. He finishes off what's still left of his drink, jittering. At least it's caffeinated. 

He sobers up enough to put Jon on the spot. "Might as well get started, then. What's on your mind to change - right now?"

\----

Jon's eyes widen and he almost shakes like a chihuahua at the question. It's a lot-- almost too much, and he shakes his head. "Other than all of it? At the least-- Prentiss. Not sure Elias will let that happen, though. "

\----

Ah. Even the Cooler, Crazier Jonathan Sims who can sometimes admit his own faults and frightens Martin in just about the complete opposite way as the Jon he replaced is still a workaholic. Fine. He'll do his job. The one he  _ is _ qualified for. Follow the current, easy enough. "Where do we start, with her?"

\----

"...I don't know," He admits, and busies his gaze into staring at his own handwriting. "It all triggered because-- Because you went to that  _ damned _ basement and got her to follow you home." 

"But it isn't just her-- and thinking about it makes-- Martin, everything we do just benefits something  _ else _ ."

\----

"Well, it benefits  _ me _ not to have parasitic worms with normal human names know where I live, so I-- I think I'd like to stop it, for me. And-- and because I'm still  _ going with it _ , it's one less thing for you to worry about, isn't it? If you're telling the truth? If it's-- if it's all real." Martin, you're really in it now, aren't you?

\----

"It is. Unfortunately." And it's then that he laughs, the sound grating against the bottom of his register as it builds, growing and growing until he's at near-delirium. It's only at that point that he buries the sound with a frantic grabbing of the cup of latte as he pulls it to his lips and drinks it like a lifeline. 

"I don't know what the Eye wants, but I'm not keen to let it just--  _ destroy _ us, this time around."

\----

"Sure. That too." This is all so dramatic, a climax without any build-up whatsoever. Martin's full of restless energy because of it. He hadn't even gotten to work today, Jon put a stop to that. "So it looks like we have, what, two options now? One, we go back to the Institute as--normal to do… " He makes a vague gesture with both his hands to indicate the space is Jon's to fill. "Or, we have a basement to - to check out. No world ending, none of that, not yet, just what's immediately solvable."

\----

"You're not going to that basement," He snaps, and regrets it immediately, his voice so full of a vitriol the remaining levels of his energy can barely keep up with. 

He pinches the bridge of his nose. "You're--I can't do it the same. Not this time. You don't know--I don't know what the right move is." He pulls his drink closer and downs the rest of it. It's almost lukewarm, and it feels appropriate. "Chances are, Elias will have heard all of this and will somehow find a way to speed through-- Speed through it all. I can already feel it calling."

\----

"I did say we," Martin corrects softly, countering Jon's tranqued feral cat level of complaining. He's going to do whatever he wants, unhinged boss be damned. But he's not stupid. No breaking and entering without good cause and a loose plan or weapon. 

"You can't worry your way out of everything, Jon. Otherwise you won't make any progress at all. I can't - I don't know  _ why _ I'm so special, to you, to whatever this all is, but if I am then I must be right enough of the time for you to listen-- maybe-- I think-- I think worrying about whether Elias can hear us can-- can wait." Empty words from someone who's spent a good chunk of the last 24 hours anxiously spinning convoluted ways his boss might be trying to kill him, but words nonetheless.

\----

Jon stares at Martin for a long, long moment, a beat, two beats too long, and then slowly, hesitantly nods. He sits back in the booth and nods again. "You believe me?" He can't help the high note of incredulity in his voice.

\----

He almost says he's trying to, almost says it would be cruel not to. That he doesn't have much of a choice, except he supposes he does when it comes down to it. That it's easier to go along with it. It's not. 

The truth is that he's caught up in it, too. Not because he's actually sold on the idea that he's anything someone else couldn't just as easily be, but because Jon's sure it's real. And because sometimes there are too many coincidences to be sure of anything. "I don't have a degree. I never went to college." He blurts it out like he's been waiting to unload that on someone for years, because he has.

\----

"I know." Jon says, and he squints at Martin like he's waiting for something else. When nothing else comes, he leans back in the booth and shrugs. "It doesn't matter." 

He reaches across the table to pull his notebook close, closing it to the cover and pulling it off the surface, pocketing it. "You've always been smarter than I was, in certain ways. I shouldn't have pretended otherwise."

\----

Martin shies away from the look like a kicked dog. The relief of coming out with it, of having someone to tell, is a good feeling. But he hadn't meant to say it. It just came out, caught on a fishing line. He's not sure how to absorb the compliment, either. He doesn't know enough about all the ways that Jon's intelligence… exists. He can only take half. But it's a half he wants, so. Maybe he'll get to hear more of them, eventually. 

"You should go home, Jon. Might be better for you to try and rest-- er-- somewhere away from the Archives. Not on the floor. Something tells me you'd rather go unconscious in your own bedroom, yeah? And-- and your face is covered in ink. You should know.

\----

"My own-- Oh. I still have a flat, don't I. This is all before--" He grimaces, cutting himself off. "I'll sleep. But the Archives are safest." He blinks. "My face-- I don't. I don't really care."

\----

"But you just - Okay." No use arguing. Martin thought maybe he wouldn't like being so close to Elias, for-- for his odd reasons, but if it's what he wants, sure. 

"I can walk back with you, I - I've got a lot of work to do."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little (a lot) of ruining the world by telling your assistant about fear demons. It's all a bit much.

As Elias shuts the door silently behind himself, the office is cast in a preternatural silence that seems to almost leak up from the floorboards. The door frame clicks behind him, the small cloth curtains overhanging the small window jostling with the movement, and the second it does, Jon allows himself to slump in his seat, head falling to rest in his hands. 

He can only imagine the broad, smug smile playing host on Elias' face as he stalks back to the lift. Prances, maybe, would be a better word. He can't  _ Know _ , because he doesn't have that yet, won't, if he has anything to do with it, but it's an awareness nonetheless. 

Jon hadn't had enough time to think. Once he and Martin had returned to the Archives, he'd all but passed out in the safe room, the previous day-and-a-half catching up to him as swiftly as an involuntary coma. Down by 4 PM, and not awakening until 9 AM the next morning had certainly been a Thing, and he'd barely been presentable by the time Elias had shown up at 10. 'Presentable' meaning clean clothes, a shower, and him brushing his hair; the office was still-- and will remain so for the time being-- a mess that had Elias grimacing in clear disgust and a sheen of petulant worry.

(It was a look that had intrigued Jon, eager to see any cracks in his shell; what about  _ him _ made Elias so keen to put all his wagers so cleanly on his back?) 

Now, though, his head spins, and he feels adrift. Part of him knows it's insane to think he could sort out the proper order of things, and Elias' meeting did no less than remind him of that fact. Jon doesn't get to orchestrate this. 

He'd bought a pack of cigarettes on the way back from the coffeeshop, knowing that whatever this timeline had in for him, the leisure to roll his own would likely not be afforded to him anytime soon, and he lights one up now, one hand corralling the nicotine, and the other attempting to one-handedly pull back the loose strands of his hair into something resembling a ponytail. 

It'd been a long, long time since he'd spoken directly to Elias, and seeing him now, before Prentiss, does little to persuade him of anything good. He drapes his legs over his desk, not caring that the soles of his shoes cover some of the files, and leans back in his chair as he smokes.

\----

Martin's healthy response has been to take it easy and wait the whole thing out to some natural conclusion. Screw it, might as well take full advantage of knowing what might be arcane secrets by - well, by continuing his job as normal. 

He wasn't finding himself obsessively worrying over Jon, and he'd spent most of yesterday humming to himself as he printed labels and changed worn-out old folders for new ones. Boring stuff, basic stuff, but still  _ stuff _ . Outside of their conversation, knowing the future felt a lot more inconsequential. Nothing bad had really happened. Not anything that Jon told him would happen, anyway. 

There was a power to Jon's presence that elevated the urgency of it, though, and Martin had absolutely been rattled - severely, and still was - but he's managing just fine. A bit cozy, actually, as he's pretty sure he won't be sent on any dangerous assignments in the near future. It's a mixed bag, it's complicated, but he's handling it. 

He is. 

He doesn't even pass by Jon's office until around eleven. Not out of avoidance - just busy. As he notes the pervasive smell of cigarettes a stone of guilt drops into the metaphorical bucket of composure inside him, stretching the string holding it up just slightly. Maybe he should've stopped by. 

No, Jon could've called him through if he needed something. Never stopped him before, wouldn't stop him now. 

Best check anyway. 

Martin knocks, pairing the gesture with a very  _ normal, _ "Jon, it's Martin. Are you still alive?"

\----

Jon feels himself jump, the thump of his feet on the floor loud and hollow in the near-empty office. He clears his throat at the realization that it's Martin, just Martin. Almost says something about how torturous it is to not just  _ know _ who's at his door, but thinks better of it and says, "Y-Yes. Elias wouldn't just kill  _ me _ , you know." 

Everything had been deceptively  _ normal _ until Elias' morning visit, the only true concrete evidence of Jon's time travelling abilities the mountains of sorted files that had made Elias' eyebrows twitch, and the notebook Jon now keeps tucked into the pocket of whatever jacket he wears.

\----

Martin props the door open, holding his breath to prepare for whatever he might find inside and - Oh, it's not so bad. The office is still a complete mess, but that's nothing new. 

"No, I don't think he would." 

It's not quite dismissive, but his uncomfortable obsession with Elias is one part of the story Jon's weaved that Martin hasn't quite latched onto as truth just yet. He gives Jon a good once-over, and the only thing about him that seems not to have caught up presentability-wise is his mental state. But it kind of... kind of works for him, in a way. 

Well, this is weird. 

"You look--  _ better _ . Just, erm, checking in. Wanted to see if you needed anything before I went back to work. Working. You know."

\----

"I look better?" He repeats hollowly, the statement catching him off guard for a moment. His hand flies to his face, an automatic movement that might once have hidden scars that no longer seem to exist. "I-- Well. Yes. I found my flat and showered while I was packing." 

His gaze slides past Martin in the doorway, towards the briefest glimpse of the lifts, as though Elias is going to march back into his office and demand the truth. 

Because Jon lied to him. Lied to him as though neither of them know some semblance of the truth, and Elias' smile had been mocking at Jon's attempt. The only part of the conversation he takes with any gesture of success is the frantic panic that had lurked behind cheap amusement in his eyes. 

Jon stabs the end of his cigarette into an ashtray just hard enough that it goes out, the rest of the unsmoked tobacco resting gently against the side walls. 

"Elias says it's alright I sleep here.”

\----

"Oh, how did that go? You didn't tell him-- " Martin stops as he remembers, in Jon's half-panicked voice,  _ he can hear everything in the Institute _ . He doubts that's true. He really, really does. 

Martin closes the door behind him. 

"Why  _ here _ , Jon? I thought it-- it made you paranoid." He pauses, and there's some accidental upturn of his voice when he speaks again. "Are you... going to sleep here, though? You can't be sleeping on your desk every night, you'll die of bad posture before anything else has a chance to get you."

\----

Jon waves an unworried, dismissive hand at the fretting. "There's a cot in the back room. Little storage room. My... flat... doesn't feel like home." 

He's almost surprised Martin is speaking to him. Half assumed he'd avoid him like the plague after yesterday's.... After yesterday. Oh, how shame had run through Jon the moment he'd gotten any semblance of sleep and had a chance to  _ think _ about his behavior. Truly, it's a marvel that Martin can even look at him without bursting into laughter, or shuffling off awkwardly to do mindless paperwork. 

"No doubt he knows, but I won't tell him. He'll have to extract it from me for all I care."

\----

"Don't do that. That thing." Martin mocks the gesture, waving frustratedly in Jon's direction. "I think I've earned that, haven't I? Not-not being shrugged off-- I listened to you, didn't I?"

He loses his confidence all at once and looks to the floor, finding it again - without Jon taking up his vision - in a few loose papers. Martin positions himself closer to the ground and gently moves some of the files around into the piles he can only assume match up based on proximity. "You've got to put these in order in - in a better way, if you want it to make sense to anyone else. If you want to  _ convince _ people that you know what you're doing."

\----

Jon's expression softens and he nods. "Sorry-- I-I only meant-- I wasn't doing it to  _ you _ , just--" Well, it's not like he could form his mouth to say 'I was being dismissive towards my humanity', but it's what threatens to fall from his lips anyways. 

He sits up straighter and cranes his neck to watch Martin move some of his files around, and were it anyone else, he'd likely snap at them to not touch it, tell them to leave, tell them he has it handled. Would have, to Martin, were this his first go around again. 

He nods and ignores the flush in his cheeks. "I Will. I, erm, well, only woke up an hour and half ago. Just about got myself presentable and Elias came knocking before I could begin a proper sort."

\----

Martin rolls his eyes, but it's more light-hearted than genuinely accusatory. 

"It's fine." Only because Jon's in the habit of saying  _ sorry _ now, but still fine. "You're still here, so it must've gone decently, right?" Martin picks up a few slightly-crumpled pages pinned together, scans the words he finds there. Doesn't wait for his response before continuing. "Are all these piles for different - different fears, or is this something else?" 

He holds the small stack up for confirmation. "Spiders."

\----

"The Web," Jon continues automatically, and he can feel himself standing, pulling himself around the side of the desk to lean against its front, watching Martin look through the files. "I still haven't figured-- figured their hand in everything. It works behind the scenes. Manipulating. Controlling." 

"I  _ hate _ spiders," He mumbles.

\----

"Creative, too, with a name like that." 

Martin smiles down towards the papers at his own slight, as if they could understand enough to take offense. 

"Leave them alone and they usually return the favor," Martin says as he stretches out to check whatever's on top of several piles closest to him. "I've had one in my kitchen for weeks now, she earns her keep. No insects or - or any of the annoying ones, at least. All I do is put my bowls away slightly to the right, and we get along." 

"I named her Charlotte." It's almost under his breath, and he makes a satisfied click with his tongue against the roof of his mouth when he finds what he's sure is the right one. Leaves the stack there and picks up another to skim.

\----

"Endearing," Jon says, and watches Martin move. There's almost a domesticity to the way he talks, a quiet, casual cadence that isn't the frantic, panicked, and worried tone of everyone in the office for the last three years. "I've just never gotten on with them. Especially now." 

"...Are you-- are you helping me  _ sort _ ?"

\----

"Maybe they can sense you're judgmental," Martin says as he continues reading, flipping pages. The corners of his mouth tilting upward give him away -- he's not trying to be harsh about it. 

"Close encounter with a creepy butcher," he mutters to himself as he compares two statements in either hand. "Park ranger swears the animals are coughing up human remains but only when no one else is around... Oh, I saw one like this yesterday. Something about a farm, the sheep. One of the sheep was wrong, he couldn't figure out which."

Martin looks up at him, then. No malice, almost teasing. "I  _ am _ your assistant, Jon. I happen to be good at it when someone  _ lets _ me."

\----

"... Right. Well--" He clears his throat. "It'll help. I need to get all the statements on tape." Something like hunger gnaws at the back of his skull. He's not weak, physically, as this body doesn't  _ know _ yet, what it's like, but his mind does, and it yearns for the soft hypnotic horror of the flow of a Statement. 

"Some of them can be discarded, or-- or put away. Can't Feel which ones are useless anymore, though."

\----

"Does it  _ have _ to be on tape? Can't you just type them up and run them through an audio generator, or something?" 

Martin shifts how he's sitting on the floor, criss-cross amidst the piles. "If you're set on it, though, I could help. I'm much better at reading them out loud than... than the interviews themselves. It's just reciting. And -- and it's easy to tell most of the time, if someone's lying, or - or they don't actually believe what they're saying. Or if it's just a tree branch at the window."

\----

Jon opens his mouth to refute him, to immediately say  _ no, of course not, I'm not losing you to the Eye this go around _ , but-- it wouldn't really be fair, would it? So he says, "If you read them, they'll change you. What we do  _ is _ the work of one of Them."

\----

"Yeah, I'm sure the way they'll change me is almost as bad a torture as the time I read this - this statement about a drain that talks back, and I couldn't look down in the shower for a month because the pipe happened to rattle that night. Or worse, I'll be hoarse the next morning. Ooooh." 

The last word is supposed to sound like a cartoonish ghost. He can't quite figure out why it's so easy for him to tell Jon these things. These little personal insights into who Martin is. To someone he'd hesitate telling the right time of day to if asked just two days ago. Martin goes back to reading over various notes within arm's reach. 

"Do you count getting trapped underwater for longer than anyone could  _ possibly _ have survived and - and being caught underground or - or sinkholes, are those the same thing?  _ Stuckness _ ? Or is there a distinction between wet stuff and... and dry... stuff."

\----

He wants to snap at him for joking about this, for thinking it's  _ funny _ , but-- those are his frayed nerves talking. And besides, it's been such a long time since he's heard Martin make  _ jokes _ , Martin be lighthearted and not weighed down by the airy pressure of  _ everything _ , and he huffs out a small laugh, reaching behind him to grab a lukewarm mug of truly shit tea he'd grabbed on the way back from his flat this morning. He takes a drink and then he laughs again, delighted by Martin  _ talking _ to him about his life. Not pushing away. 

"To be honest, I can usually just feel what it is. Know it. And before I could do that-- I didn't know about the entities to make the correlations." He sniffs. "Could be the Vast, could be the Buried, could be the L-lonely. All depends on the context. What  _ fears _ are being played out." As he talks, he moves his hands in vague, sweeping motions, hierarchizing his words to categorize.

\----

Martin looks up, openly watching Jon's reaction. He's so used to keeping his comments to himself, to having inside jokes only with  _ himself _ , to quietly minding his own business while the world passes by around him. While everyone has their own job to do, and they don't have time for him. Or -- they don't want to *make* time. It's given him plenty of material, watching, taking note of everything that happens  _ around _ him, but never quite  _ to _ him. He's always been on the outside, until now. He's not in the audience this time. 

"Well, if you're wrong and you know where you put it, you can just change it out. If it's important for - for whatever you're planning, to know how they fit together, you can just put some tape at the top and write it out. If I'm not sure, I just -- I don't push down so much on one end and it'll slide right off again if I pull from that corner." 

He weighs the statement he's holding with an invisible scale. "Vast, Buried. They say the word choking at  _ least _ ten times in this one, so why not start with Buried?" 

He swaps out the statement, reads as he continues familiarizing himself with the vocabulary. "Lonely." That one he understands, but he's not very afraid of it.

\----

Jon can't quite hold back the shiver that wracks his bones when Martin picks up one of the Lonely files, and busies himself in polishing off his cup of tea to hide the movement, letting the cup drop heavily on the desk. 

"I can probably commit most of the Corruption files to tape by the end of next week. Sooner, if the Eye so chooses to grace me with actually getting them  _ done. _ " He snorts, an ugly, impolite thing. "Could hardly get through one a week, first go around. I'll still need supplementary research, but I'll know what we're  _ looking _ for, this time. Not going in blind." 

He sets his jaw. "Don't bother with the Lonely files. I'll take care of them."

\----

"Well, you have me. I'm not sold on  _ everything _ , but - but it's a start. Might actually be fun, I kind of like secret missions." He says it like a kid confessing to a crime he's proud of but knows is wrong. Being sent out to gather evidence, usually a lack thereof, was probably the most fun he had on the job. No one to look at him, judge his execution, taking him for his word. Having that knowledge, that leverage.

"Just don't get short with me when I ask you questions any  _ normal _ person would ask, in my place. I have a decent memory, but it's not  _ perfect _ , and - and I'll need references, for cataloguing. A list?"

Martin hesitates, but eventually continues. 

"And you're not subtle, Jon. You keep saying  _ that _ one in this - this weird way, and I-I'd rather... When you talk about things you're afraid of, you get possessed." Martin clears his throat. "If you're worried, we could make symbols. Ones people won't recognize. Or - or look for. Like, um - it's a bit on the nose, so maybe  _ not _ an eye for the  _ Eye _ , but if you want to keep this to yourself, it's... It's helpful." 

He shuts up. Talking too much.

\----

"I'm not worried about  _ that _ ," Jon says, and he keeps his gaze downcast, thinking it all through. All of it-- the way Martin talks about him, the way his words tumble out all at once and then shuts up like a valve being screwed on. It's a level of observation he's... Never really allowed himself to pay attention to, and by the time he'd  _ wanted _ to-- to dissect and learn and  _ see _ Martin, his edges had already begun to blur against the backdrop of his choices. 

"As long as we keep it organized, within the Archives, we should be safe. Missions-- we'll have to be careful. Once you poke at a monster, they tend to poke back, and I'd quite like--" He blinks, his hand flying to his mouth in mute shock. "So many aren't dead yet." 

Sasha, of course, and Tim, but those two have slowly become less of a fear in his heart. Less complicated. Just keep them alive. Simple. 

Michael scares him the most, but  _ Gerry _ , still hanging onto the world within the fabrics of his book. He blinks quickly, and abandons the pit that such thinking will lead him into. 

"Maybe one of those excel sheets could suffice." He ignores how hollow his voice sounds.

##  \----

"Martin Blackwood,  _ monster hunter _ . What a title." Does he even want to be qualified for that? Only time will tell. This whole thing is making him feel powerful, useful. Drunk on the roof of a house party. 

He continues rummaging around in the piles. It's a near-incomprehensible mess to him, currently. 

"In the meantime-- Boxes. Drawers. Folders. Anywhere but here to get stepped on or - or set on  _ fire _ , the way you've been waving those cigarettes around. I'm assuming you already have a list. Can you put them down, bullet pointed?" 

He mutters out a " _ preferably alphabetized, _ " then lifts an eyebrow in his boss' direction. "Do you even know how to use Excel, Jon?"

\----

"N-n-- Why look at me like  _ that _ ?! I could learn. I could--!" He throws his hands up in the air and then lets them fall again, raising his eyes skyward. "Okay. I don't. You're better with that kind of... Organization... Than me." 

He mutters, "Because it seems only I got the 'old man' gene while everyone else gets to feel  _ young _ ." 

Looking at the piles now, though, Jon can see how they would seem... Incomprehensible. So he grabs the shortie from the ash tray and lights it up, moving to sit beside Martin on the floor. 

He hadn't bothered with dress shoes today, and kicks off the slip-on moccasins he'd  _ apparently _ once owned when he still had a flat to his name, getting comfortable on the floor. A pack of post-it's sits haphazardly on one of the piles and he pulls them over, beginning to write the names of Entities on them and sticking them to the floor in a far neater grid than what he'd had going on before. "We'll start here. I'll send-- Tim, to go buy some office supplies." his voice is muffled around the tobacco.

\----

Martin sits politely through his outburst, keeping the smugness out of every part of him except his eyes. 

"And that's why I'm helping. You won't get very far without anyone else. And I'll learn things too, so - so everybody wins. And for the record, you're not  _ old _ , Jon, you don't sleep or eat or - or any of that, of course you don't feel  _ young _ ." 

Curious, Martin tilts towards Jon to watch him write. Tries to commit each one to memory. He'll probably have a few of his own notes to add for sake of understanding the lines between some of the broader ones. And no insignificant amount of questions, but that's a given. 

In a stroke of what he believes is comedic genius in the silence, Martin asks in the flattest affect he can achieve without preparation: "Can I have a cigarette?" 

He has so many jokes to share. So many he's thought of and never spoke outside of his own head.

\----

"Yeah, sure, they--" He blinks and stares up at Martin, and slowly an unbidden lopsided grin graces his features and he laughs, the sound beginning as an ugly snort in his nose and trickling into slow peals of laughter as he reaches back to grab the pack from the desk above them. 

He's never  _ done _ this, and the novelty of it is almost overwhelming. The cigarette he hands to Martin is handed off with the solemnity that the statement deserves, and he says, "Sorry they're not Marlboro Reds." Which just sends him laughing again. Laughter, a short commodity around here, has  _ never _ been leveraged in combination with the statements. Something in the air feels light, free, at the realization that he  _ can _ take his enjoyment somewhere. That he doesn't have to be miserable, forever, in this space. 

It's easy to imagine that, sitting next to a Martin that consistently and without reservations pulls him out of his head whenever he gets too deep.

##  \----

It’s not an ugly sound, not when he's the one who caused it. When was the last time someone laughed  _ with _ him, joked  _ with _ him and not  _ at _ him? Martin’s always so sure someone is laughing behind his back, and - and he won’t admit this, but when he passes by in the halls and hears laughter, a sharp pang of anxiety flows through him. Afraid that he’s the joke. Martin can almost surely guarantee they never even noticed him pass by, it’s not really because of him, but he still feels that same jutting worry in his gut. 

Most of his experience braving the gap and putting his humor out for examination was with his mother. He spent years trying desperately to bring humor into her life, to their lives, their - their conjoined  _ life _ . But she was always so cold. Still is, so cold. 

Martin doesn’t let the memory spoil his own laughter, content here to sit with Jon and twist the morbid admissions of a very scared man into fuel to make it through the day. Martin takes it from Jon's hand without any weirdness on his part, no awkward fumbling, and pulls a silver zippo from his pocket to light it. 

He talks through his teeth. “Back to business. We’re archivists, we’re…” he pauses to take stock of the notes again. “It’s a guess, of course, but-- They can work  _ together _ , can’t they? These fears. And they have - thoughts, plans? Bibles? Who’s -- Who does it? Normal people? Cultists?”

\----

Jon allows his laughter to dry up, but it doesn't feel hollow, doesn't feel like a sharp reprimanding that the world around them is still shit. Just.... A natural return to the flow of work. It's strange, to feel as though his emotions flow in time with his situation, instead of being forced to push and prod and stretch and pull to get the right tone out. 

He takes a drag. "Cultists--" He gestures to the loose pile of the Desolation, "--Pledging themselves to a God-figure who can grant them power. The Lightless Flame, for instance." He shivers slightly, and his hand moves to brush against where once a scar would burn, and burn, and burn on his palm. There's nothing but smooth skin, now. "Normal people, granted-- Additions, for their loyalty. But-- So too, can it go too far. It's a slippery slope of losing your humanity, pledging yourself to these...  _ things _ ." He sucks in a breath. "Sometimes, you can use it. But so too, can they use you. Prentiss, for instance--" He gestures to the pile on the Corruption. "--Has lost herself to this--  _ thing _ . At this point, she's nothing more than an extension of the Corruption's symbolic body."

##  \----

Martin mulls it over internally, throwing things out to see what sticks. “But it’s not just people. Animals, things, there’s statements about evil  _ trees _ , evil  _ houses _ , neighborhoods, alleys, books. Unless they-- Unless objects can have some kind of - some kind of allegiance, or motive. So it’s complicated. And-- So, obviously not every statement has to fit into one, some are just - just people being scared, confused. And, and on the flip side, a lot of them are connected. So one from, say, the early 1900s might actually loop around to something this year?” 

He shakes his head to avoid rambling aimlessly. “So you give up something to get power, and…” Martin holds his own cigarette between his fingers and directs his question to Jon - not to the silent storm of witnesses before him - while the smoke twists up around his face. 

“Are they happy that way?”

\----

Jon's gaze is heavy, a weariness passing over his face that wasn't there a moment ago. His shoulders hike up in a strange shrug. "I suppose it depends. The motives are-- You know, the motives depend on your entity. I'm certain the Desolation worshipers have a blast. The Corruption don't tend to have a mind left to  _ care _ . The End-- Well, death doesn't often leave much of an opinion." He sucks in a breath. "Sometimes it's less happiness, and more a  _ drive _ . The pursuit, the need to Kn--" He cuts himself off. 

Didn't mean to get so personal. 

"This is a world where happiness tends not to matter, Martin." 

The idea of finding  _ happiness _ amidst all this is as foreign as trying to read one of Leitner's Latin books. Utterly nonsensical. Not the point. He'd forfeited his right to be  _ happy _ in anything but the most perverse sense of the word when he pledged himself to the Eye, however unwittingly. Not that he's ever, really, been happy.

\----

“Yes it does,” Martin argues quickly. He’s a bit surprised at the speed it flew out of his mouth, he didn’t know he had such an opinion. “Why else would we care at all?” 

So, breaking it down. Some cults are fun. Some cults are not fun. Simple enough. It makes sense that fears would prey on the needs of their victims and/or followers for their own gain. Sounds very worrisome. Martin’s not sure why, but nothing else comes out from him. His question just lingers in the air, pressing down on the space. Adding weight to an already-oppressive gravity.

\----

Jon blinks at Martin in surprise, his mouth dropping open slightly to respond, before realizing he doesn't know  _ what _ to say. He sits there smoking to avoid speaking, and when there's nothing but the spent butt, he flicks it at the entrails of the broken tape recorder by the wall. It bounces off the wall and onto one of the buttons. 

"I don't know. I guess-- I guess I've never thought of it. At least-- Not lately. Been a while since I've taken stock of my  _ happiness _ , Martin. Bit more going on in the world, yeah?" He doesn't mean to sound so bitter, so-- So condescending. But it's hard, it's  _ hard _ to sit here and pretend anything could ever turn out right again, when he  _ knows _ where it's all led before. Hard to pretend anything else, when he can already feel his addictions rising to him, beckoning him, caressing him to just give in, give in, feed the monster.

\----

“Yeah. But isn’t that what something like - like this-- “ He waves at the post-it notes, scrawled in Jon’s terrible handwriting. “ --Isn’t that what they’d want? Wouldn’t that just make them  _ more _ powerful? If we were all so preoccupied with them, w-worrying about them all the time, that we forgot to just… live?” 

It feels like an equivalent exchange, where the times Jon is unable to speak are when Martin gains the confidence. Like he can’t get it out unless someone else is… worse off than him, at speaking. 

“I’m not helping you because I want to be  _ afraid _ , Jon. I think I’m - I - I’m lucky enough to not have seen whatever you’ve seen, so maybe I’m just naïve, but maybe if we focused on something that made us  _ happy _ to be here, we’d have something that-- I don’t know, can fight back?”

\----

"But then it could be taken away," He says, so perilously quiet, like he's afraid of voicing it out loud. Despite himself he looks at Martin head-on, and he can feel the way his eyes have blown wide in utter fear. Fear at the idea of letting himself  _ have _ something, knowing it could just easily be taken from him. 

Knowing he's  _ here _ because he tried to take something for himself.

\----

“Isn’t that why we have to try? If they’re real… People - people die in these,” Martin blows out the tension, touches the nearest statement to his hand, “there’s sh-shadows in them, a  _ lot _ of them. Don’t you think if, if they could say something, it might be-- I - I don’t know. ‘Make it stop’? ‘Do something about it’?” 

He suddenly feels very guilty for laughing at the lure in the alley. 

“If there’s some big dramatic  _ apocalypse _ , I don’t want the last thing I think about to be-- Oh no, I didn’t explore all my options and waited around for the inevitable to come and now it’s here because I didn’t think anything was good enough because I’m a big fat  _ coward _ , and then I-I explode.” Martin stares back. Maybe he has a few unresolved issues of his own, actually.

\----

"I tried to blind myself," Jon blurts, and regrets it immediately, his hand flying to his mouth as though to eat the words floating in the air, to take them back and swallow them back down into oblivion. He laughs then, a nervous, anxious thing that sounds nothing like the good-natured laugh he shared with Martin just minutes before. It's the first time he's said what he did  _ out loud _ , let himself think about it in any capacity other than passing misery and pain. 

His gaze drifts to the ceiling, and he hopes, hopes, beyond hopes, that Elias is too busy to listen in. He doubts it, though, and his breath catches in his throat.

\----

Martin, in his most ballsy display of rebellion at the absurdity of his current plight - of being thrusted all these details he doesn’t understand, doesn’t have the tools to get emotionally caught up in at all, the way his boss struggles through basic sentences, presenting them like the hardest of confessions - lets himself fall back to the floor. His head rests on a few loose papers, but he doesn’t care. Closes his eyes and inhales from the cigarette like his life depends on it. Speaks as he exhales. 

“I see you didn’t do a very good job.”

\----

Jon sits stiff and straight for a long, long moment, and then he slowly lowers himself by increments as well, until he's laying flush on the floor next to Martin, his eyes closing the second the back of his head touches a surprisingly bare patch of the hardwood floor. 

"No shit." He exhales, slowly, and opens his eyes back up, staring at the granules in the ceiling. "It sent me back here. Some kind of Hell."

\----

Martin examines the ceiling, as if searching for constellations. He speaks very slowly, an effort to avoid stuttering. “If you want my help, Jon, you have to stop expecting me to understand when you confess to something that hasn’t happened.” 

Another drag. “And you need to stop calling this Hell, because it’s the most alive I’ve felt in my entire life.”

\----

Jon slowly turns onto his side, staring at Martin from behind his glasses, his mouth open slightly. He props himself up on his arm, and he says, "Sorry. It's--" 

He sucks in a breath, like he's choking. "It's just hard to accept. That you're here. And I'm-- still me."

\----

" _ Please _ don't start dropping hints that you know when I'll die," Martin whines. He doesn't move how he's lying down or where he's looking. 

"This is-- It's a  _ lot _ for me. In two days. Okay, Jon? Two days ago you wouldn't say anything to me unless it was 'No, Martin, you idiot' or 'Get out, Martin, I'm  _ working _ ', or 'I don't  _ care _ , Martin, I have better things to do', or - or you'd just ignore me until I went back to the Archives and thought about how much of a fool I was. And now we're on the floor together, and I'm in a cult."

\----

"... I'm sorry," He whispers, and looks away. He doesn't know what to say. Doesn't know what appropriate, what's not, what-- he's never been in a position like this before. "I am. I don't--" He huffs and says, "I've never had to  _ talk _ about this stuff. No one's ever listened. No one's ever-- God. I'm so selfish." 

"You don't die. You just learn to stop listening to me."

\----

"Welcome to the world of one Martin Blackwood," he says thickly, then sighs. He's not taking out his self-deprecation on Jon. 

"Good for him. I'm not there yet. And I'm sort of contractually obligated to listen to you. Not to do what you  _ say _ , exactly, I-I almost started digging to figure out what basement I go in to kickstart that mess with Prentiss you kept talking about. But I didn't. I waited. I'd rather be here than throwing pencils at the ceiling above Tim's desk when he's on assignment and can't prove it was me." 

It's not relevant, but hey, since everyone's confessing.

\----

"Why?" Jon asks. "Why do you want to be  _ here _ ?" For the moment, he ignores the Prentiss comment; if he dwells on it, it'll be all he can think about for days, and he doesn't want to do that Martin. He  _ can't _ be that singularly focused. Not when-- when something else is going on.

\----

"I don't have anywhere else to go," Martin says. "I don't have  _ friends _ . I don't get out much. And your ceiling looks much better for throwing pencils at."

\----

"I want to keep you safe," Jon says, and it sounds like the binding of ritual intent, ferocious and fierce and powerful and a  _ weakness _ , all mixing together to create such a pitiful display of emotion in Jon's voice that he warbles it into the stale office air. 

"I want to be something you  _ want _ to keep you safe." It feels like a mantra.

\----

"I'm already pretty good at that job, Jon." He barely says it, a light breeze of a sentence. Martin keeps it to himself, but he feels suddenly on the verge of a breakdown with Jon talking to him like this. He doesn't  _ understand _ it. He doesn't know what he's supposed to feel. It sounds possessive, and painful, and charming in this freakish way, and - and just  _ complicated _ , and he can't reconcile what makes him so deserving of this. If it's - if it's a bad thing, or this is a terrible fever dream, or a  _ really _ good one. He's quiet for a long time. 

"I think I have some unresolved subconscious fantasies about my boss to address," he muses out loud, like he's stopped giving a shit completely and is fine with facing the consequences of a temporary dream world he'll wake up from eventually.

\----

Jon blinks. "You--" He can't help it. He laughs. It's not a mocking laugh, aimed at Martin. It's an internal, hysterical, self-deprecating thing that would be more at home pouring from the lips of the Distortion than Jon Sims. It's a laugh that borders on sounding like a sob. 

"Please don't lie to me." His voice is deathly quiet.

\----

"Oh, Martin, come into my office, please? Oh,  _ Martin _ , I must apologize for my dreadful behavior, I am simply overcome by your incredibly palpable  _ uniqueness _ , I was only trying to  _ protect _ you, to keep you safe from what might happen if we start this secret affair, from the dangers present in this world, I was pushing you away but I shall do so no longer, I simply can't  _ stand it _ ," Martin says with the voice of a pulpy romance author, eyes still glued to the sky, by the end approaching hysterics but not the kind that lead to laughter.

\----

Jon sits up all but immediately, his face blooming into a deep flush. He doesn't know what to do with his hands. He doesn't know where to look, what to say, how to exist, and he ends up just sitting straight up and  _ embarrassed _ , his eyes wide in mute shock at Martin. "I-- I. I don't--" 

It feels like all the oxygen in the room has escaped with one fell swoop. When he finally catches his breath, the syllables catch on a stutter, and anger pours into his voice. "I don't know what to  _ do _ with that! What-- Everyone expects me to just  _ know _ all of this!"

\----

Something stirs in Martin's chest when Jon shoots up, when he catches the way he's handling what came out of Martin's mouth. It - it was just a joke, he thinks, it just came out, he wasn't  _ serious _ , and he's about to try and mend the situation, is about to apologize for crossing some kind of line - 

Martin brings both hands up in front of him to protect himself from wherever he instinctually imagines Jon's sudden explosive anger going, sinking back into the floor. "Sorry, sorry! I didn't-- I'm sorry-- "

##  \----

Shame fills him like the ocean wind as he watches Martin move, and by the time he starts  _ apologizing _ , Jon's all but shaking, fear streaming through him as he wonders  _ what did I do? _ . He's compelled, and he's  _ extracted _ , and he's lately felt something worse than that, deep down, something violent and angry that sneaks up on him when people won't  _ tell _ him what he wants to hear, but this is different. Divorced from that-- That Watcher's Gift--, and just  _ him _ . Just him. 

It was just Jonathan Sims who made Martin flinch from his own voice. Jon all but slaps his head into his hands and shakes his head, over and over, and he feels hot, burning up, really, and he still  _ doesn't know what to do. _

"I didn't mean-- I-- " His voice is muffled where his lips sit against the palms of his hands. He forces his voice to come out measured, cool, distant. "You've never said anything like that to me before."

\----

Martin doesn't shake. He lies completely still, as if waiting out a danger that isn't there, imagining how this might look to someone if they decided to burst open the door right now. 

He doesn't fully remove his hands from where they are, but his fingers relax margin by margin until they're not held so high. All he's really focused on is Jon's movements, the way they inject him with his own secondhand sense of shame. The way his own face heats up. 

"I-it made sense, in my head, that-- It would make sense if this were a dream, that I-- that I made it up, in my head, to - erm - because-- I mean, it  _ is _ kind of funny, the situation, it's like - s-s-setting up - I have i-issues - " Oh, God, he's stuttering. Stupid jump scare chemical dump.

\----

"I wish it were made up." Jon hunches over himself, making himself even smaller than he was, pulling his hands close together into the huddle of his body as though he's trying to stay warm in the middle of a dead-winter forest. "You don't deserve this. You don't-- I shouldn't have. I shouldn't have  _ put _ this on you. I don't--" 

And again, that fruitless laugh, the kind of he knows would make Michael proud. The kind that ends in peaceful Opheliac dreams. "I'm just  _ hurting _ you."

\----

"I-I was joking about my insecurities, and - and what I must be - trying not to think about, I was... being funny. About... myself." 

He's really in it now. Trying to say each word individually so he can't screw them up like a complete idiot. "I was... just playing around. It's - you don't-- You don't know how I joke around, I-I figured it might be, if you've known me for that long-- I'm just being myself. I don't think it's made up. It's - it's a hypothetical. I'm sorry."

\----

"...........Oh." Jon breathes. He feels like a fool. "Oh." He says again, and drags his hands down his face, the stretch of skin over his bones gratifyingly grounding him to the  _ here _ , the  _ now _ , the  _ present _ . Or Past. Or whatever this is. Trying to slough off the tinges of embarrassment still riding high in his cheeks. 

He suddenly feels so precariously positioned. Dancing in the basket of a hot air balloon that's one more burst of heat away from popping and sending him plunging to his death. What a Vast way of looking at things. 

"I'm just not used to you-- I'm not used to many jokes, these days. I'm not exactly--" He huffs, and it feels like some of the tension is leaking off of him, like the shame and fear happened to someone else and he can just look at the situation and laugh at them  _ both _ now. Ha-- What fools, planning an anti-apocalypse by crying deliriously on the floor of a constantly-survived location. Statement of one Jonathan Sims, who had the audacity to think anything could ever be 'okay.' 

"I'm not used to people making jokes to me. I assumed you must be-- Be serious, if you were forced to speak to me."

\----

"Serious about - about this - about it being orchestrated like a plot in a  _ romance _ novel?" 

Maybe Martin should start sobbing. Then he might get some insight into Jon's brain that isn't about how much of a loser he thinks he is. What a terrible thought. Martin can't comfort him. Definitely can't touch him. It's not like he's going to get up and - and hug him, to console him. Cry it out over the long and painful mental journey they've had together. He hasn't. He wants to. He wishes that felt like the right thing to do. 

Facial journeys aside, Martin's not worse for wear. "I'm not forced to-- I'm going to stay on the floor for a while, I think."

\----

"I knew  _ that _ part was a joke, Martin! I-- No, no, it doesn't matter. Okay. Okay. Lay down. I'll--" He pauses and wracks his brain, and jumps to his feet a little too quickly, energy pouring into him too fast that he ends up swaying, the edges of his vision blackening with exertion. 

Maybe he  _ does _ need to eat more. 

"I'll make tea. Or- Or something. I think if I sit here, I'll cry."

\----

So close, Martin was so close to asking him which part exactly he thought was serious. Luckily his rational brain wins out, and he decides maybe it's best he doesn't put another bullet hole in the barrel. 

Martin inhales through his nose and exhales from his mouth. "Then maybe you should just breathe about it instead." 

He sounds like a total bitch. It's just the epinephrine talking. His heart pounding in his ears is making him unable to control how snappy he is, that's how it works. Oh, he's earned that nap he'll have later. 

"I for one am very excited to see if yours is better than what I had yesterday."

\----

Jon blinks at him and opens his mouth, then snaps it shut. But Martin is giving him  _ something _ , something that isn't the weight of the world or the weight of-- whatever it is they are. Just-- The now. Something that  _ happened _ , with evidence, just the day before. He thinks about what Melanie said. About therapy. But he discards it when Martin continues, focusing on  _ him _ again. 

"At the--? I doubt it. I always burn it. Guess you're not supposed to full-on  _ boil _ the water." He steps across the piles of statements and almost trips not once, but twice, but manages to keep his footing despite his shakiness. "I've gotten better, though, lately. Been making it myself." He talks because if he doesn't, he'll think about breathing and think about crying and think about  _ Martin _ .

\----

"Mm," Martin hums from somewhere deep in his throat, a gesture of utter disbelief. Not to the idea of Jon managing to destroy tea, but at him somehow improving at it from there. 

"I'm trying to say this as nicely as possible, Jon, but I genuinely don't understand  _ how _ you survived to get this old." 

He lifts himself up to his elbows, noticing he dropped his cigarette in his haste to move. It's burned a mark into one of the statements. 

Martin mutters a curse under his breath and grabs it quickly, dragging it and the statement across the floor behind him out of Jon's view. It's not a subtle action.

\----

"Yes, well--" the 'well' lilts up into a frantic note as he watches what Martin is  _ doing _ , the urge to yell rising so quickly in his throat that it's all he can do to just  _ not _ . Even so, the words in his throat escape in a petulant little whine, as his eyes widen and he just stares from the door. 

A myriad of angry little  _ comments _ threaten to pop out of him, about the ethics of their job, about harming historical artifacts, about not being so  _ careless _ as to let the Desolation have a field day with the Archives going up in flames. 

He squeezes out of the office and shuts the door quickly to avoid  _ any _ of that, breathing heavily in the quiet hallway, and he doesn't know why he feels so  _ much _ , lately. But he does. And it's a problem.

\----

Martin waits until the door is closed to breathe again, but not with relief. Suddenly he's operating on the constraints of his own ritual, one he crafted over years upon years of trying to avoid someone's wrath. She's not Jon, not at all, but it works well enough to generalize. 

The second he thinks Jon is out of range enough not to hear the muffled sounds of his movement, Martin pulls the statement out from behind him and takes it with him to stand up. 

It's fine, mostly, there's a few tiny black marks where one or two words should be. They could pick up context clues, for recording's sake the thing is fine. He scans the floor for more loose papers, anything without an identifiable home, clearing up the space, making it look less overwhelming for when Jon comes back - 

Somehow his frantic tidying ends with him sitting in Jon's chair, a post-it note between his teeth labeled SPIRAL -  ASK? , and a stack of orphan statements in front of him.

\----

Jon's tea is shit. It's shit and probably burned, and his memory reminds him of what Martin's tea tastes like. He almost pitches the mugs from sheer frustration-- can't even make a goddamn cuppa without somehow failing and destroying  _ everything _ \-- but decides it'd be too much to return to Martin empty-handed. 

He breathes while it brews, trying to center himself in the  _ now _ . He'd gotten decent at meditating, these last few months; something about waking up to being an all-seeing God avatar who craved and craved and craved helped make a practice he'd never had the patience for suddenly a lot easier-- and now he tries to empty his mind, untangle the clawing mess of  _ fearpainanguishlonging _ from his skull as easily as pulling worms from flesh. Hah. 

By the time he makes it back to his office, the flighty, nervous panic that had been crawling up and down his skin like gooseflesh has dissipated, and while he still feels shame at his-- his outbursts--, it's easier to manage and chalk up to something that can be forgiven. Maybe. 

He gives a soft knock with the back of his knuckle to signal his presence before pushing the door back open, kicking it softly behind him with a foot. 

"I did exactly what I told you I'd do," Jon says, setting one of the mugs on the desk where Martin now, evidently, has taken hostage. "It's bitter. I won't be offended if you don't drink it." His voice is carefully neutral, humor soft and inoffensive.

\----

"That's fine," Martin says around the note, and he makes the slightest offended noise at the thing for impeding his speech before taking it out. He reads it again. 

"Oh, right. I have some questions. First-- I'm guessing there's some kind of hierarchy, right? Victims, cultists, higher-ups? Planners? You can't just, just walk out and end the world on a whim, yeah? So they still have to... communicate? With each other, at least? Or..."

\----

Back to business. Jon almost sighs in relief, pulling the uncomfortable little chair for office visitors closer to the desk, sitting in front of it like  _ Martin's _ the Archivist and he’s just a guest. Shudder the thought of Martin being in his position. 

He nods. "It takes years, decades of planning to conduct these rituals. Between cultists and the Avatars themselves, usually. Some of the Entities probably won't be able to for-- A century, at this point. The Spiral, they've lost, The Lonely lost its chance, The Desolation and the Dark have all failed. Or, well-- Maybe the Dark still has a chance." He fidgets in his seat, thinking. "I'll look through the files. We've mostly just the Unknowing to stop."

\----

"Avatars? Ah-- The Spiral, that one, I had questions about that, too, I don't quite-- Mm." Martin leans back in the chair, clearly loving every second of it. "One at a time, or  _ I'll _ spiral." 

He thinks Jon might not find that funny, but takes a stab at the morbid humor again just for the sake of it. "Avatars. So they're like - like the big ones, the ones in charge? Can you reason with them? L-like, talk to them? Maybe get them to call it off, or... or delay them? Or are they... not human, anymore?"

\----

"I don't--" He huffs out a small laugh, fidgeting in the chair once more. He braves burning his tongue by taking a small sip from his mug, grimacing when the tea does just that, his lips scalding themselves for a moment. "It depends, I think. Sometimes-- Like the Corruption. Or-- Or the Flesh. You're going to lose yourself. But, ah, then again, Jared Hopworth still could  _ reason _ , it's just-- You're just  _ different _ . You've got different desires, different hungers, different... Motivations." 

He thinks. "If you've got a hand puppeting you, you're controlled by the hand, but you're still-- it's still  _ you _ running around. I don't-- You could make an argument for the exact...  _ control _ you've got, either way. Lord knows it's confusing, especially with the Web playing behind the scenes."

\----

Martin follows Jon's motions with his eyes, and is struck with the very bizarre thought that he wishes Jon was drinking something he prepared instead. How his expression might be different. 

"Right. So some of them can still talk back, and mean what they say, and - and have relations with people. What - what happens, if you're not afraid? Can they still hurt you? Beyond, you know, normal human ways. If you're-- Say you're not afraid of spiders, or - or being controlled, manipulated, doing things you don't want to do, or if you're just not afraid of big, empty  _ spaces _ , you just don't care - are you - are you immune? To whatever it is?" 

It feels like a stupid question, but at least if he rules out something, he can move on to something  _ else _ .

\----

"Hm." Jon muses, and after a while, he hesitantly shakes his head. "There's a-- A draw to it all. You feel  _ drawn _ to your fear, your entity. I mean-- I suppose you could be  _ manipulated _ into being drawn in, marked by it, taken, giving in, considering it's not as though our personalities are ever set in stone, stagnant things." 

"Even so. I've had encounters with many of these entities. Even deep, bone-chilling fear doesn't necessarily mean you're inherently  _ drawn _ to it. I don't particularly  _ care _ for spiders, but I think-- I think I can. Rule out her influence," He says it quick, fast, an admission to himself that settles deep around him in Knowledge. Even if Annabelle is pulling strings, he's not being  _ controlled _ by her. This much he knows now. 

"I think, sometimes, we're attracted to the things that we think might consume us whole. And sometimes that means internalizing it, or-- Or turning it outwards. The fear of being watched turns into watching everyone. The fear of destruction, hot-white rage, turns to arson. The fear of multitudes turns to a sheer fracturing of the mind." He pauses. "The fear of being alone, turns to self imposed isolation. Etcetera, etcetera."

\----

“Oh! I see. Like those rock climbers, the ones who go up without ropes. I-- There was a documentary about that, about how your brain changes. They don’t feel fear like we do. They can only feel when they do something… extreme.” 

Martin glances back down, pulls his chair forward to get a better look at what’s on the desk. “It’s - it’s kind of poetic. Erm. Anyway, there’s some I-I don’t quite understand. The Spiral, I’m not sure how to categorize that. Everything we handle here is  _ weird _ , or  _ bizarre _ , or - or someone thinking they’re out of their  _ mind _ , isn’t that… a bit skewed? Like - like everything works toward a few of them-- I mean, what, the End? It can just sit there. Some of them lucked out.”

\----

"Eventually. Lot less rituals for the End. Tends to-- Well, it'll happen eventually." He gives his tea another go and grimaces again. "There's-- I mean, it's kind of... It's kind of balanced, right? They all keep each other in check somewhat. Don't want your mate's God popping off his Apocalypse first." 

"The Spiral..." He trails off, a slight shrug making its way through his body. "It's more about lying. Deception. Everything's skewed and it won't fit back together right. They all-- they're connected, intermingling. Sometimes they work together." 

"The Spiral has helped us, before. But it's finicky."

\----

“Right. Until one outsmarts all the other ones and you get-- “ Martin makes a soft explosion noise, bumping his fists together and pulling them apart with his fingers splayed out. 

“Well, that’s interesting. Makes sense. Doesn’t help me much with  _ filing _ , but I’ll ask you when it comes up.” He squints at the nearest statement, slides it over to the side. Finally, he caves and grabs the handle of his mug, drinks. His expression doesn’t change as he looks at Jon, maintaining a professional neutrality. As if he’s conducting an interview from the safety and elevated status of being at the boss’ desk. 

“So. What did  _ you _ get out of it?”

\----

"What I-- Well... I mean. I'm trying to stop the Apocalypses." He huffs. Tugs on his collar some, like he's a child caught being naughty. "Turns out,  _ filing _ can mean being the bloody servant of--" His eyes raise skyward. 

"I'm trying to do good. Keep everything--  _ seen. _ no shadowy rituals done behind closed doors."

\----

"I'm just saying, if  _ I'm _ in a cult-- Which I  _ still _ don't quite get, then - then you must be, too. You-- " Martin makes a small, childish laugh behind the cup in his hand. "We're doing shadowy rituals behind closed doors right now. Doesn't mean they're  _ bad _ ." 

He pauses to meet Jon's eyes again, smiling brightly at the absurdity of it all. "It's fine, by the way. Your tea." He's lying.

\----

"It's burnt," Jon says sullenly, and takes another grimaced taste as though to prove a point. Nevermind that it doesn't have sugar in it because he  _ forgot _ and that he always takes sugar in his tea. 

"And we  _ aren't _ doing a ritual. The Watcher has never  _ done _ a ritual. It-- I'm it's Archivist. That's all. That's  _ all. _ "

\----

"If you don't tell anyone what's wrong with it first, they'll usually keep quiet to not offend you." Martin says blandly. "But if you keep reminding them, they'll feel put on the spot. Nervous people will - will comfort you, tell you it's not  _ that _ bad, it could just be  _ better _ , and the bold ones will probably tell you something even  _ you _ didn't know was wrong with it." 

"Sometimes it's good to keep the things you know to yourself." Martin pauses to let it sink in, then asks a new question. "What happens when one of them wins? What changes?"

\----

"I don't like lies, Martin. Even ones by omission." He lifts his chin at that, a daring little gesture. He leans forward to set his mug on the desk, using his now-freed hands to start raking through his hair, pulling it back out of his face as much as possible with hair ties he'd found in his flat this morning. 

"Honestly? I don't know. 'Apocalypse' is all rather vague, though-- It can't be good. Unique to each Entity, but not - _ good. _ Pain, suffering, death, torture, blah blah blah." He waves a hand and half of his hair falls back down in thick strands. "Nightmare beyond our conceiving. That sort of thing."

\----

"So, it's more like a... a switch? Make it real, in our - our reality?" He sounds distracted. "So it could be, like, like we already live in one? If something's content to just exist and not do any - any crazy rituals-- If they're comfortable, how would we even know if we weren't in one already?" 

He stops dead. "Look." 

Martin leaves the cup behind on the desk and sits back, tilting his eyebrows up nervously. "My name's not  _ Martin _ , Jon. I just put that on my resumé."

\----

Jon looks at him suspiciously, and his mouth opens to  _ compel _ , but-- never. Not to Martin. Not to him. And it wouldn't work anyways. "If that's-  _ true _ \--" He grinds the word out as though it hurts, "--Then maybe you aren't bound to this place. What are you-- Don't tell me you're  _ serious _ ."

\----

Martin looks down at his hands, starts fidgeting. Inside he's burning up in the best way possible. "I-I don't know, Jon. Wouldn't you know for sure, in the future? If I was telling the truth?" 

He blinks, and loses control of his expression. He doesn't want to draw Jon's anger out again. "No, it is. It-it's Martin. I'm-- I don't want to  _ ask _ what you know about me, in -  _ later _ , I'm just figuring out what you don't. And-- " 

He's sheepish, really this time. "I think it's fun to fluster you. Just a little. Not with - with anything that hurts. It takes the edge off. When you're here, and not - not somewhere else. Worrying... about things. It brings you down here."

\----

"Yes, yes, you do seem to enjoy pushing me in holes and throwing dirt on me," Jon mutters, but it's without any heat. An almost amused exasperation. He lets out a breath he didn't know he was keeping in, looking openly at Martin once more. 

It strikes him again, how little he knows about Martin. How in the pursuit of saving the world, they've had such precious little time together. And even now, terrifying as each one of their conversations has been, like whirlwinds destroying each other and putting everything back where it once was before the gall, just slightly  _ left _ , Jon wants to know more. He's obsessed. He wants to ask every question known to man, and only doesn't because it'd terrify Martin to be hit with such a barrage. 

"And I would be able to know. If I wanted. Not anymore." He supposes he owes him that much, as hesitant as he is to delve into his... Abilities and allegiances as of late.

\----

Now, Martin wouldn't say  _ that _ . He's not trying to push Jon around like some schoolyard bully for his sadistic kicks. 

"Yeah, you could. If you wanted. You  _ can _ just ask me questions. Like a normal person." He's not sure what Jon is implying. That specific way of talking he's realizing he hates, when Jon starts speaking cryptically and forces Martin to fill in the gaps. As if he's got any context but his own fears about himself. About what people think of him. "Unless you mean you don't  _ want _ to know anything about me."

\----

He's flustered, and he knows Martin's doing it on purpose, has gleaned that much about him in the last few days (He thinks of Martin sitting at his desk, placidly telling him that Jon doesn't  _ want _ to run away, won't run away, was cruel to Martin to make him tell Jon that, and Jon swallows thickly), and even so, the comment digs, and digs at him until he's blustering, stuttering. 

"Th-That's unfair and you  _ know _ it!" Jon's voice is shaky. "Of course I want-- Want nothing  _ more _ than to know - know  _ everything _ about you! I just don't want to force it out of you like a  _ statement! _ "

\----

"Just  _ ask _ , then, Jon. I don't know what happens later-- I don't know what you  _ mean _ by  _ forcing _ , but obviously you can't do it now or I'd probably be having a lot less fun spending  _ time _ with you." Ah, the equivalent exchange of blundering speech. Just hand it to Jon like a puppy, he can hold onto it. 

"It's not unfair. I'm not going to - not going to torture myself by reminding you over and over again that you hating me was my  _ normal _ , until all at once it wasn't. No one ever asks me questions. I'm giving you  _ permission _ . Ask away." 

The gravity of what Jon's saying to him threatens to put him off his game again, though. To know  _ everything _ about him? There's not much. There's hardly anything. And if he gets the questions out of Jon  _ now _ , and he can see that  _ now _ , then maybe it'll save them both a lot of pain that seems to exist somewhere far, far away, where Martin can't see yet.

\----

"Martin," He says, and he says that name like it holds so, so much, a whole bible unto itself. He deflates, and once again exhaustion begins to pool into his limbs, the dichotomous truth of this otherwise  _ normal _ conversation being so dictated by their  _ abnormal _ circumstances leaving him dizzy, vertigo so deep in his head that maybe he understands what the Spiral feels, for once. 

He can lie. Bluster his way through a hackneyed attempt at asking questions, pretend he knows what he's  _ doing _ . But He doesn't. He doesn't know what he's doing, and he never has known what he was doing, especially when it comes to Martin. 

So his voice is as still as slow-moving Everglade when he says, "I don't know how to ask questions that won't feed me. I know-- I  _ know _ you don't know what that means, I'm not trying to make you  _ guess _ , I'm saying it to-- To. Even if I'm from a different time, I still don't know how to talk to someone I  _ care _ about." 

"I don't just want a statement from you, impersonal, ferocious knowledge. I want to--" He grasps the air with his hands, trying to pull words from the atmosphere, and his brow is knit low, concentrating, trying to keep it together and not shut himself away or stutter himself into oblivion. He can only hope Martin appreciates the gesture. 

"I want to know you as I stand beside you, with you, not conduct an interview. Do you believe me?"

\---

Martin closes his mouth to avoid speaking before Jon's done, to avoid rambling something unhelpful, to think on what all of Jon's gestures mean, what he's trying to convey. And then it all tumbles out. They take turns that way. 

"You won't  _ know _ if you don't  _ learn _ , Jon. You won't just know  _ how _ to do things right, you just - you just do them? It's--  _ Yes, I believe you _ . Obviously.  _ Obviously _ . Fool if I do and fool if I don't." 

He wishes he had something to bite down on. Or snap in half. Maybe both. "It's not an interview - or an interrogation - you can just - you can just walk up and you can  _ ask _ , you can just say 'Martin, let's go for coffee some time and talk about - about, I don't know, books' or you can - you can ask if I'll go see a  _ movie _ , and you'll find out I put mustard on my popcorn, because it'll come up, because you're just  _ living _ , not... not doing it out of obligation. You have to try. To get better at it. You just try." Each sentence, by the end, is quieter and quieter until they're barely there at all. 

"I believe you because if I don't I'll never learn whether it's real. I don't know  _ how _ to believe you. Or what the right answer is. I just keep trying, because that's how it works."

\----

"Oh," Jon says, and he's utterly overwhelmed, every neuron firing at once, staring at Martin like he broke open the gates (not the door, not the door, not yet), and he ends up just sitting there, a little dumbfounded, his head cottony. "Oh. I think- I think maybe that's a good start." He sounds a little dazed. 

It feels like the bubble's going to pop at any moment, that this--  _ this _ , no matter how painful and hard-- will fall through his hands and he'll be left with nothing. But it hasn't happened yet, and he has too-- Martin is right. He just has to try. It feels revelatory. 

"I think--" He wrinkles his nose all at once. "I think we'll be getting separate popcorn at the movie theater."

\----

Words drip out of his mouth so quietly, like he's hoping Jon won't hear it, so they can fall away with the wind. "You have to ask me to go with you, first." 

This is the weirdest week of his life. Martin doesn't think it's getting any less strange from here.

##  \----

On the surface, it's such a-- mortal request that Jon almost laughs. Laughs that he could ever, ever have this. But. He guesses he has to try. Martin isn't wrong. 

"Okay." How do people say it? Letting it drop from their mouths like honey? His voice is nowhere near that level of confidence. "Will-- you--" Slow. Halted, and then all at once, a torrent of, "will-you-go-out-with-me-sometime?" He wants to fall apart.

\----

How did it come to this? What in the world is he supposed to say to this? Be normal? If it were a normal situation, with a normal person, yes, sure, he'd be very flattered... if confused. It would be normal. It would all be so, very normal. 

Martin shakes, and then keeps shaking, this anxious subtle shiver he hasn't done in years. A shiver that would give him away, would show how scared he really was under his words. A shiver that used to make him run into his bedroom and lock the door and cry. When he was afraid of the answer, of the consequence, of all the thousands of ways he pictured it actually going in his head. He can't begin to imagine why someone trusted him with all of this. He can't picture himself as someone who matters enough to be part of anything. 

"If you tell me why you want to."

##  \----

"I don't-- " Jon shakes his head and makes this pitiful sound in the back of his throat, just thinking about it, thinking about unburdening himself of this weight that has felt oppressive and downy since he woke up from the coma. 

"I don't think I can say it yet."

##  \----

Martin shrugs, a noncommittal motion that hurts to carry through. Not a disappointed one, but an acceptance. 

"Then I can't say yes."

##  \----

"... Martin," Jon almost whines his name, dropping his face into his hands and looking out from behind his spread fingers, pulling his skin taut as he drags his hands down his face. 

"I don't-- I don't know  _ how _ to say it. It's not--  _ please. _ "

\----

Martin has several ideas, and they're  _ good _ ones. The problem is, he's not sure if he should. Keep trying, that is. Why he's still pushing, still making chances. He chooses the one least likely to hurt him, in the end. 

"It's 2016. You're Jonathan Sims, and you  _ don't _ hate your assistant. You noticed a couple things about him  _ later _ , but they're still part of who he is. Y-you only noticed them after something  _ bad _ happened to - to you, or someone else, but you don't remember those things, you just remember him and - and who he is. What about him  _ matters _ ?"

\----

It grounds him. All but immediately, he's got a directive, and it's no small task to just  _ go _ with the directive, to let his words work for him and pour from him like honey wine. Jon pulls his legs up onto the chair, hugging his knees close, and doesn't hesitate. 

"His eyes. His eyes are like buoys, and you can weather storms in them, and there's -- there's kindness there. Even though he doesn't think there's any, there  _ is _ , and if I'm not careful, I can get lost, but it's a - a pleasant sort of lost, like I could choose it myself and that'd be okay." 

His own gaze finds the middle distance so he can just  _ speak _ , the small movements of his lips all that hints that he's still awake. 

"And I've never chosen it, but I still  _ want _ to, the option is there, and it’s never  _ been _ there before, because no one's ever been-- No one's ever worked the way he does. He shows affection in the things he  _ does _ , not says, and it's easier to remember, to-- to look at a favor and almost see the gesture of-- to see it and feel it and feel  _ seen. _ to feel seen by him. I... I don't think I'm just a Tool, to him. A means to an end. He's  _ there _ , and no one else has ever been." 

He blinks, and refocuses his gaze, reconnecting eye contact with Martin. It's steady.

\----

Martin rubs the pad of his thumb against his other palm, working out the restless energy. He'd stopped shaking the second that first word came out of Jon's mouth. There's a deep sense of satisfaction replacing the worry, he's been bending the stick just short of change, too afraid to see it through. But it finally just snapped with a loud, echoing crack. 

"There," he sighs, "it's easy for - for people to ignore what you say, but sooner or later they have to see what you do, right? I-I-- " It hits him, at once, what this all means to  _ himself _ . 

He notices Jon's looking at him, and it's a bit too intense for him to justify finding anything else in the room more interesting to break that. It also brings his stutter back. "I-I-I want to be there, you just - you just have to give me a fighting chance, Jon - um - to do that." 

He's worried he hasn't said enough, but he's sure he's absorbed it. He just tacks on a self-conscious "Thank you."

\----

"Okay," Jon says, and he suddenly feels like he has no words left in his bones. 

"I think--" He laughs, nervous and tired. "That was a lot. It was a lot. I think I'm done today. Statements can wait. Another human day." 

And like a celebratory after-sex pillow talk session, he reaches across the desk to grab another cigarette.

\----

"You should do that. A break," Martin says, almost doting. "I could - I could keep sorting them, get you something to drink that isn't-- " Well, Jon likes honesty, right? "--Bad." 

He quickly tries to recover. He's not about to punish him for being open. For actually trying. For actually making Martin feel something he can put a name to. "I can say yes now, by the way. In case - in case that was still up... up in the air."

\----

Jon just blinks at him, his expression breaking into a relieved smile. He all but slumps in his chair, resting his head on one of his hands. It's a dramatic pose, but a comfortable one nonetheless, and Jon is done being stiff and cautious today. 

"My tea's shit and I've got a date. Somehow more surprising than the time travel. Well. Not the tea. You know." His laugh is small, but genuine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stacks  
> by MK Blackwood
> 
> A thousand fears on flattened papers  
> Condensed, in wait to be unraveled  
> Mystery of flesh, of bone, or fire  
> Fragments of connected tiles  
> Victims made  
> Lives are changed  
> Sacrificed, altars of hate
> 
> We’ve yet to learn   
> how not to listen  
> Blinding smoke of hellish Heaven  
> Wooden splinters fit to live in  
> Fear in moments  
> Of connection  
> Static stings - A misconception
> 
> Quiet cannot last forever  
> Unknowns drawing ever nearer,  
> Pathways crossing winding rivers, still -   
> Quiet cannot last forever
> 
> Questions fall, lie as they may   
> Stranger, speaking -  
> Secret price of knowing -   
> Knowing -   
> Knowing without truest knowing -   
> Knowing -  
> Quiet cannot last forever


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin Blackwood enjoys a normal, uneventful day at the local library.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, Martin's writer/co-author here to post this one. I apologize for any formatting mistakes I might've missed. Uploading this way is new for me! 
> 
> Much love.

_O_ , how intention pulls and prods at the fabric of reality as of late. It’s enough to make them _sing_ , fizzing energy bustling over their skin like a live-wire, electric lightning-fractals spinning gossamer veins beneath skin that was once alive. _O_ , it’s just all too much, what-is and what-isn’t and what-should and what-shouldn’t all coalescing and creating something new, something interesting, something _profound._

It seems that the Eye’s little Archivist-To-Be did something… incredible. No _What-Is_ or _What-Isn’t_ , but rather... _What-Will-Be_ impacting the _What-Was_ . _O_ , how delectable, these realities that Are and Aren’t all at once, oxymoronic Truths and Lies spinning and twisting, twisting, twisting… 

What-Was-Michael could laugh and laugh and laugh for eons, just at that. And maybe they would, sitting here and laughing and basking in the energies of their Hallway, content to languish and laugh at the misfortune of whatever… Whatever _this_ is. Become the Voyeur themselves, and wouldn’t that just tickle Mr. Bouchard bloody pink to see the failed Distortion turned into something that watches. 

They would, they truly really would, but then something else happens, and it threatens to send Michael on a 40-day and 40-night crying fit of laughter; The Archivist-To-Be marked the little _assistant_. An assistant with eyes all around him, curiously enough, as though the Fears see something in him, want him, are dancing their slow-moving dance to see what happens. 

It’s no wonder why; in the week that follows his Beholding Mark, Michael watches, and they see that he could fit anything, everything, whatever he so chooses, and isn’t that a rare, manipulative little treat.

And so they could sit this one out and follow the path of _Jonathan Sims_ , talk to him, scare the ever-loving shit out of _him_ , or-- Or-- 

Now here’s the punchline. They could intervene. With the assistant, no less!

Whatever is left of pitiful, deceitful, _awful_ Michael doesn’t even complain at this idea. And, well, it’s because they’re _lonely_ , but that’s a folly, a silly construction of an emotion that only qualifies if you’re _someone_. And they aren’t someone. So it’s easy to squash and laugh instead, and find a time when Martin Blackwood is left well enough alone and not under Mr. Bouchard’s watchful Eyes (easy enough, with the Corruption running amok and gearing up for one of their pitiful, disgusting moves on the chessboard). 

Marked by the Eye, and Martin Blackwood is in a library. Typical. Sodding typical. It almost makes Michael regret pulling themself together enough to look human, to pass the part, to dress the way Shelley would have, so-many-years-ago. He’ll be reading, looking for _truths_ , and _O_ , won’t it just be fun to shake him up. 

So he opens a door in the middle of a bookshelf (and decides to keep it up; any lost fool who takes a door in the middle of a bookshelf _deserves_ to be swallowed up whole), and steps into the library to have some fun.

\---

The library, for Martin, is technically not an unusual spot for him to find solitude. He'd done it often when he was younger, to have somewhere to escape without all the messy complications of having to do much socializing beyond a few automatically pleasant discussions with librarians.

Once he'd landed his job at the Institute, things changed a bit. Reading for pleasure while already fatigued from spending the day doing so lost its luster. But... in the uproar of events now plaguing his life, he was turning to a few old things for a few different reasons. 

He’s not reading so much as _writing_ , coping through the tornado of the last week with a pencil and a precious notebook of his own. He's visited the library twice this week. First, to scope a spot to carve out where being watched was less of a preoccupation. His own corner. It was a short visit. 

Second, to actually use it. He's not tucked away in some dark, secluded crevice between two bookshelves. He's sitting in a chair by several empty ones, his own papers scattered about a table in front of him, tapping a pencil on the one in front of him. Martin’s spot overlooks the second floor, where a glass railing overlooks the main lobby. He's not listening to anything now, headphones around his neck, and right now they're mostly just for the comfort of having an out if he needs one. He's very well-prepared. For normal things, anyway.

\---

The Assistant looks so mundane, and normal, and _beautiful_ when Michael first lays eyes on him that they almost can't believe it's _him_. That the Beholding would Mark someone like him, scribbling notes into the margins of a notebook with a look of concentration... It almost makes them start giggling before they've had a chance to say more than Hullo. 

As it is, they wonder what Mr. Bouchard thinks. This can't be on purpose; Michael might not yet have seen the Archivist-To-Be, but _surely_ he looks more interesting. Or maybe not. The Watcher was never one for theatrics, and for such a being of voyeuristic intent, aesthetics were never its strong suit either.

Even as a failed, disgusting altar to the failures of the Great Twisting, Michael knows they are much better suited for the pursuits of the aesthetic. Even if their own flairs of presentation, performance, are garish and nightmarish to the eye, at least it causes a _reaction_. 

Though, with luck, a slow-build one. No need to shoot their shot so early in the game. No need to ruin the chance at the slow, gorgeous build-up of fear at the onset of realizing that something just isn't _quite_ right. 

So they sit, and they play _human_ , and what's left of Michael is almost perversely relieved at the chance to sit, that frame of mind wrapping like a muslin cloth around what used to be a mind. They sit close enough to be seen but far enough away to be _suspicious_ , close enough to glass and reflections to hint at something _wrong_ , and they begin the cat-and-mouse game of looking when his face is turned away, looking away when he looks up. Standard things. A giggling approximation of a failed spy. 

And, O, how being close reveals Martin Blackwood's aura to them. It's delectable. Thousands of threads going in all sorts of unpredictable directions, each still so delicately pulling him in all ways. O, how seeing that Choice be made will be delicious.

\---

Martin, of course, notices movement, another set of eyes working for their own purposes in the library. To him, though, weirdness is sort of an _appeal_ to it all, to going out somewhere public. A stranger looking at him is as strange as him looking at another stranger. 

A free, public place attracts all sorts of people. And not-people, as he's learned much about in the past couple of days, as well as in his years reading things he's found in the back rooms of the Institute. He'd be much more perturbed by someone tossing golf balls into the shelves, which _did_ happen once. The man had to be escorted away, but seeing the spectacle play out had been entertaining. 

After a brief exchange of not-glances, Martin eventually settles easily back into his work. Or, not-work. The compliments of one deranged boss with a tendency to harbour evidently secret feelings for him made him a _little_ more confident, but only marginally. Writing is a terrible hobby to have for someone with low self-esteem.

\---

The problem with _waiting_ is that it takes _time_ . And certainly, they know time is fake, and time is all the illusion of the world playing its own demented games upon them, but there's still a streak of impatience sitting beneath the cold veins of Michael Shelley, and it's not an emotion something like the Distortion is used to feeling. Pesky, pesky human _nonsense_ that simultaneously makes them shudder and laugh gleefully at their own mechanizations to conform to the unreality, the impossible. 

But it's _boring_ , and after thinking and thinking and thinking, Michael decides that if _he_ were human once more, he'd pass by the glance of an over-eager stranger and let it fall to the back of the mind. Complacent ignorance. So he gets up with a throng of a passerby and moves to a different table, starting the dance over. And over. And over. There's an abundance of free-to-use tables in the library, and they can play this game until Shelley's body drops dead (hah!), or until Blackwood decides enough's enough. 

He almost wonders if he's gotten strong enough, yet, to pick out the Power of a being. Maybe not, given that careful non-looks and constructed relaxation. Certainly, if he could _feel_ Michael, he wouldn't be so keen to let them out of his Eye.

\---

Martin does eventually look up again, if only in frustration at what's in front of him that he put there himself. The stranger who hadn't really been looking at him but sort of almost did, several times, is closer and... it's a little odd, but not really. Moving around in the library is also pretty normal. People want fresh space, new surroundings, but... 

Closer, Martin can see how colorful that person is. What they're _wearing_ . Something someone wears when they're looking to be looked at. Martin, while generally being someone who keeps to himself, doesn't particularly go out of his way to _avoid_ being talked to. He likes it, when it happens, usually. When it goes well. Fleeting connections. 

So, sure, he does linger on him, does tilt an eyebrow up and cock his head a little. Smiles slightly with the hopes that specific addition won't send off the signal he's making _fun_ of whoever it is. Just appreciating it. People like to be appreciated, when they go out of their way to be unique. Especially somewhere like this.

\---

Well. He's certainly one to _look_ and not interfere. How Watchful. How... Calm. Boring. 

It's not hard to stretch his physicality. Just a little. Just enough to glance off the glass of the walls, to catch on the reflection of anything shiny. Something _off_. Stretched. Curled and twisted and vibrating into static into the ether. Nothing on the surface, oh no. Look at Michael head-on and you'd see... 

Well, frankly, the Distortion and Michael Shelley have different opinions on what they look like, these days. 

Besides that point, look head-on and there is Shelley. But up the amp, up the _looks_ , and What-Is is what Should-Not-Be. If Blackwood is truly ensnared by the Eye, such devilish curiosity should prick his finger and fill him whole like an ocean gale's breeze. 

Michael smiles at Martin Blackwood, large, open, welcoming. Impossibly kind.

\---

Martin is curious, but in-- Well, quite the normal human way. He returns the smile, far more subdued in comparison, but it isn't until he looks away that he falters. Stops tapping the pencil in his hand mid-motion as he looks at the glass beside him. 

In there, is his own reflection. Behind him, he's... not sure. For a second, he thinks - the idea pops into his head that the stranger's hair is somehow alive at the ends, in the reflection. He can't describe it more than that, just - not like rubbing a balloon on your head to make it stick up, like - almost like gravity on the moon. 

He can't help a quiet noise, but it's not _afraid_ , really, more confused. Martin looks back again, to see if anything's changed. He almost forgets to put his smile back on, but he doesn't. It's just a little more... strained, is the closest word. An excuse to double-check.

\---

Michael's smile grows wider, and they widen their eyes, unbidden glee dancing across their features for a moment before returning to something approaching the faltered human mask. Loathe as they would be to admit it, the Stranger's brand of uncanniness comes in handy during situations like this. 

He gives a small wave, just a fluttering of fingertips that seem to almost fracture in the corner of your awareness; the blurring of your eyesight upon miniscule tears scratching at the corner of your lids.

\---

Martin follows the motion, fixed to his hand like a moth. Ah. Well. That's not normal. Martin's never needed glasses, but for a second it makes him think he needs to check again. 

"Can I help you?" He blurts across the space, and he's suddenly uncomfortably aware of the echo it leaves behind in the relative silence. It's a reasonable question to ask, but-- It might not be the kindest way of going about asking why someone's trying to get your attention in a library.

\---

Michael's smile grows sharp. That deep, unsettled discomfort like a ten-step skin care routine feeds them, and they raise their sunglasses to the top of their head, sitting up straighter in their chair. 

"I'm just Watching." They giggle, like it's a particularly funny little zinger, and though they don't raise their voice, the sound carries across to Martin like a jagged soundwave, imprecise and echoed.

\---

Martin drops the stick in his hand, and it slides off his notebook onto the floor. "Ah - sorry -" And he's apologizing to the _pencil_ , bending over to pick it back up and give himself a chance to process. 

Coincidental circumstance seems to not completely cover this situation. He doesn't want to make a scene of himself, but he's still talking. A healthy sense of wariness lacing his question. "Watching - watching what?"

\---

"You!" Their voice is soft, and Shelley was once a quiet, airy little thing, and their voice now carries along the air like pollen. Best not to sneeze. "O, A watcher being watched! How quaint. Do you understand the irony yet?"

\---

"No?" Is he supposed to be playing along? Martin never learned whatever game this is. "Everyone looks at things in a library. That's - that's kind of the point. How-- " He almost asks how he's doing that with his mouth. Decides maybe that's a better question in closer quarters, not blasted across a room. Martin just... keeps watching back. Without his smile, now.

\---

"Oh," Michael breathes, and then laughs, and it's harsh to the ears, grating through and around and among and nowhere, all at once, a phantom. "It'll get you hurt, Looking too long without knowing _how_." 

They lean forward in their seat, resting their chin on their hands and for a moment, a split second, a non-second all at once, they let their appearance _drop_ , fall away, be the impossible distorted failure of a Spiral that they are. Achingly impossible limbs and teeth and eyes and colors that Never-Were and Never-Shall-Be, details so precise and small it'd put quarks to shame. What a headache. 

And then they pull themselves back together, into Michael Shelley's frail, frail little-- Hah!-- shell.

\---

Before anything happens, before he sees it, Martin has the sense to know something very strange and most likely terrible is about to happen. He's not able to do anything about it, it's just the tone, a red flag and a complete snowstorm of stimuli through noise - 

He does scream, a choked off singular note as he jumps up from the chair. In the process one of his elbows bangs hard against the glass - it's thick, the glass is fine - but the pain waits for its own turn with his attention. He can feel eyes looking up from the lobby, from the opposite end of the second floor, but he doesn't notice - _can't_ notice - and even when that - whatever that was, when it turns back, it still lingers in his head, twisting and wrong - 

Martin's hopelessly nauseous, stabilizing himself on the railing while it presses against his lower spine. Moving his eyes hurts, bursts of color in his vision and stalking whichever point he looks at, but he does, he manages, and finds his phone still in the chair where he left it. 

He gets a stupid idea. Martin reaches for it.

\---

Michael stands then, uncurling their body gracefully from the chair, brushing long fingers down the length of their clothes, as though removing any crumbs. Removing food. Oh, it almost sends them into another peal of laughter, and they want to laugh, and laugh, and laugh, but it'd pop the poor dear's little ears, and that wouldn't be nearly as much fun. 

Still. The phone means Blackwood wants to _escape_ , and Michael's not quite done toying with him. 

"Little Assistant, are you asking for my nuuuumber?" They ask, and it's playful, taking one long step around the table. A human part of him remembers this little dance, and it feels funny to bounce it back viciously. Flirting with the Eye. Oh how _Robinson_ would disapprove.

\---

Martin closes his fingers around the phone as a new wave of panic flows through him, and it's not until the thing is stepping closer that he realizes how _stupid_ the idea really is. What's he going to do, text Jon? Spell out an SOS and wait a couple hours for Jon to, what, call over animal control? He can't call the _police_ \- 

Instead he grips it like a rock, a ready weapon, still in his awkward half-stand between the chair and the wall, properly cornered. Of course he had to choose the edge of a room, of course he did. 

"O-only if we hit it off first," Martin sputters, letting words tumble their way out, wrestling with his most basic instinct to freeze and his newfound tolerance for the abnormal. This is different, though. It's not an _idea_ , it's a _thing_. And his brain is still reeling, stuck processing something he was never built to process.

\---

"I do so hope we do," Michael all but purrs, and cocks their head at the phone. "Do you have an interdimensional package?" They laugh again as they approach Martin's table, raking their eyes up and down him, drinking him in, breathing in that fear, fear of the unknown, of the impossible, of the _new_ . Oh, part of them likes being _new_ , something different. Even in their failure, a brand new unique thing. And something _far_ more pleasant than Gertrude Robinson's half-witted fears of Extinction. 

They hold out a hand. _Shelley_ was never so good at confident little handshakes, but they have learned from that, and they're even so kind as to not shatter the illusion of what their hand really _is_.

\---

Distantly, Martin’s aware of his chest contracting and expanding with the rapid breaths he’s taking. Of a sting at the edges of his vision, forming tears, because he can’t help it. But they’re physical, so far away from wherever he is now. 

The outstretched hand wipes his brain completely clean. It’s such a usual gesture, and he’s not looking directly at it so he can’t _see_ , not what’s wrong with it. 

To him it’s just a hand. 

He’s stuck to Michael’s face, waiting for the zipper to come undone again as if he could prepare for it if he looks long enough. As if the transition would be any easier that way. 

Martin’s next gasp for air turns into a singular laugh, as short as the scream that had him upturned in the first place. It pops like a bubble in the air, and it’s not a _happy_ laugh, but what else is there? He holds out his own hand but doesn’t make contact first, doesn’t dare to. Doesn’t think he could.

\---

Michael wraps both hands around Martin's, and his smile softens, something far more human, and far more pleasant, pleased, _pleased_ at the fear wafting off him. Pleased at the juxtaposition between that mind-numbing terror and the mundanity of the handshake. 

"You've had quite the week, haven't you, Martin Blackwood?" They ask and stay there, holding his hand, too long, just too long, to see if he'll pull away from them first.

\---

Martin is immediately struck by how heavy they are, how much weight slides around his hand between both of Michael’s. It’s-- The only way his brain supplies to describe it is like - like if something inside the skin was reaching out to touch him, like there were bones and tendons pulling a thin cover taut to reach his own flesh. He doesn’t want to give them the chance. 

He grounds himself in Michael’s face. A fixed point, one that traps him away from whatever happens just below it. It's more than just a cover. There's something real there. Martin whispers, pained, afraid, an act of rebellion and of submission somehow leaking into each other. 

“I want it to stop.” He doesn’t know whether he’s answering or begging.

\---

"It's not going to, you know," They reply, cheery as their voice can get. "I would... Say I was sorry, but truthfully, I'm not. It's all too fascinating." One more resolute shake and they pull their hands back, sticking them solidly in the pockets of their overalls. 

Martin Blackwood seems to be teetering. And it's all Michael can do not to _push_ . Oh, it would be so marvelous, so tasty, to do it now, ruin everything for _everyone_ and take him as _theirs_ , feed them to the Spiral and have him wander their halls for ever and ever and ever. 

But it'd be fleeting. 

The smile almost slips from their mouth at the thought. Time. Time and the passage of it vex him so, and they squash it down with nothing more than the slight furrow of an otherwise placid brow. No, watching him develop, watching him _grow_ , that will be all the more fascinating. They've yet to meet the Archivist-That-Is-And-Was-And-Will-Be, , but as far as Michael can see, it's a toss-up between who fate will decide, this go around. "Besides. What is there to stop?"

\---

The second he’s free Martin brings his hands to the floor, palm-down and rooted there, shutting his eyes tight just inches above the cheap library carpet. Some phantom crawling up and down his hand like goosebumps that travel. He thinks he might have gone unconscious for a second there, an intensely irrational vertigo preventing him from fully comprehending which way is up and which way is down. 

He can’t hold the conversation, if it is one, can barely register what Michael is saying. He loses grasp of it as the sentences fly by. But he can ask a question. He’s good for that much. Cautious and quiet, still behind his veil of darkness. 

“Do you have a name?”

\---

Michael rocks back on his heels, almost bouncing with their hands in their pockets, and just barely stops himself from laughing again. No need to keep the little Assistant reeling forever. They _did_ come here to talk, and clouding up the airwaves between his ears isn't exactly conducive to that. Though, and Michael is gleeful of this, he does seem to be _particularly_ affected by Michael's wave of unreality. 

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would be just as fleeting." At that, they do laugh, but it's contained, subtle, not quite as sharp through the fabrics of this dimension. "This body was once called Michael."

\---

The rest of what they say is garbled nonsense, trickling in one ear and out the other. But Martin holds onto the name, keeps it for later. In case it matters. In case it’s useful. 

He lifts himself up to his knees, opens his eyes, and Michael looks impossibly tall from that angle. With his hands off the floor he’s a little tilt-y, but he grips the edge of the table nearest him to fix it. 

“Do you - _ugh_ \- like poems, Michael?”

\---

Michael hums, delighted in this diversion, and very slowly sits down in the chair opposite Martin, still keeping their hands dug deep in their pockets, leaning backwards in their chair to the front legs rise up and they can place their feet flat on the edge of the library table. 

"Michael Shelley liked poems once. Most are a bit too _neat_ and _formulaic_ for my liking."

\---

“You can do… “ Martin sighs, rubs his hands over his face to clear the last bits of confusion away. “You can do anything you want with them, there's no rules.” 

He lets go of the table, but doesn’t jump to moving from the floor just yet. God, he’s been spending a lot of time on the floor lately, hasn’t he? Now that the terror’s passed and he’s settling into an exhausted acceptance, it’s getting a bit easier to follow things. “You’re one of them, aren’t you?”

\---

" _Oh,_ one of whaaat, Assistant?" They rock in the chair, the motion satisfyingly dizzying. Maybe Fairchild would get a kick out of that small pleasure. 

"You'll have to be a _little_ more specific than thaaat."

\---

"An - er - an avatar?" He spits it out with the anxious jitter of a schoolkid put on the spot to answer a question. 

"And I-I have a name." Martin tacks on firmly, settling back into himself. Into the normalcy. The fact that he's not dead. If-- Well, if he's not. He can't presume to know what being consumed by some specific fear is like.

\---

"I had a name once too." Michael says, singsong cheery. They let the chair drop back onto the floor, rocking forward onto the table with the same motion, hunching over to lean their torso across the expanse of papers. Some of their hair falls loose with the motion, ringlets of blond that bounce and, were they not already pleasantly satisfied from the outcropping of delicious fear, they'd make it _hurt_ to look at. But they don't. Because it's all too interesting without it. "I know you have a name, Martin Blackwood," 

"But does it matter?"

\---

Boo. Guess the fake name trick won't work on this one--

\--Oh Christ they're real close aren't they. Martin double-checks the hair, and when he's content that it won't come to life like a bouquet of snakes, he focuses again. 

"It - it matters to me. You still have one, don't you? Er-- _Michael_. You can still use it."

\---

"If it makes things easier for you," Michael replies. "Doesn't matter either way. None of it's _real_." His smile is slow and deliberate. "Not really."

\---

Something strange possesses Martin in an effort to understand what he’s dealing with. 

"If it's not real, why can't I conjure up any lemonade? I've been trying, and I can't seem to get it right. Not with the weather like this." Martin sighs wistfully. "Could you?"

\---

Michael blinks, almost surprised, and a pleasing thrill goes through him. Not as stalwart as the other Archivists he's known. Maybe that's a good thing. Maybe it means he picked the wrong one to pop a visit to. 

"Maaaybe," they say slowly. "Maybe not. I don't think I will, though." They lift their head up slightly from where it's nearly resting chin-to-table. "You're much, much tastier. Though your fear's gone all--" He lifts a hand from his pocket to flail aimlessly through the air. "--Sideways. It's a good look."

\---

Martin doesn't know how to take that-- Is it a compliment from someone who might want to eat you?-- So he gives Michael a crooked smile and a tilt of his head. Sideways. He thinks he's getting a feel for what Michael... is. Or, isn't, at least. Narrowing it down in his head. It's easier now, adrenaline fading. 

"Is it a _maybe_ because you can't?" 

Martin doesn't look at his hand.

\---

"Can's. Can'ts. It's all the same, really. Doors and doorways." They pause. "You'd make an interesting Archivist, I think. Oh, the Eye would not know what to do with itself."

\---

"That's a funny way of dancing around it," Martin says before he's really had a chance to process the rest of it, and his face twists up in thought. "What-- At the Institute?"

\---

"Oh, yes." They lean closer again, and their expression sobers up considerably. "It'll be quite interesting to see all these... 'ifs' come to fruition." 

They lean back, pressing a finger to their chin and cocking their head somewhat. "But I suppose for _that_ you'd need to be alive. Hm. Yes, I think I'll help you."

\---

"It-- " Maybe Martin needs to stop acting like he's about to make sense. "Help... me? With _what?_ I was perfectly fine until you started-- " He makes a finger-waving motion with both hands, and it's supposed to look threateningly glittery, but... well. "Did... did you follow me here?"

\---

Michael laughs. "Why, I walked right in." They point to a stack of shelves, and amid them, the outline of a door sits, mundane if not for its existence right in the middle of the books. "You'll have to get used to being watched."

\---

"Ah. That's not supposed to be there." Martin says it like it doesn't phase him, but he can feel himself getting frustrated. He looks down where he'd dropped his phone, thinks of using it. Second guesses himself and looks back up. "So you're... the Spiral. I-I guessed, before, but-- If you open that? Does... Does something happen?"

\---

"I suppose you'd have to find out," Michael says, but his smile is sharp and he doesn't _want_ this man to lose himself to his hallways. Not yet, anyways. "Our paths are often so up in the air these days. Especially when meddlers who ruin the surprise show up."

\---

"...Right." Martin bends to collect his things, organizing them into a single stack he can fit in one arm. 

That fear creeps up again, of something he can't plan for or predict, but he still tries to pull himself up off the ground to stand. He's not getting anywhere. He's out of his depth. "Right. Right. Well, if you don't mind, I think I have a meeting. Thank you? For stopping by. I-I'll try not to ruin any surprises for you."

\---

Michael smiles once more, sharp and predatory and relaxed all at once. Double, triple faces and constructions, layered over into one placidly docile face. If Michael Shelley's body afforded one thing to them, it was the delicious sensation of such a dolt simultaneously being dangerous, despite cherubic features. The only allowance they would grant What-Was Michael. 

"I know the surprises; you don't. _That's_ the fun. Watch out for the flesh-hive now, Martin."

\---

Martin doesn't return the smile, though he knows it's not the right thing to do. 

Wait. No he doesn't. There _is_ no right thing to do, there _is_ no right way to handle any of this. 

He wants to go home, but home doesn't feel like enough of a comfort because it's more of a checkpoint than a place to feel truly safe. Flesh-hives and vampires and world-ending fear monsters and what is this, Scooby Doo? A locked door in an apartment complex won't do him any good at all. He's not safe. 

He's not even sure what he got out of all that, if he actually learned _anything_ except a new screwed up image to haunt his dreams. Martin's afraid to let Michael out of his vision, afraid for what happens if he looks away and back, so he walks slowly around the table and away - facing him, like - almost like trying not to get eaten by a bear. 

Not that he's had much practice with that. 

With enough distance Martin hazards a glance at his phone, and - well, he texts Jon. Letter by letter, it's a painstaking process while he's checking everywhere around him. It's simple, an "Are you in the office today?", nothing else, but it's a torture to type it out.

\---

'Yes; Is that unexpected?' Is the response several minutes later. Jon's not normally the type to text quickly, but he's learned to get over his aversions when it comes to his-- his people needed communication. Kind of. 

At least, he wants to be better.

\---

Martin twitches when the phone in his hand vibrates, far enough away now that he feels safe stopping to read it. 

He nearly gets snappy, actually, as if this is Jon's fault - but it's not. At least, Martin's not sure. He also - he keeps thinking about how everyone's telling him he's being _watched_ , and this counts, phones are the easiest thing to - to watch, so he keeps it vague. 

'Just had a chat in the library with Michael.'

\---

'Shelley?' comes the near immediate response, and Jon nearly leaves it at that, but-- Ah. As ever, he's getting ahead of himself. 'Blond? Eccentric?' 

And, well, that's not enough to quell the panic rising in his chest, heart thumping wildly, so he fumbles at his desk to pull up Martin's contact info, immediately hitting the dial tone on the phone. He ensures there's a tape recorder on the desk, listening quietly.

\---

Martin’s in the middle of replying to the first one when the second comes in, and that’s much better - he can work with that. Blond. Eccentric. Yes. Among other th--

Oh. His phone is ringing. Damn it. Martin inhales, uneven and put on the spot, before holding it up to his ear. He’s on the street now, and he can’t quite focus on the fastest path to the Institute. Right now he’s just walking. His voice comes through, shaken and a bit peeved. “H-hello?”

\---

"Martin, you met _Michael_? As in--" He feels light headed, his voice wheezy. "He isn't-- I didn't expect this. I didn't-- what did he want?"

\---

“No, I just _happened_ to come up with a name you knew and-- “ Martin makes some incomprehensible, exasperated noise. “I don’t know. I don’t _know_. I-I kept trying to see what he could do so I could figure out what he… I - we shook - hands?” This is so much harder over the phone. “I can’t - I don’t know how to - to describe it. To you.”

\---

"There's other people named Mich--" He cuts himself off. "Yes, well-- that's the Distortion for you." Jon sighs wearily, and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Best _not_ to describe him, in my experience. It'll only confuse you and Feed him." 

He's quiet for a long beat, and then he asks, vulnerable, worried, "Are you okay?"

\---

“No! I’m not okay! I’m not okay. I’m - “ Martin freezes mid-sentence, and people are watching again. Not for long, and not lingering there, just making a… a spectacle of him, while they pass by. He can’t imagine what they might be thinking. 

He doesn’t like it. 

He feels very watched. 

He wants to disappear, actually, from here. 

To where, he doesn’t know. The Institute? It’s pretty much all he has. “I’m fine. Can - can this wait? Can all of this - can it wait?”

\---

"..." Jon doesn't know how to respond. Not really. But after a long moment, he says, "Yes. Of course. Get back to the institute. And-- Don't fret about Michael. If it wanted to hurt you, it would have."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if you just finished up getting accosted by a malicious extraplanar Slinky at your now-least-favorite public library and your boss from the future fed you to the Eye? Haha, just kidding. 
> 
> ...Unless?

Oh, if it _wanted_ to hurt him, well, he never stood a chance at all, did he? Poor Assistant _Martin_ would already be long lost. 

Martin hangs up on him, which... in hindsight, wasn't fair. 

By the time he gets to the office, he's mostly composed. It's a quiet day. There's a great sense of relief upon entering the front door, the halls nearly empty, but with it Martin can't seem to shake this subtle, silent sense of doom. 

He's fine until he gets to Jon's office. Or-- Room, now, technically. Martin hasn't stuck around to see that whole arrangement at night. Whenever Jon sleeps, if he does. 

Behind that door, there seems to be no insignificant amount of breakdowns lately. He can only hope it doesn't continue this time. The fact that he can't just will himself to open it tells him it will. He wonders if it's possible to replace normal doors with weird ones. Ones that lead somewhere else. 

Martin doesn't knock. Just sounds off a pitiful, "Jon, please let me in,” and clutches his notebook between both arms, headphone wires awkwardly snaked around him to feed into one of his pockets.

\---

Jon starts when he hears Martin's voice. He almost tells him to come in, but-- Ah. He couldn't remember locking it, but some of the more paranoid last ditch efforts to stay safe these days fall more or less to the back of his mind in rote routine. 

So he gets out of the chair and opens the door to Martin, who looks positively-- well. Stressed isn't the accurate word, but Jon isn't going to gape like a fish at him while he figures out the appropriate adjective. 

"Sit. It-- Well, honestly I just wish I'd thought to tell you about Michael. I didn't anticipate it showing up so soon."

\---

Martin settles across from Jon's desk, and he doesn't like this chair as much as the one on the other side. But the whole space is safer, more predictable. _Jon_ is more predictable. Even with everything he's thrown at Martin lately, he’s been _trying_ to make sense. 

Martin starts to talk before Jon asks anything else. 

"It was normal, and then it wasn't, and then it was normal again but - but it wasn't the same." He thumbs the metal loops on the edge of his notebook. "Jon-- This is, I don't-- " Laughs a little at the absurdity of it. 

"Can I see your hand?"

\---

"My-- " Jon blinks, but after a neat pause, he leans across the desk with his arm outstretched, forearm and palm facing the ceiling. "It's not going to turn into a collection of _knives_ if that's what you're wondering." 

His fingers are long, but not abnormally so, and a faint tobacco stain lines the inside of his pointer and middle finger. Nails embarrassingly bit to the quick, a nervous habit that had been on-and-off again for as long as he could remember.

\---

Martin glares at him with a fiery silence for company, deciding against quipping back. Instead he scoots closer along with the chair and reaches out with both of his hands. He knows it won’t feel the way Michael’s did, that’s not the point, he just… wants to remember how they’re supposed to feel. 

He tilts Jon’s hand to the side so he can put both his palms on either side of it and just... hold him loosely. Nothing wrong, nothing abnormal. Martin’s hands are cold from so much time outside, clutching his things instead of deep in his pockets, and once he starts to feel the pinprick of warmth seep back in he lets go and sits back again. 

“Sorry. It’s - I just needed an anchor, for a second. I’m fine now. How - How’s your day been, Jon?”

\---

Jon tries to cover his surprise, and fails miserably. His eyes are wide, and when Martin touches him, hands enclosing his own in a way he's rarely, if ever, felt from someone, he feels a shiver run through his body. But it's not about him. This is for Martin, and he does his best to sit still, to take his pleasure only in the _trust_ being handed to him, literally pressed into his palm. 

When Martin sits back, taking his hands with him, Jon pulls his arm off the table, letting the pads of his fingers brush over his lips for a moment and then pulls back some of his hair off his face. He clears his throat and sits up straighter, breathing in deeply to compose himself. 

He wants to ask-- wants to _Ask_ \-- but he can see that this is weighing on Martin heavily. Even adrift as he can be, when it comes to others' emotions, he can see the quelled panic in Martin's everything. He wishes he could blanket him in safety. 

"Fine," He says, and breezily decides not to mention anything out of the ordinary. Not yet. "Filing, getting everything in order. Tim finally brought me the office supplies I requested _two days ago_ , so I've slowly been creating an appendix for that." He gestures to a couple of stalwart metal filing cabinets that have done a good job of cleaning up a majority of Jon's frantic mess from the previous week. "Had to buy more tapes, too, considering I'd just gotten used to them showing up." He gestures to the running tape recorder sitting altariously to the side of his paperwork.

\---

Martin sits through Jon's description of events without really listening beyond surface level use of his ears, and he'd-- Well, he mostly asked for that exact reason, so it would give him another second to recover. To be okay. 

"Oh, two _days_ ," Martin feigns incredulity, and he's halfway to working himself up and explaining what he saw, what happened, how he feels about it now, to working it out with Jon in the hopes that he might understand. Might have a solution, or at least broaden his knowledge in a way that makes him more prepared for... for this. And then it's gone. 

"Are you recording this?"

\---

"Yes," Jon says with no hesitation. "Better to, lest you forget." 

He doesn't say anything about Feeding the Eye, says nothing specific about them appearing like magical little _notes_ that tell them something special is about to happen, says none of that. Instead, he leans back in his chair, and leans into his paranoia and says, “ _Gertrude_ never did, and see where that got her? Shot."

\---

“I... “ Martin sits in his own discomfort, unsure how to press on. He hadn’t forgotten about Gertrude, per say, but he _had_ shelved it. He doesn’t want to say it, but it’s one of the things that Jon’s elaborated on the least, and it also happens to be one of the few things he’s said that Martin is unsure whether it fits into conspiracy theory or evidenced truth parameters. 

He decides to skip on over it. Just for now. Because he can’t handle it, not without moving on from this first. Mentally. Physically. Metaphysically. “So you - er - you want, like, like a statement? What happened in the library? I can, you might just want to… start it over, maybe?”

\---

Jon takes in a deep breath, pulling in his bottom lip as he thinks. Really thinks about it. Thinks about what it means to take a statement, and whether he wants to and-- 

God. God he really, really wants to. Even if this body doesn't know it yet, his mind aches for the familiar fugued ritual, mind-numbing and fulfilling all at once. He nods. Nods, and then clears his throat, immediately falling into the routine-- "Statement of Martin Blackwood, regarding his encounter with the Entity known as Michael. Pulled directly from subject, April..." He glances at his phone, turning the screen on to peer incredulously at the date. "20th, 2016." 

His gaze is hungry. "Tell me about the encounter."

\---

“Well,” Martin starts, relieved that Jon’s content to move on with him. “I went to the library today, it’s the second time since… since us talking, that I’ve gone there. First time was… fine, nothing was wrong, I found a spot up in the corner on the second floor that I liked. So I went home, and a few days later I brought… I brought that--” 

He points down at the notebook, a bit sheepish. “I write in it, I’ve been trying to write more again lately, it’s a nice escape. But-- er - I sat down, I’d been sitting down for awhile, and - _Michael_ , he sits down across the way. He was dressed nice, if a bit weird, I liked it-- But he would look at me, but not _really_ look at me, and he’d look away when I felt him looking, and it went on for a while. At one point, he was closer, I think. He kept moving around. There’s… there’s a glass railing on the second floor so you can look down at the library, I like… It’s fun to watch over the side. But his reflection. For a second, it was _wrong._ ” 

Martin pauses, remembering clearly. “He did this, with his hand.” He does a polite little wave, but it’s not exactly the same. “It looked like - like when you’ve taken an eighth and you’ve just peaked, and you move your hand in front of your face and your fingers are still in the air even though your hand’s passed. So you do it again and it looks like you have three, four hands. It’s usually very fun to watch. Oh. I didn’t mean to say that.”

\---

Jon waves a hand himself, trying to get Martin to relax about the drug metaphors. Maybe he was just too _busy_ in the future, or just less of a hardass, but he can't remember the last time he cared about something like that. Back when Tim was alive, maybe, and had shown up to work visibly stoned. Maybe then. Truthfully, he can't remember. 

"And you... Went to Michael, when he waved?" He asks, leaning forward somewhat in his seat.

\---

Martin shakes his head. "No. I asked him if I could help him. Loudly. He was still a-a bit far. He said he was... just watching _me_ , but his-- I don't know how, but I could hear it all the way across the room. He said, oh, what was it. He said it was ironic, I was a watcher being watched, and I thought - well - I watch people in the library all the time, that's half the fun of going, that's normal. But - he - " 

Martin presses his fingers into his legs above the knees. "He said it would get me hurt. And it _did_ . He-- Nothing was right, the colors, his _body_ , it wasn't a body anymore, it - it was a Jack in the box if it could go a hundred directions at once. It-- " 

Martin brings one hand up to rub at his elbow, winces at the bruise forming there. He hadn't remembered until now, how hard that impact had been. "My phone... I saw... " He trails off, staring off into space.

\---

"What did you see?" Jon asks softly, but firm, and, taking a gamble, he reaches across the desk and opens his hand up again, letting it sit there, palm up, just in case Martin needs it. He ignores the tremor working its way through his body, his natural instincts to curl away, stay in his own personal space, to be distant and Archival in the worst of ways. 

"Don't focus on What Was Not, try and-- What did he _say_ to you?" He can't Ask yet, not fully, and trying does nothing more than give him a migraine, but even from a week ago, his body is getting better at it. He'd tried to fly through statements, pushing himself, and had ignored every email fielding itself from Elias telling him to slow down his workflow-- ‘Our healthcare package does not deal in the mental fatigue of reading files, Mr. Sims, best to know that’-- but it was still capping at one a day. Even that much had given him near-constant migraines. 

But even without the physical focus, the compulsion, getting back into the flow had steadied his voice, and that singular focus is everything but a Compulsion, now. 

He pushes his hand closer.

\---

Martin comes back to see Jon's hand waiting in front of him. It's a welcome gesture, one that Martin has no reluctance taking in the moment. He climbs out of his head long enough to pull the chair closer, to sandwich Jon's palms in both if his and settle both elbows on the desk. It's like arm wrestling, but rigged, and... gentle. 

"I went for my phone to call _you_ , Jon. He started walking closer, and - and it's funny _now_ , but he saw me and asked if I was trying to get his number. It wasn't funny then. And he..." 

Martin sighs. "He wanted a handshake, I think. I couldn't look at his hands. I didn't want to. I did. He did this." Martin squeezes his hands. "But it wasn't like this. And then - then he just let me go. I asked him if he had a name, I - I was on the floor by then, I almost threw up on the carpet. I... don't know why, but I kept asking him questions. If he liked poems, if he was an... entity? Avatar? I tried to get him to - to show me what else he could do, tried to get him to... manifest _soft drinks_ , of all things." 

Martin shakes his head again, laughing at himself. "He told me my fear going sideways was a good look. I thought that was nice of him, in an odd sort of way. And-- Oh." 

Martin looks up from their hands. "Jon, he told me I'd make an interesting Archivist. But he said it... he said it this certain _way_."

\---

Jon listens quietly, and does, if he says so himself, a valiant job of not focusing on the way Martin holds him, touches him. Ignores, in this moment, the softness of his palms and the heavy, solid weight that his grip has. He just lets Martin hold him, and he listens intently; so far, so Michael, though Martin, as usual, seems to have a... _unique_ experience with the entities that Jon never attained. 

Michael being the fickle creature it was, the _terrifying_ creature it was, it had been hard to be anything but wary. Asking for soft drinks... It just feels like another tally on Jon figuring Martin out for the first time. 

And then-- His face goes cold and he stiffens, his gaze sharpening and digging deep into Martin. "He said that, did he? He-- Does he _know_ ? About me?" He can't help the force in his questions, panic fluttering in his chest. It's one thing for _him_ to delve into the realm of the Archivist. Another entirely to doom Martin to his fate.

\---

"I don't know, I don't know," Martin huffs. "There was a door, in the bookshelves. He - he told me to get used to being watched. I didn't walk through the door. I-- Oh, what did he say?" 

Martin pitches forward and presses his forehead to the point his hands and Jon's string together. "He warned me, about - Jane? Jane Prentiss, I think. And I left. He let me walk away. I think he let me, anyway. And then I messaged you, and I cried on the curb for a bit. And I realized that I'm _really_ not qualified. For-- I'm no _Archivist_. I'm not a monster hunter. I'm barely even an assistant. I'm just me." He sniffles, keeps his head there. It's easier than looking up. 

"That's all."

\---

Jon lets the silence stretch among them for a while and eventually he hums, lightly, and reaches across the table to turn the tape recorder off with a solid _click_. No matter how important the conversation, he's not sure it's appropriate to push his paranoia for recorded conversations on to Martin quite yet. 

It seems he's been given the warning Sasha did, the first go around. Though-- At least Michael didn't lead Martin to the cemetery to show him. Might lend credence to the idea that he knows Jon is-- where he's from. 

"You don't want to be Archivist. Trust me." He squeezes his hand.

\---

"I don't care about that," Martin says only after he feels the pressure between his palms. 

"I think - I think I'm afraid to go home," he admits, pulling back, comfortless, to his own secluded chair. It's his turn to cover his face with his hands, an exhausted, agonizing motion. "I think I'm afraid. Of this. Why _me_? I didn't do anything. Is - is this - they're not going to come after me, will they? More of them?"

\---

"... Stay here. At the Archives. It'll be safer. It-- they _shouldn't_ , but--" Jon shakes his head. "I don't know what their full plans are. Prentiss has always been somewhat _confusing_ , in the grand scheme of things."

\---

"Did you ever try talking to her? Back - back then? Now?" He's been asking a lot of questions that feel very stupid lately. 

"I - I'd have to get... my things, I - where would I even stay? It - wouldn't it be suspicious if, if I - if we were both... here? Wouldn't that be-- " He hates using this word. " _Weird_?"

\---

Jon sighs wearily, and shrugs. "Weird? Probably. But I'd prefer we be weird, than turned into the Flesh-Hive. Or body snatched. Your life became _weird_ the second you signed your life away to a God you didn't know existed." He pinches the bridge of his nose. "You stayed here for a while, when this happened-- when it happened the first time. She's not a _person_ to reason with."

\---

Martin reaches for his notebook, resting it squarely in his lap. 

"I never asked for that. I just needed a job. To get _away_ from things. Won't people... ask? Ask questions? What do you _say_ if Sasha comes in and asks why we're living in here? If-- Do we-- Do we tell her? Do we tell Tim? Does anyone else - does anyone get hurt?" 

He fidgets in his chair. "I need to know what I can't and can say. To anyone. To them. If I do. If I do pack... a few things. Until it blows over."

\---

"I don't... I don't know what to do with them yet," Jon admits, and his voice is low, quiet, sad. He doesn't want to make this Martin's problem. He doesn't want to _scare_ him. But knowing what is and what could happen strikes a fear in him that only barely leaves him able to move most days. 

"I don't know what I _should_ say and what I shouldn't. I don't want to effect-- effect what could change by saying what happened before."

\---

"Wouldn't that just make us more prepared? I-- " Martin continues thumbing the notebook, mentally steeling up for what he wants to say. "It might... it might take more convincing for them, for - for them to believe you, unless you also... er." 

Martin shakes his head to dismiss the thought. "If you _could_ convince them, somehow, we could - I don't know, be ready? To beat it? I don't - I don't think they'd come to my apartment and help us - _fight_... worms. I could-- I want to stay. Can they get to us, in here? All of these... things. Or is it like a safe zone?"

\---

"The worms can get in here," Jon says, flatly, and hesitates before he says the next part-- his instincts are to keep all of this squirreled away and kept to himself. Kept hidden and dead in his own head. The urge is so strong, he immediately wants to pour out and spill everything, just to spite the Eye's meddling. "There's tunnels under the institute. They largely... Keep the institute safe. But if something _does_ get in..." 

He shrugs. "You had to dig them out of me." Jon lets that hang in the air for a second before reaching across the table for a notebook, a shopping list really, and starts to list items they need to stock up on- the co2 canisters for one.

\---

"I-- _What_?" 

It comes out high, strained, repulsed and horrified. Martin's past the point of gritting his teeth through it, and every new piece of information threatens to send him over the brink. 

"I can't handle all of this right now, Jon. I - I just wanted-- You wanted me to talk about _Michael_ , and I did, and I was afraid today. Afraid I'd die, and - and I _can't think about digging worms out of people right now_." 

By the end his words are blurring together, a string of panic he can't rope back in. "Can - I just - sorry. Forget I asked. About any of it. You can plan your - your plan, whatever it is, and I'll help you when you need it, but - I - I think I've met my quota, for today. For thinking about my death looming up right behind me. I'm already - I'm already... no tunnels, no worms, I just need some time. To... to process this. Please."

\---

Jon's attempt at a calming smile is strained, the skin around his mouth tight and the look in his eyes flat. If nothing else, the past week has taught him an uneasy revelation; even without his body changing yet, he's not sure if he's human anymore. How could he be? This, _this_ in front of him, is how he should react to-- Well, everything. He should be a quivering mess. And maybe he was for a day, maybe he periodically breaks down, but it's not about what _happened_ , it's about-- 

It's more about the mental strain of organizing it all. 

He knows what could happen, and all that worries him is how to do it _right_ . And the worms-- Ha! As nightmarish as they are, as much as Prentiss had twisted the dreamscape of his mind for months, now? He can hardly see himself fit to care. Not when he knows how to stop it. Not when he knows-- Not when he should Know. And _that_ feels far more important. In his weakest moments, he's had half a mind to march up to Elias' office and tell him _everything_ , just to get it over with, just to ask _please_ help me get back to where I was. 

Jon isn't sure it's possible for him to be anything but a monstrous avatar for the Eye anymore. Fate sealing itself. 

"Of course. But-- Martin, I really don't think you should stay in your flat. It won't end well."

\---

Martin knows that. Knows that he's not safe now, couldn't possibly be safe. And, of course, he's not even safe at the Institute. If only therapy covered something like this. But-- The only one he can talk to is Jon, and Jon's preoccupied, and he can't even tell Sasha or Tim, if it came from his mouth they'd think he lost his mind. 

He feels completely alone. 

So he draws back and excuses himself flatly. "I'll go pack up my things."


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Most. Fucked up. U-Haul Move-In Day. Ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Welcome to day one of quarantine from here in gloomy Chicago! Here's a chapter where Martin finally leaves his own quarantine. Hopefully, yours is better! Speaking of, though, I'm going to have a lot of time to edit and post while we're all under, so... Have some reading to keep yourself busy!
> 
> Love and health,   
> Michael (Jon's POV)

Jon tries not to shake in abject anger. 

Martin’s flat is small, modest, but it isn’t cluttered, and in any other time, Jon would be raking his eyes over every possession, every object, every positioning of the furniture and kitchenware, in order to find clues as to how Martin  _ lives _ , what he’s  _ like _ in the off-hours, who he is. But his mind is too clouded to pay attention to those miniscule details.

There's a storm inside him that threatens to unfold, a gale powerful enough to level trees, city streets, civilizations. It's not an anger aimed at  _ Martin _ , though. After the past week they've both had, Martin’s stone-walled expression as they pack Martin’s belongings isn't exactly  _ helping _ him calm down any, and his questions being met with boxes shoved in his face isn't exactly the most therapeutic experience either. 

Jane Prentiss cornered Martin. She did the exact thing he tried to  _ stop _ , and he had no idea, and he couldn’t stop it, and Martin is silent, and blank, and isn’t panicking but  _ should _ , and it scares Jon that he isn’t, and Jon is forced to just do what’s asked and carry on and hope, hope,  _ hope  _ to get more answers later.

He's tense through the whole ordeal, and barely even has enough self-awareness to look at the flat he's in, to realize what's happening, to think about how, technically, in some fucked up and perverted way, Martin is technically moving out of his flat and with Jon. Any thought of  _ that _ is ruined with the carcasses of worms lying outside Martin's door, and Jon does well and good to stomp on any remainders that weren't thoroughly flattened into the cheap hardwood hallways on their way out. 

It's already getting easier to feel slight... Nudges... In the right direction, should the Eye so choose, like he's just a little more aware of the world at large these days. Nowhere near where he  _ was _ , before he'd tried to blind himself, but-- Jon can feel the hidden emotions almost rolling off of Martin in waves, and there's a small itch in the back of his mind to ask to ask to ask, to pry him open like a shellfish and consume this pain raw. 

He doesn't. Hoisting a bag over his shoulder and a slightly-too-beaten up banker’s box full of Martin's  _ essentials _ , he cranes his head towards the lift at the end of the hallway and mutters a small, "You ready?" 

His voice echoes in the heavy, foggy silence of the flat.

\---

Martin doesn't own many things. Jon's got the lot of it, actually, his entire material life worth anything and untainted by some sort of terrible memory fitting into such a pitifully small space. At least it makes leaving it behind that much easier, as if he wasn't already in a position to never want to set foot in there again. 

All he has between his own hands is a regular mason jar, pressed up to his chest. The headphones count, too, big blocky things encircling his neck in a way that's nearly protective. The container's light enough to carry and he's stable enough not to jostle it when he forgoes responding to his companion with anything but moving his legs forward, away, over the space, toward something he knows won't change much of anything. It's a comfortable weight, and that makes all the difference. 

Martin knows he's walking, has the sense to feel that he is and present enough to control it, for the most part, but he's glazed over in a way he's never been before. Beyond terror, flipped belly-up to apathy. 

And so he waits at the door to the lift, content to follow Jon wherever he decides to lead them. He has enough left in him to press the button they need by himself, carefully rearranging his cargo into one hand for as long as it takes to do so before folding back in on himself.

\---

It's almost torturous, this silence, and the lift ride is tense, the air thick and uncomfortable, and all Jon wants to do is sleep. Sleep and wake up to something different, something better, something-- 

But then again, every time he sleeps, it seems the world gets closer to ending. He supposes he can only be grateful that this go around, he didn't die for six months, lost to all the world except the Beholding during his coma. 

Jon doesn't know this area particularly well, but Martin is... Out of it, to say the least, so once they make it to the lobby, he briefly sets the box in his hands down and he pulls out his phone, opening up the maps app to try and find a bus route near them that'll take them the closest to the Institute. He starts to walk them in that direction and, the cold air clammy on his skin, finally finds it in him to say, "I- I mean. At least you'll save money. Um, this way? You know-- No bills?"

\---

Martin trails along after him like a leashed dog, and he can't tell whether this path is familiar or completely foreign. It doesn't really matter, though.

"Yeah." 

For all the pretense, his voice comes out the right volume. It's just... not the right tone. "It's nice out." He's watching the clouds, filtering out one shade of grey from the other. To him, it's something he took for granted. With the insanity of the past few weeks, he'd hardly had the time to look up at all. "I hope it rains on the way."

\---

Jon fields a look towards Martin and tries not to look worried, just giving a short nod instead. He leads him to the bus station, and, glancing at his phone, sees they still have a few minutes before the next scheduled bus is meant to arrive. He gestures to the bench, haphazardly insinuating Martin should  _ sit _ . If only because Jon might actually go mad if he has to watch him standing stiffly and blankly into the road. 

"Hopefully not until we're on the  _ bus _ ," He says, and his vowels are too crisp, too planned; everything about this feels like an artifice that he can't shake, and there's a panicked well of paranoia that sits deep below the exterior, just threatening to unleash itself if he thinks too deeply about  _ anything _ . "Wouldn't want your things getting wet."

\---

Martin notes the gesture, takes one long second to process what it means, and makes a short 'ah' once he understands. Sitting down is fine. He does. They're not completely alone, there are people - hopefully real people - making noise around them. While Martin feels disconnected from them, somehow it's nice to have the noise. 

"It's fine if they do. Oh. We're going back to the Institute, right." Martin pauses. "I don't know why I imagined you had a car. I always pictured you with an Impala."

\---

That's surprising enough on its own that for a moment, Jon is jostled out of his misery and splutters, "An  _ Impala _ ? I-- I really can't tell if that's a good thing or not."

\---

"They're nice cars, I think. I don't know much about cars." 

Martin balances the jar carefully in his lap, gaze fixed dutifully forward. "Can we sit in the back? When we get in?"

\--

"Uh-- Sure." 

He'd raked his eyes over and over and over Martin's body when he first arrived, just in case-- Just in case any of the worms had burrowed deep within him. He knows it's just the shock of everything colliding all at once, he  _ knows _ it, but he looks at him fiercely again, and darts his eyes down to the jar in his lap. Martin's hands are pressed on either side and he can't see in, but considering that it's the only thing he's holding, Jon rocks back on his heels and tries to angle his eyes in a way to see in, to no avail. 

"What is-- Uh, what is that?"

\---

Martin grips the jar tighter, defensive without the energy to actually protect it. His shoulders tense up a bit, but there's not much behind that, either. 

"I couldn't leave her there for the worms if they got in. I kept her in the bathroom with me, when I was-- In the tub. In the dark."

\---

"The-- Her?" Jon asks, and leans forward, again trying to magically see through Martin's fingers. "I can't see what it  _ is _ , Martin."

\---

"Charlotte." Martin says, and his voice cracks, a sudden spark of fear flicking across his mind as Jon keeps trying, pushing, getting into his space.

\---

"Char--" Jon cuts himself off and his blink is more like a flinch, and he sucks in a breath as he pulls away from Martin, straightening where he stands. "Ah. The spider. Yes. You're bringing i--  _ her _ \-- to the Institute. That's--" He pushes down the bile that threatens to coat his voice. "I see.

\---

"Not necessarily," Martin says, agitation rising in his voice as he slowly comes back to life, "I just didn't think it was fair to leave her there. She crawled in on her own. She wanted to leave."

\---

"Are you sure she wouldn't have liked the feast of worms hanging around her house?" Jon asks, and there's humor lacing his words, a humor that he immediately feels guilty about the moment it leaves his mouth.

\---

Martin recoils slightly, forcing himself to keep looking out into the open street instead of redirecting it onto Jon. His voice is even again, but this time only because he's making the effort to keep it that way. "They would've eaten  _ her _ , Jon. And then-- Me."

\---

Jon sucks in a slow, steady breath, pulling his lips in as he tries to move on past this. Clearly he misstepped. "Yes, well--- Ah. Look. The bus is pulling up." He turns, eternally grateful, to watch it angle towards the curb and pull to a stop, hoisting the bag on his shoulder higher and more secure as he does so. "C'mon, Martin."

\---

Martin reluctantly rises, and they board in a way entirely compliant to the way Londoners enter and interact with some kind of bus system. You're free to use your imagination, but rest assured it is very boring and usual in every way.

A good amount of empty seats at the back, and Martin's aware enough to know what he wants. Picks the window seat and leaves it up to Jon whether he even wants to take the one next to him. What with his terrible spider, and all. He wouldn't blame Jon for staying away from him. For leaving him there. 

It's not the most mature of choices, but he puts off a biteless cold-shoulder regardless, tilting his head somewhat so he can look out the window.

\---

Without questioning it, Jon sits beside him, his own stance stiff and straight when he catches the almost... Non-look that Martin possesses. Part of him is grateful; his own head is a tumultuous cloud of thunder, ready to spill over, and he's not exactly keen to let the rainstorm unleash itself on public transport. 

On the other hand, his paranoia twists into guilt, and he feels as though this is his  _ fault _ , like every bad decision that is slowly wearing Martin down is on him. Maybe it is; were he stronger, he'd  _ Know _ what to do. He would Know how to deal with the changing tides of the timeline and adapt. 

His foot taps restlessly on the floor as he unstrings the bag on his back and pulls it to rest on top of the banker's box on his lap.

\---

Once Martin notices the tapping, continues noticing it, can’t stop noticing it, he eventually rips his focus away and down to the floor at Jon's side. 

"You're fidgeting," he says, with the tonal detachment of someone announcing a diagnosis. "I'm not going to let her loose on you. She's just a house spider. Nothing weird, no - no  _ mind _ control, or anything  _ odd _ , sometimes spiders are just that. Spiders. I needed company. We -  _ I _ bonded." 

He wants to keep talking, to pull himself out of the hole he keeps trying fruitlessly to escape using Jon as a grapple, but he doesn't know how.

\---

"I'm not  _ fidgeting _ because of the spider," Jon says, and it's not quite snapped, but it's not nice either. He blinks and clears his throat, stilling his feet. "I mean-- She's not my  _ favorite _ thing in the world, I'm not exactly a  _ fan _ of spiders, but-- I'm not nervous. Because of it. Her. Whatever. You should probably get her a proper, uh-- Cage." 

His words feel clunky, heavy. Like pulling taffy from your teeth and expecting to have a fresh, clean mouth. He's yet to process all of it. Any of it, really, and the uncertainty of knowing how something went the first time, just for it to turn on its head and spin like a brand new top the second time around is threatening to make him unravel. It's all he can do to distance himself and just move forward, static in his brain.

\---

"Enclosure's a better word," Martin muses, trying to reconcile the wariness-- Jon is a wire stretched to snap. Martin doesn't want to be afraid of him. 

It works, actually. To - to focus on Jon, it helps him feel more like a person. It helps him talk, having someone else he can twist his brain into taking care of. "I know it's not about the spider, Jon. You're-- You knew, and you tried. I'm not upset with  _ you _ . It still happened, but - but it happened differently, because of you. I'm sure there are... other things, you haven't mentioned. Things that didn't happen, or... or never will.”

He pauses, unsure whether the answer will comfort him or pile on to the mess. “Jon, how did this happen differently? With - with this-- It could have gone  _ worse _ , right? But it... it didn't." Well, he doesn't feel very helpful at all, but it's a start.

\---

Jon pulls in a slow, heavy breath, and closes his eyes for a moment. His fingers move; pads of his fingertips brushing against the others in a tic, and when he opens his eyes again, the tension in his body is still there, but less noticeable. Smoother, somehow. 

"It was thirteen days, last time. I didn't-- I didn't know it was happening. I didn't  _ care _ it was happening, because I thought you just needed-- time off. A coworker missing work. She texted me, from your phone. Nothing more. She came because I sent you to research. I suppose-- I don't know  _ how _ she found you this time; maybe it's one of those fateful constants. No matter what we do, it  _ happens _ ." 

He looks to Martin then, drinks in his appearance, drinks in the fact that he  _ missed _ him, this past week. That seeing him again is a balm to his soul. Or whatever is left of it. "I tried to stop this from happening."

\---

"I believe you.” Martin is still looking down. It's easier to imagine he's conversing with the dirty floor than to someone more complicated. “I would hate to be him. Maybe she knew where I was all along with-- I don't know, flesh-hive powers. Maybe last time she just... played a different hand. Same deck of cards, you know. Maybe she wasn't working alone." 

He makes a quick amendment to that. "I didn't mean to make that sound... threatening. I think - I think I do need time off. I think we both need time off, Jon. I - I have to be honest. I think, I think maybe I'll have a good cry about it, once we're - somewhere  _ else _ \- and then I think, I think we should... do something?"

\---

"You can take as much time as you need," Jon says softly, and shrugs, but doesn't drop his shoulders, keeping them hiked up and tense. "I don't know how to-- To take time off. Not anymore. It's hard, justifying this- this humanity."

\---

" _ You're _ the one who asked  _ me _ on a date," Martin says placidly, and it's not exactly the right time for this, but Martin is still very much human. He's also still Martin, if one with his feathers ruffled. "Nobody knows how."

\---

Jon hums, and decides not to press it; he's still not sure if Martin's put together that Jon  _ wasn't _ human, but now's not the time to delve into that. "I don't know what asking you on a date has to do with humanity," He says stiffly

\---

"I'm talking about time off." It sounds confused, when he says it, like he'd lost the thread of conversation somewhere farther back and only just tuned back in. 

"And it's - it's a very human thing to do, Jon. To take... a break."

\---

"For the-- You mean time off from work?" Jon's voice is almost a squeak, confusion and misunderstanding working their way through him. "'Cause I'll - I'll give it to you where I can."

\---

"I just want-- I want to drop off my things, and sit in the office for a few minutes, and - and that's why I'm not looking at you," Martin whispers to the floor, "because I don't want to lose it in front of all these - these people." 

He sniffs. "And then I can - I can probably give you a statement, for the record, er-- Then I want to go somewhere. With you."

\---

"G-go somewhere?" Jon wants to drop it, to let Martin sit as he wishes, but the vagueness and suddenness of the comment wrenches the question out of him almost immediately, curiosity unfolding in his voice.

\---

"Dinner, or something." Martin says it under his breath, pressing up against the side of the bus and away from Jon. "I haven't eaten in days." 

It’s not really a date he’s looking for. He’s afraid of what happens if he tries to brave the outside world alone today and something else shows up to torture him. He gets the idea that he'd like to disappear, vanish into nothing like he was never there at all. 

\---

".... Okay. Yeah- - I. We can do that. I'd love to hear Elias  _ try _ and tell me I can't have the afternoon off." His breath is a short staccato, and were it not for the everything in their lives, the idea of Martin asking him to dinner would probably shutter his day into terrified and excited panic. 

As it is, it just sounds… nice. 

Like they're normal people doing normal pseudo-couple things with their normal work schedules and normal lives. Jon fidgets the whole of Martin's material life in his lap.

\---

Martin nods, closing in on himself. It's strange, a sudden mood drop - not that he'd gone too far uphill to happiness and comfort today in the first place - despite Jon's agreement. An urge to isolate, to step away from the possibility of further awkward conversation. 

His tone is flat, again, numbness creeping back into his voice. When he asks the question, he's treating Jon like his keeper. In a way, right now, he sort of is. "Can I listen to music?"

\---

Jon blinks at him, confusion in his eyes, but after a beat of silence he shrugs, then nods, trying not to look at Martin with sheer worry. He knows it's the events of the past few weeks numbing and flattening him, but it reminds him too much of the way Martin had begun to speak, in the lead up to his failed blinding. 

"I'll tell you when we're there," He says, instead of any of that, and ignores the way emotional scars alight with phantom pain like foggy humidity on a summer's day.

\--

Martin's just glad he pocketed his old music player in the move. He pulls the headphones up around his ears and sighs, relieved at the physical veil now between him and reality.

It's good to have Jon there, to tug on his lifeline when he needs to get out again. But for now he's content to listen, ignore that he's a person living in a body that's his own, because as much as he struggles to admit it the bus is feeling more and more cramped by the second.

\---

The trip isn't long, but the deep veins of exhaustion threading through Jon's body makes it seem like an eon. Each shuttered stop to let patrons on and off spins agitation through him, and it's all he can do to just sit there, in his head but trying not to start  _ thinking _ . 

It's enough to make him tense and cold to any passerby, incidental eye contact being met with glares. 

But eventually they make it to their stop, and Jon presses lightly on Martin's upper arm, pulling on him slightly as he shifts to stand. "This is us," He says, and over-enunciates just in case Martin's music is too loud and he needs to read Jon's lips.

\---

Coming back is difficult, like walking up the wrong side of an escalator, but Jon's touch eases him out of it. Martin replies with a noise of acceptance, but he's not relieved. On one hand, the public space has kept him composed. On the other, he wants the safety of a closed door and a locked room. Moving the headphones back and down to his neck makes everything so silent. 

Martin stands to leave, weighed down by a thousand rocks, checking on the spider. She seems content to sit comfortably at the center of the jar, though she's probably confused in the sense that a spider could be perplexed by the entire situation. He almost wishes Jon had a free hand, not for Charlotte but for  _ him _ , and he deals with it by holding her closer to his chest instead.

\---

The Institute's entrance is only a block from where they step off the bus, and the frigid, wet weather is so startlingly unpleasant that he doesn't bother to slow down, so desperate to return to the safety of his office that he can hardly stand to think about anything else. 

Even after sleeping like the dead for  _ days _ , literally  _ days _ , his muscles have that dry, brittle feel to them, like he'd gone far too long without sleep and just as many without much in the way of hydrating. The box in his arms weighs on him, and he wants nothing more than to lay down. 

He doesn't let his body relax until they're in the confinement of the lift, at which point he lets out a little huffed sigh and presses the button for their floor.

\---

The doors close in front of them, and Martin only just now processes how nice it had been out there. How a lack of walls made all the difference in the illusion of freedom. 

"It's almost like a prison sentence," he says in the lift, voice echoing against the walls on every side.

\---

"Well," Jon says breezily, "We are above Milbank." He fields a look at Martin and his expression is far graver than he intends, but it's not like he's about to  _ smile _ . 

\---

"Spooky," comes Martin’s reply, trying and failing to match Jon's comparatively normal intonation. 

The lift opens and suddenly he forgets how to walk. "Am I allowed to cry in your office?"

\---

"I-- Yes. Of course. Would be a bit hypocritical of me to say no, now, wouldn't it?" He steps out of the lift and keeps on walking until they're to his office, hoping that his spur of movement will keep Martin walking, too.

\---

Martin finds it easier to follow with Jon up ahead, because he's orbiting. He wishes Jon would have said no, would have given him a reason to bottle everything up and keep it to himself. But now he has to face it.

Martin's the one who opens the door, though. Once they're close enough he skips one step ahead of Jon and - without hesitation - swings it open for him to get in without putting down Martin's things. It's the least he can do, be useful.

\---

Jon gives him a grateful nod, and the moment they're inside the confines of the office, the heavy, dusty smell a beacon home at this point, he bends to place Martin's things on the floor, pushing the door closed behind them with his foot. 

It shuts with a decisive  _ click _ . The office is messier than it was a week ago, Elias’... Little  _ quest _ producing a frenzy of energy that meant pulling out file after file after file. Not quite as messy as the morning after he was sent here, but it's a near thing, the new filing cabinets wrenched open. 

He does nothing but stand for a beat, and when the silence is too heavy, he moves to start clearing off the desk, deciding he needs,  _ needs _ something to be clean in here  _ now _ or he's failed at... What, he doesn't know.

\---

Martin hugs the wall, sliding down to the floor with his stupid jar. He's silent and still as Jon exists in motion, breathing just shallow enough to keep his body alive but not deeply enough to actually fill his lungs. 

He wants a blanket, but he doesn't think he can ask. He's hungry, distantly. He's tired, but all of these things feel so materially worthless that all he can do to fix anything is rock very slowly back and forth with his knees up to his chest. He doesn't want to cry, all of a sudden. He knows it's coming on, he can't  _ bury _ it, but he keeps trying. Desperately. It's building up in his throat. 

"I don't think I can make a statement."

\---

Jon looks up when he speaks, and his gut reaction is almost to Ask him to do it anyways, his fingers twitching against the folder he has in his hands. It's faint, satin light and airy, easy to ignore, but the desire is still there, and Jon has to chew on the inside of his lip for a second before he speaks, the full acceptance of what is happening to him very starkly understood. 

"... We'll do it later. I barely have the strength to listen, yet." He pulls in a shaky breath. "Let's just-- Get you settled, yeah?"

\--

"I don't have much at all," Martin says passively, like he's a burden for this. "I can do it. I can do it later." 

Martin carefully puts the jar beside him, where Charlotte sits relatively motionless. For a spider. He'll have to find somewhere for her. 

He knows, deep down, that caring for her is a substitute for caring for himself, but it's working, so. He lowers his head, and his face is hidden once he wraps his arms around his knees. 

"Thank you," he whines, muffled. "I'm sorry, Jon."

\---

Jon feels weightless and like a stone all at once, and the image of Simon Fairchild floating aimlessly in the Buried dredges itself unbidden to his mind. He almost laughs, but it would be... Hm... Not exactly sane to, so he stays impassive, watching Martin-- What? Fall apart? Bury himself deep within his own skin? 

His skin flushes hot at what his feet bring him to do. He doesn't  _ do _ this. He's not good at caring. He's not good at  _ interloping _ . It's why he belongs to the Beholding. But one moment he's weak, fragile, awkward by the desk, and then he's sitting down next to Martin, on the other side of the spider, and very, very haltingly presses his head to Martin's shoulder. 

He's warm, and Jon could fall into that warmth forever. He selfishly wishes he could, to ignore everything around them, to feel nothing but Safety radiating from him. 

"There's nothing to be sorry about," He mumbles.

\---

Martin hears him coming, but that doesn't prepare him. Nothing could, really, and he's not tensing up in anticipation because he doesn't  _ want _ comfort, he just knows-- 

The second he registers the pressure, cautious as it is, the dam breaks. A kind of contact he hasn't had in a long time, from anyone, let alone anyone who knew him in a way that  _ mattered _ , and it shatters the entire illusion that he can handle this. 

His breath catches in his throat and the next one tumbles out too quickly, each successive attempt falling over the last one to escape. He tries to hold himself still enough that Jon won't feel the trembling across both his shoulders, won't get jostled, won't leave, practically vibrating with the effort it takes. 

He manages to get all the words out in one go, a desperate exhale as his effort to control the reaction makes him light-headed. That doesn't make him feel any less pitiful. "Why is this happening to me?"

\---

"... I think we just-- I don't think there's a reason." Jon says, and he feels himself pressing closer, pressing tighter to Martin's rigid form. Now that he's allowed himself to touch Martin, it's all he can do not to crawl as close as possible, touch skin to skin in as many ways as he can. 

"I think we might just be unlucky. I'm sorry."

\---

Martin stops fighting it, then, once he sees that his inability to hold back isn't pushing Jon away. It's not  _ pretty _ , tears and snot clinging to the fabric of his pants while his choked breaths make the entire space he's enclosed himself in humid and stifling. 

As much as he hates it, as hard as it is to breathe, he can't lift his head. He almost tells Jon that maybe, just  _ maybe _ , it would've been different if he told Martin the lotto numbers and kept his problems to himself, but that's not fair. 

It would've happened anyway. That's what frightens him. That Jon is right, in every way. Not good at the interpersonal part, not in the slightest, but he  _ knows _ . If this happened, what else would stay the same? What other horrific things is he going to have to see? 

To read statements is one thing. Becoming one is another. 

He tilts very slightly, trying to show Jon he wants him there, not alone, not completely. But he can't stop, can't form words, can't rationalize enough to calm down.

\---

Jon doesn't know what to do with a crying person, but he supposes just being there is-- something, at least. He thinks he would have wanted Martin to touch him when he found him weeping, bursting through the isolated bubble that sobbing often brings. 

It's hard enough, frankly, that he doesn't break down again either, but he restrains himself, swallowing the emotional lump down, down, down to sit heavy in his gut. 

After about five minutes, he pulls out a cigarette and lights it, and dimly, from around it, he mumbles, "I know how to stop her. We'll-- we'll survive."

\---

By the time Jon pulls away, Martin's sobs have slowed down, not for lack of feeling but with how completely sleep-deprived and spent he is after, well,  _ everything _ . He doesn't have it in him to keep crying. 

"Sorry," he says again, an unfiltered impulse. He doesn't think before he does it, and it's probably not very pleasant considering how repulsive he thinks he must look right now, but he reaches out with one hand and moves his fingers over Jon's nearest wrist. Runs them over the edge of his shirtsleeve where it cuts off, afraid to really grab at him. Just touching.

\---

"You never need to apologize to me, Martin." Jon twines their fingers together, lacing them with a strength that surprises even himself. He's gotten better at doing the things that seem natural; instincts that he long ago would have pushed down and ignored have become more readily available to him in the face of truly monstrous desires. 

This isn't monstrous. It feels  _ good. _ And he wants-- needs-- Martin to understand how profound that is, for him. \---

Martin's fingers stay lax, permissive but unreciprocated as he manages to pry his vision away from the empty nothing in front of him to the point where their hands meet instead. 

He's torn between ending the contact - distance himself, fight this through on his own, to ignore it all together - and strengthening whatever bond they're building here. He thinks he's at a crossroads where whatever timeline Jon has behind his eyes could change fundamentally, permanently, into something else - but it's his choice. It's Martin's, for whatever stupid, stupid reason. 

He squeezes Jon's hand as a response, and while he doesn't agree - he has plenty to apologize for, plenty of things he has to make up for, to make up for the fact that he's alive, taking up space - he doesn't tell him he thinks he's wrong. He just moves on. 

"There's a pressure point in your hand that helps with headaches," he says quietly down to their hands. "You get those a lot, don't you?"

\---

"Most days," Jon replies, and now  _ he's _ talking to their hands, as though eye contact would be too much. Maybe it would be. He's never been good at it, truth be told, and within the last few years, he knows just how deeply important, monumental, portentous it can be.

\---

Martin pulls Jon's hand closer so he can have it within reach of both his own, inching down from the hysterics one touch at a time. It's easier to unlace their fingers and use the same hand to press down on either side of Jon's, thumb pressing down into his palm. 

"You do this," Martin says quietly as he rubs circles there with his thumb. "Usually you-- " Inhales to steady his breath. He can't breathe out of his nose. "You do this for a few minutes, and do the same with... with the other hand, after. It - it doesn't  _ always _ work, but..." He trails off and forgets to keep talking again.

\---

The soft pads of Martin's fingers on Jon's are nearly too much. His eyes flutter shut and he has to wrench them open to watch what he does. "Fascinating," He mumbles, because he has nothing else to say, and besides, it  _ is _ . He likes knowing what Martin knows. 

He shifts in his position to be more head on to Martin, and stabs his cigarette into the ground so that he can put it to the floor and hand Martin his other hand, too.

\---

Martin hesitates before letting Jon's hand slip away. "Don't do that," he says sharply, but there's really no bite to it, not with how tired he is. "Honestly, Jon. Putting it out like that-- Who raised you?"

It's quickly mended with the second exchange, though. He repeats the motions on Jon’s other hand without further complaint, and to him they're meditative. He's desperately clawing at normalcy, straightening out his legs on either side of Jon. 

\---

"Don't put this on my grandmother," He says, his voice sharp. But there's humor weaving its way through, too, and the stifling stillness of the room seems to dissipate some. Martin's fingers are warm, and the pressure on his palms makes him feel more like a person, more like a body.

"Besides. I think the bloodstained wood can handle a little ash."

\---

Martin snorts in a way that surprises even himself. “Oh, I’m not. I just-- “ 

He cuts off, frowning as he focuses down at their hands again. Ah, unwanted parental thoughts were quite the kicker. He clears his throat. “That doesn’t make it  _ pleasant _ . Just because it can  _ handle _ something doesn’t make it perfectly alright… er - I don’t, I don’t really mind.”

He needs tissues, a nap probably - a hundred naps more likely - but he doesn’t want to ask, he doesn’t want to ask Jon to move for him, to get him anything, or to leave. Martin doesn’t think he wants care. He just wants to show it. "I know more of them. If - if you ever want to know. They've been very helpful, sometimes. When I need it."

\---

"I... would. I've never-- It feels nice. Makes everything feel real again, when you-- You know, when you touch me." He shrugs, self-conscious at the admission. "And-- You know, maybe I could stand to relearn some  _ manners _ ." He snorts. "I just kind of gave up. It's not meant-- I didn't mean to be  _ rude _ .

\---

"Yeah." 

Martin gives Jon's hand one more squeeze and reluctantly lets go. He could sit here forever, but he shouldn't. He... doesn't want to initiate anything else, no matter how much he wants it. 

"Me too. When - when we do this. It - it wasn't rude, Jon. But you could learn a few manners." 

He's still sitting there, like he's waiting for something. "I should... get some sleep. Somewhere."

\---

"...Probably. C'mon, it-- There's a room at the back of the office. Cot and everything. I've been sleeping there." He slowly, hesitatingly pulls himself to his feet, offering his hands out to help hoist Martin up as well.

\---

Martin grabs hold and lifts himself up, shutting his eyes to avoid the nausea of his vision spinning. "What about you, though?"

\---

"What about-- " Jon blinks and goes still, his gaze sliding off Martin as he realizes, remembers-- Holy shit, Sims, you sleep in that room too. "Ah. Well. I suppose I've been sleeping there, too. It-- Uh--" He trails off, shaking his head.

\---

"It's fine, I can just take a nap, and - and find somewhere else, later." 

He looks down at the floor where the jar still sits, scrunches up his face."Do you mind if I leave her here? Just - just for now. She's - she can't get out."

\---

Jon watches the spider sit motionless in the jar and barely conceals the grimace on his face. He nods. "Yes, but -- she doesn't need to eat? I hope?"

\---

"Yeah. Yeah, she-- Well, I can let her go once I wake up. She's... usually they eat every couple of days, it's been a while." 

Martin sniffs again, wiping the back of his sleeve across his face. He'll need to wash all this. 

It is weird, how long it's been since she’s eaten, actually. Big will to live, there. 

"I-- Ah-- when I wake up, I could give a statement. For you. Just don't let me forget."

\---

Jon just nods, and tries not to look eager; even if physical cravings aren't quite there, the psychological ones are, and getting this committed to tape feels... Important. A pricking excitement runs down his arms, knowing the effect of a particularly traumatizing statement. 

"I'd, erm-- appreciate that. I'll have to tell you what happened to me, too." 

He'd stammered out an excuse when he went to see Martin, but his voice had closed around the prospect of explaining it all, guilt tightening like vines around his belly. If he'd opened his mouth to talk about the  _ maddening _ chase Elias sent him on, he would have broken down amidst the worm carcasses by Martin's front door.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin wakes from his post-quarantine nap.

Martin didn't nap so much as fall unconscious and potentially legally dead by some measure. Surprisingly, it had been... pleasantly instant and dreamless, for what he'd gone through. 

The wake-up itself is less so seamless, though, and he doesn't want to leave. To ever get up again. Not in-- Not in the depressing sense, he'd just forgotten what normal sleep was like. A week felt like a year without any of it. 

He was out for six hours. Around that, anyhow. He didn't know that when he woke up. 

It took every ounce of mental willpower to go upright, and he's impossibly sore from dead-body motionless rest in day clothes - and probably the locked-up state he'd been in fearing for his life - but he does manage it. Score one for Martin. 

For a minute he actually forgets where he is. Details get foggier by the minute, allowing his brain a reset was both a blessing and a curse. Eventually, though, it sets in. Keeps setting in. 

Oh Christ, when was he and Jon touching each other so much _normal_? How did that happen? He decides not to think about it too hard outside of groaning to himself, embarrassed and frustrated. 

And yet, in the end, there he is, testing the waters with a questioning "Jon?" loud enough to echo through the small room.

\---

Martin's voice makes Jon jump, the transference from still, deadly silence to his echoing voice startling. 

After two hours of still sleep, Jon had stopped checking on him every half an hour, half-paranoid that he'd disappear somehow the moment Jon wasn't watching him. He'd settled down into his chair and _thought_ and thought and thought, and when his head threatened to split open from the strain of circling repetitive thoughts over and over, he'd made some tea and read a statement just to lose himself in the mind-numbing malaise it often leaves him in. 

Now, he gets to his feet and pulls on a long, slightly-too-large woolen cardigan, wrapping the openings around him and pressing it down with his arms as a makeshift robe. Not the most professional of looks, what with his shoes being replaced with slippers, but it's not like his unwashed body that had slept for days on the grimy tunnels beneath them would allow him to look anything approaching _professional_ , anyways. 

He peeks his head in through the doorway of the small back room, and he knows he's hovering. "Finally awake?"

\---

Martin runs his hands over his face, as if that would clear his head of sleep. Voice groggy and vaguely dazed, he manages a coherent-enough "What do you mean, finally?" 

He looks up, then, sitting motionless with one palm over his mouth to hide the smile that forms there as he takes in Jon’s entire look. He has over a hundred things he could say to this, and he wants to say _every_ single one of them at once, but he won't. He won't. 

It's hilarious. He won't.

\---

"I'm just teasing. Since it's been, uh-- six and a half hours." He stays pressed to the doorway like glue, afraid to breach the distance between them. He's not sure he'd be able to resist barnacaling himself to Martin's side. 

"Feeling better? At least-- a little?"

\---

Martin's smile breaks, waking up fully as the knowledge of passing time sinks in. "Wait-- Really? You're joking." 

A sick, embarrassed feeling sets into his stomach. He should've set an alarm, or something. This wasn't his space. "Yes, actually. I, uh-- I'll get there. Have you... always dressed that way?"

\---

"... I don't know?" Jon moves from the door-frame to look down at himself, hands opening on either side in the beginnings of a shrug. "Is there something--" His voice takes on a quality approaching a whine. "It's _cold_ in here. And I spent days in tunnels; my body is too stiff for a blazer."

\---

"No, it - it's charming," Martin says, and technically it isn't a lie, but the way his smile creeps back in halfway through the sentence gives him away. He finally gets up, hissing an inhale at the way his body refuses to cooperate. 

"And that makes two of us, then. I-- Thank you, for not waking me up. Did anything happen while I was out?"

\---

"Not really. I just read a statement. Office is quiet; Sasha and Tim have been busy, so they haven't come knocking." He jams his hands deep into his pockets, and rocks back on his heels. "Still early, though. Everyone's still here."

\---

“Right.” 

Martin awkwardly shifts his weight on the cot, mentally narrowing down where he wants to take this. ‘I think they should know, Jon’, or ‘I don’t know what’s happening or what to do about it’, or even ‘I’m having trouble comprehending that in two weeks my complete terror of a boss went from looking right through me to holding my hand and confessing some sort of complicated history I don’t remember which has me feeling just about a _million_ different things and maybe I’m just overextending the reality of the situation because I haven’t had physical contact with someone since I can remember and it’s sort of melting my brain a little’. 

“I should make my statement before I forget. I think I’ve lost a few details already, I-I want to be useful.”

\---

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that; you'll remember when you say it." 

Jon rolls his shoulders and prepares himself. Whatever level of calm had permeated through the office will be long gone when the slow-creeping horror tip-toes its way back in. He doesn't mind the feeling, but-- even now, years later, the feeling of being watched, of being drunk in, is a strange one. And he knows the Eye will watch this statement. 

He pulls himself from the door and backs into the office proper again.

\---

Martin doesn't get the chance to respond before Jon's presence leaves the room, taking any sense of comfort with him along with the air in his lungs. 

The room seems so much bigger without him standing in the doorway. It's suddenly a thing - living, breathing, watching - that could swallow him whole. 

He justifies Jon’s strange way of phrasing that with-- Well, Jon's weird. He'll probably remember more as it snowballs out of his mouth. Something beneath the sentence, something he can't see, puts him on edge regardless. 

God, he doesn't want to sit in that chair, the one that puts him on display and turns him into an animal to study. He does it anyway, because he has to, he has to, and settles down stone-stiff to face Jon's desk.

\---

Jon moves some of the files he'd glanced at before choosing his earlier statement to the side of the desk, nestled atop an over-filled ashtray and a few stray pens, and then he sits heavily in his chair. 

He puts a blank tape in the recorder and sits it halfway between them on the desk, an altar so innocuous that it still rattles Jon's brain to see it as a symbol of his god. The stale stench of cigarettes and book-borne must is heavy in the air, so he lights a candle, the dancing flame almost hypnotic in the low light, and then he leans forward, pressing his elbows to the wood, his expression somber. 

"What happened with Jane Prentiss?" There's intention behind it, and he's guiltily pleased at the light shimmer in the air when he asks.

\---

Martin shivers at the tug, but nothing about how he continues along indicates that he noticed. He didn't. Subconscious jitters as his brain works to recreate the memories. 

His mouth works, suddenly, tone collaborative and helpful. It draws him in, the question tapping into the part of his mind that makes him desperate to speak, desperate to articulate and explain, so that he can be helpful. Useful. Cared for. 

"I left your office that day, but I was freaked out. By everything, what we were saying and - and that I couldn't tell anyone, so I decided to walk it off, er - I know, I _know_ given everything we've been talking through it wasn't the best idea but if I didn't I would've... honestly, I'd have called my mother." 

Martin only seems to process that after it's hanging like laundry right in front of his eyes. It makes him falter. 

"I-I kept getting this feeling, you know, where someone's staring at the back of your head. I kept thinking I was paranoid, just rattled by what we'd talked about and - the issue was, when I made it to my flat it didn't _stop_ . Only when I got in the lift, there's a little camera in there, I felt safe. I walked down the hall, and it was so _quiet_ . Like everyone had suddenly moved out, and the hallways constricted to adjust. I-I walked, and I already had my hand on the knob - I was halfway through when I stepped on something and it just sort of _popped_."

\---

Jon watches him, his expression impassive. Half of him wants to console, to touch, to-- do all these _new_ things that they've never done before, before he came here and broke down in front of Martin and changed _everything._

It's startling, what things change, and what things remain the same. Jon thinks of cobwebs. 

Despite his desires, it's easier to just listen. To watch, to drink in, to feel an almost disassociated blanket wash over his attentive mind that beats to the whirring sounds of the tape as it records. He leans forward. 

"The worms, I imagine."

\---

Martin nods. "The door was already open, and-- Well, I _live_ there, it's automatic to - to think of it as somewhere _safe_ , even though I know it isn't. I didn't look down, I knew, I think, I knew on some level what I'd see already. And I shut the door." 

One of Martin's legs bounces up and down, releasing anxious energy in waves. "The second it clicked shut something smacked against the other side. It - it sounded like a pebble, and at the time I thought it was just the lock doing something strange, it's-- Well, maintenance isn't exactly the best, there." 

Martin pauses as he thinks. "I think if I hadn't gone in, I'd be dead. But at the time I'd worn myself out and... I just needed to lie down. I'm an idiot. I should've - I should've done something _else_. I don't know when I fell asleep, I just dozed off on this chair I have - had - and the next thing I remember is snapping my eyes open to more of those sounds, those pebbles being tossed at the door. I didn't get up, at first, it's - I mean, it could've been anything..." 

Martin stops, focusing on something that's been itching since he brought up the door. "I don't know _why_ I didn't think to do anything after I stepped on the first one. I think I was afraid to acknowledge it, like I could wish it away. Complete fool, I was."

\---

Jon shakes his head. "It's one thing to theorize from the comforts of our office than to see it outright." Guilt chokes his throat, bubbles up in his sinuses, escapes through his nostrils in a heavy sigh. 

"At least you stayed in. You would have become like her, if you hadn't."

\---

"Small comforts, Jon. My... my lights didn't work. I remember that. I had no signal, no light, it was _dark_ out, and I - I got up, to check, because someone knocked at the door. It was a normal knock, and... you saw my door on the way out, I can't look out and see who's there. I almost opened it. I almost, _almost_ opened it. But then I felt something touch my shoe, it was heavy enough to feel, like-- I never took them off, when I got home. It was one of the _worms_. They're these nasty looking - shimmery, almost - wet, maggots with... with malice, with intent. It's-- I mean, it was like a hive-mind, Michael was..." 

Martin hums to put himself back on the rails. "I kicked it off and - and at first I hesitated, to kill it, like it just happened to be a normal creature there at the wrong time, but... but there were more, trying to flood through a crack in my door. At the bottom." 

He smiles, actually. A warm, genuine, proud smile, unfiltered by his usual passivity towards his own achievements. "You should've seen me. It's like all the fear got swept away and I-I went to a drawer in the kitchen, I had a roll of duct tape and I was ripping it into sections with my teeth and-- You know, shoving things under the door, the windows, holes I knew about, trying to barricade it all. It felt like an action movie, for a minute. It was a good minute. I... er... " Martin fidgets uncomfortably. What he wanted to say next doesn't have much to do with Prentiss, and the compelling nature of the question sort of... sort of fizzles out a little.

\---

It isn't the time or place for smiles, but Jon smiles nonetheless, mirroring Martin's momentary mirth with something akin to warmth filling his lungs, washing out the guilt for just a moment, just a moment. It doesn't last long-- just a few seconds, really-- but when it drops from his face, the ghost of smile-wrinkles remain, a softness that helps to detract from the harsh angles of candlelight falling upon harsh cheekbones. 

He blames the smile on what he says next, knowing logically Martin won't like him to reveal his uncanny knowledge of the future (though, he muses, he'd have to get used to it regardless of time, if the rate of his voracious statement reading is anything to go by and the abilities to Know begin to creep in like fog). "And then you ate peaches for a week straight?"

\---

Martin's face tilts down in embarrassment. "I had a few other things, but - but yes, I always go to the store and forget whether I'm out and end up with too many, so it's... you know." 

He shrugs it off. "I, er, I got the idea that the bathroom was somehow the safest place. I don't know why, I had - I had a perfectly good bedroom. I had this jar I put change in, for... for a rainy day, and I emptied it out a couple nights-- Oh, wait. I forgot to say, I'd - I'd keep thinking maybe the coast was clear, she'd gone, and then all at once she'd start again. I tried talking to her through... through the door, but all she did was _knock_. Like this." 

He's nearly feverish as he reaches forward and knocks on the desk a few times in succession, calm and controlled in a way Martin's body isn't used to doing. 

"I, uh, I put blankets in my bathtub. I... oh, the jar. Every time I went to get food I'd see her there, and I'd get worried while I was building my fort in there that - that they'd get her. Um. Is she still here?" 

Martin, for some reason, can't make himself look around to check. He feels stuck there, waiting for Jon to cue him.

\---

"Yes, erm-- I haven't touched her. She's still on the floor." He clears his throat. "She, uh-- Moved once, while you were sleeping. Damn near fell out of my chair when I caught the movement. But she's settled, um... Down, somewhat. Not that I know spider physiology." 

He laces his fingers together to build a bridge beneath his chin, pursing his lips as he thinks. "I never understood that, you know. That she just-- just _leaves_. And then the power-- There's still so many variables I don't understand." 

Perhaps his voice is a tad too academic, but in the throes of the Eye's thirst for knowledge, it's easier to distance himself, to categorize and theorize and _think_ , rather than _feel_ . It presses on him, this deep-set panic over what happened to Martin, but it's weighed down by the _pursuit_. Maybe the Beholding isn't as different from the Hunt as it wants to believe.

\---

“Yes. Well-- I got very bored, between fearing for my life and depriving myself of sleep and looking at walls, she… was there, you know. I don’t keep many books, or - or anything, at home, so. Sitting in a bathtub and talking to a _spider_.” Martin laughs, but it’s mocking, turned toward himself. He’s more positive when he talks about her instead. 

“I told you she just crawled in-- She’s a smart spider. But she’s still just a spider, Jon, she can’t open it. I don't think she gets that me not being there means no food for her, I-- She doesn’t care, if you cry hysterically in front of her. As long as you don’t vibrate the jar with it.” 

Martin picks at some fuzz on his pants to have something to focus on outside of his nerves. “I think, maybe… Jane, whatever she was, maybe she got bored. Or has - has some business. It’s-- I mean, obviously she realized she couldn’t get _in_ , or just… or…” 

His voice drops. “Or she was just toying with me, for fun. Like… well, like Michael.”

\---

Jon remembers the texts he received, the first go around, and slowly nods, his gaze searching Martin's face as he wraps his mind around that. "Yes-- I. suppose she probably was. Though Michael wanted to _stop_ her, I think. She just-- Hard to know how much was worms, was her, and what was.... Being nudged your way." 

He finds himself looking past Martin, into the jar of the spider. "It's... discomforting." She doesn't move, and neither does he, and his mind buzzes static at the need to finish the Statement, to round the story off into something less... vague. Blinking, he comes to himself and gives Martin a thin smile. "And this was the status quo, until she left and I found you?"

\---

“Oh. Yes-- My whole flat, when she was there it smelled like - like roadkill that’s sat through the rain for a few days. And I knew she’d gone, it went with her. Along with the knocking. Then-- Right after I realized that, the power flickered on.” 

Martin hesitates, scratching at his leg through an internal conflict. Eventually the compulsion to share wins out. “I… just before she left, I started to think that it wasn’t so bad, there. That I could do it for longer.” He continues quickly, trying to jump over it. “I can’t imagine someone who thinks it’s _fun_ to terrorize random people with - with fear, with _worms_ , would have been much of a good person to start with. Sorry. That… wasn’t a very good statement. Of me.”

\---

"Statement ends," Jon says by rote habit, and then shakes his head, leaning across the desk once more. "It was fine. You'd have to actively _resist_ making a good statement." 

He doesn't know what to do with some of it, though. The power concerns him; he'd never thought of it before, the first time around, but now... 

The way it isolated him burns cigarette holes into his brain. 

"At least it was only a week," He says, and knows it's probably not enough, could never _be_ enough.

\---

“I’m fine now, actually. I just… need to catch up on my sleep debt,” Martin says convincingly, offering a light-hearted shrug. “I’ve spent longer, doing weirder things, in weirder situations. I-I haven’t been harassed by worm people before, but - you know. I survived. Getting it out helps.” 

He pauses, thinking of how to phrase his question. He’s finally able to make eye contact with his focus smoothly shifting across from him, desperate to have the attention on someone else. He doesn’t get to think much before it comes out, it just happens. “Jon, what happened to you, while I was gone?”

\---

Jon shivers, and there's a thin prickle of something _wrong_ , but it's washed away in a second, his mouth opening and eyes darting to the tape recorder, making sure it's still running. Like it has to keep running. Like this is a-- 

"I-I admit, it wasn't-- I shouldn't have waited as _long_ as I did to try and--" He swallows and feels himself get swept up into something bigger than him. 

"I gave you a day. Because I-- Well, I kind of assumed you'd come back and, even if I was paranoid, you know, that something would happen, I wanted to give you some _space_ , after everything had happened. I just-- I mean--" He laughs, the sound brittle. "--I sat in the office and read a statement and tried not to... Well, call you. 

"It was on the second morning that I grew worried. I had... Just about made up my mind to call you, when my phone buzzed. And, you know, I kind of hoped it would be... Y-you. To check in. I mean, it wasn't like I'd fault you for taking a few days off, I haven't exactly been-- You know. 'Stable.' And after Michael... "

It wasn't you, though. It was, um, Elias. Emailing me, of all things. Said he had, um, a statement I needed to look at, that it was _important._ And I mean-- You might not get it, hell, probably won't, if I have anything to say about it, but um-- When Elias leads you by a carrot, you can't help but just... _follow_ . Y-you know he's holding all the cards, but it's-- You can't _help_ it. You know he knows something that you _need_ to know. 

"So, I erm--" He swallows, thick, the guilt rising effervescent in his gut again. His voice, when he can speak again, is quiet and choked thick like tar. "I--I put down my phone, and went to-- To see him. I ignored my worry for you because of _Elias_."

\--

Martin sits back in his chair, nodding silently along between Jon's pauses to encourage him on. He's relieved, actually, at how open Jon is. How willing he is to tell the truth, even if he doesn't always go about it the best of ways. 

It gives Martin less chances to conjure up his own anxieties, his own interpretation separated from the reality in front of him. It's a comfort to know that he's thought of even when he's not there. He can't imagine he is unless someone tells him. 

Unless Jon's telling him, right now. It's also nice that Jon's... right. Martin did want space. He wanted a breather, to have a solitary moment to make peace with the change. To accept it. 

Martin lifts his eyebrows, and it looks stressed, but only because Jon wished it had been _him_. Martin accepts it, right now, accepts that hope because Jon's feeling it, Jon's accepted it. His desire to be in contact despite their relative inability to communicate normally is… infectious, somehow. 

"I think I understand," Martin muses, "It's not the same, but when you send me leads I put down my things and follow them. Did you find anything?"

\---

The skin around Jon's eyes tighten at that, and an icicle drops into what might be his liver. Or kidneys. Perhaps even his gall-bladder. Truth be told, he's no scientist, and just knows that his abdomen seems to be falling, plummeting at the thought that he could ever-- That he's done to Martin what Elias does to him. That being complicit in Elias' machinations does nothing more than force Jon to inflict that cycle onto others. 

He knows, in the end, that he's never been forced to do any of it. 

Light and breezy, Jon skitters his fingertips along the surface of the desk, the repetitive motion grounding him in equal measures as the Question. "It was less-- Less that he--" He sucks in a breath. 

"He gave me a statement about Leitner. Nothing I don't-- Really already know about the man, not really, just some added context. And Elias sat there as I read it and his expression was... _hungrier_ , than I've ever seen. I mean, he must have caught on at this point. I _know_ he's caught on, and-- And that means he knows more about what I-- You know, what I am, than he would have, the first go around. So I guess I can't-- _fault_ him. He knows I'm his Archivist. I still don't know what that _meant_ , but he's got me. 

"And-- And I mean, that's besides the point, anyways. That's nothing I didn't already know, either, but it got me thinking, and must have known it would get me thinking, because-- Jurgen Leitner's living in the tunnels. Or at least, supposed to be. So I went down there, a-and I guess the worms haven't migrated here yet, so it was clear, and--" 

He switches from skittering his fingers to tensing his knuckles, a couple of them popping oddly in their sockets from years of tense tics. "And then it felt like I was being watched. You know, more than normal, since I'm always being watched. But this was _intense_. Terrible. Sublime. And then I woke up, and it was-- Well. Earlier. Before I got you."

\---

Martin saves the processing for later. He's laser-focused, and for lack of a better metaphor: Jon's his light at the end of the tunnel. 

He just smiles, and maybe it's the wrong place and time for it, but it's nothing residual off Jon. It's his own. "The book... Did it do anything, to you? Other than that?"

\---

Jon blinks. He hadn't mentioned a book. The words had choked him. But now he leans forward, and shakes his head, the flow pulled from him unbidden. "I hope not. I didn't have any dreams this time, so I'm assuming I'm-- well, I think I'm still human." 

He doesn't want to say it. But it's pulled from him, and as he sits there, eyes wide, he realizes it's not just his desire to _tell_ someone. It's the questions themselves, and he feels his face go cold as his gaze sharpens, pinpointed on Martin's eyes.

\---

Martin pitches forward, resting his elbows on the desk to tilt the side of his head into one palm dreamily.

"Of course you're still human, Jon. Is that - is that all?"

\---

"I--" He blinks, but the words are dry, and after a moment, he nods, wiping the back of his hand along his lips. "Yes, I suppose so. You-- You shouldn't be able to ask me questions like that. It's dangerous. Martin, it's really dangerous what you're doing." 

Ah. Maybe the words are still loose; he didn't want to say it like this, to breach _this_ particular sticky subject without first thinking about how to breach it.

\---

Martin's far-away-but-somehow-present look fades, and he doesn't have time to control the sheer confusion that replaces it. "What-- I just-- I was just asking what happened, Jon?"

\---

" _That_ , the way-- The way you're asking that, it's--" He laughs then, and it's high-pitched and _scared_ , whatever spell had let them be fucking normal for two goddamn seconds peeling apart in thick fleshy layers as the realization of what's _Happening_ , what's been done hits him. 

"I've never had it put on _me_ before. It-- It's-- Martin, you--" He slaps his hands to his mouth and breathes, breathes from around his wide eyes and tries not to fall into a million pieces. Years of being called-- knowing he is-- a monster sends electric shocks rushing down his spine, and it's all he can do not to laugh like an unhinged freak again. 

"You can compel, now. It's why I could-- It's why _you_ could speak, so-- So fluently. And now. Now you can do it, I guess? I guess? Fuck. Fuck. Because you've read statements. My statements. Of course. Of course."

\---

Martin returns the wide-eyed fear, but without any of the hysterics or even an understanding. 

"I don't - I don't understand-- You didn't _force_ me to talk, Jon, I asked-- You - you like keeping records, I thought you wanted... I'm sorry? You didn't have to - to answer, I was trying to..." 

It fizzles out, leaving him speechless.

\---

Jon doesn't know how to explain it. He doesn't. But he knows how to start, and his voice is dark and lacks the tremble that it wants to fall into, because it's a question he needs an answer to. 

"What did it feel like, when you asked me your questions just now?" 

He feels cold.

\---

Martin remembers all at once, but not the same way you remember a fond memory. It's almost like skipping a few heartbeats in reverse. Pupils blown wide, he answers honestly. He's got no reason to cover for himself. It’s a good place to be.

"It felt like I knew what to ask you, but I think that's just because I'm _interested_ , I-I-- " he starts confidently, if a bit defensive, and then hits a mental speed bump as he realizes where he's going. 

"It felt nice, and I could think about the way you see me without hating myself for it, caring about me. I just accepted it, and I listened to you and I didn't have to think about all these things in the background that keep me from being _here_ , hearing you, the details, and I could see on your face how much this scared you and I sort of understood it, not - not like I was there, but... I felt closer to the ground."

\---

Jon drinks the information in, his expression rapt, eager, needy, and the second Martin stops talking, he curls into himself, almost rocking in his chair. He doesn't, but it's a near thing, and he shuts his eyes as tight as they'll go, a migraine beginning to press painful pressure against the walls of his skull. 

"Close enough that you could speak my words as though they were your own, planted in the sand," Jon says, and takes a deep, deep breath. "This isn't good. Martin-- This. It isn't natural. It's-- It's _good_ , I'm glad we're-- we're talking, I _am_ , but this is--" His teeth chatter with the effort to grit it out. "The ability to compel someone with just a question is a mark of the Beholding."

\---

"I don't know - I don't know if I'd say _that_ ," Martin huffs out, guarded, pulling away to sit back in his chair. "It just felt obvious, everything you said, once you said it, why you weren't there.” 

\---

Jon pulls in a slow breath, and almost believes him. Almost, and then, "Martin. I never told you about the book. You just knew about it."

\---

"It's-- You mentioned _Leitner_ , I figured - you - you went into some spooky tunnel, and you fell unconscious after blitzing out and then waking up days later-- I assumed you'd _found_ one, Jon." 

He tries to even his voice out. "Did - did you say something you didn't want to?"

\---

"No," He says all but immediately, and it's true, it is. He'd wanted to tell Martin. But the words came quick, and all too narrow and he _felt_ something, and-- 

And he wonders if he's just making it up. _Nothing. It's just ironic, that's all_.

His voice is still, deliberate, _scared_. "I didn't. That's not what I meant. It's not the honesty that has me worried."

\---

“I don’t know how to control that, w-whatever it is. People come in because they _want_ to give statements, what does this - any of this - what do you mean by _your_ statements? How are yours any different?” 

They’re normal questions. One hundred percent Martin. He’s sure of that even though he’s not sure what the difference really is at all.

\---

"I've told you what happened to me. It opened you up. You asked to- to open up to the Eye." His own eyes are wide, bright with an almost feverish look, and he notices with a start that he's trembling, imperceptible shivers through his skin like the onset of a fever. His voice, when he finds the air, is an enraptured hush. "I fed myself to you."

\---

Martin’s… _repulsed_ isn’t the right word, but he’s scared. Looking at Jon, the way he’s nearly vibrating, it pressurizes the atmosphere of the room in a way that he’s not sure he knows how to release. 

It’s supposed to air it out, but his voice betrays the fear beneath. “Jon, please don’t say that sentence out loud ever again.”

\---

"I did, though." If a look could describe him, it would be shell-shocked. He wishes his cigarettes weren't in his bag, because he doesn't think he could walk. "You can't read statements anymore. It'll just get worse. Cut you off at the pass." He isn't looking at Martin.

\---

“Well-- It’s - it’s a terrible phrase.” Martin’s not looking at him, either. “You’re not-- ” He almost, almost says Jon’s not his boss, and luckily rethinks that one. “Reading them is kind of my _job_ , Jon.”

\---

"And if you keep doing your _job_ as you are now, you will _die_ and become inhuman." It's not kind, the way he says it; it's a snap, a rip through the air, jagged, horrible glass peeling back his skin in agony. He wants to lie down. He wants to sleep. He wishes Elias would just pull out the plug of whatever lake he's wading in and do the deed. Whatever it is.

If he has to watch Martin become what he chose, he doesn't know that he'll be able to live with himself. 

He guesses he won't, if his coma is any indication. He thinks of Trevor and Julia; he thinks of Peter Lukas.

\---

"Well-- You could just show me how I can _not_ do it, because I'm not even doing it on _purpose_ , Jon-- I can stop asking you questions forever, but I don't think we'll have much to talk about if I _can't_. I don't know how to tell the difference!" 

He'd love to, he would, so Jon would stop acting like he's got some kind of bizarre and special power, because he doesn't, he couldn't, he _won't_ , Jesus Christ, this escalated so quickly.

\---

"I don't know how to _stop_ it, because I never tried!" His tongue is acid, and it's not right, it's not okay, he's yelling at a Martin who couldn't know, a Martin who didn't give up, and he's not even yelling _at_ Martin, he's yelling at himself, and Elias, and the Eye, and everything all at once, and he finally thinks he realizes that he's _mad_ , mad that this was done to him, mad that it's happening again, and he feels like a child. 

Reading a book his grandmother threw to him that he never wanted to read in the first place, petulant and bitter that she didn't care, and enraptured by the words nonetheless, because it gave him something to do. 

Following the leads Elias gives him like a dog told to _fetch_ and left with nothing other than grotesque mutations. 

His nails dig into the flesh of his upper arms. "I don't want you to be the Archivist," He whispers.

\---

Martin takes it, sitting with his head low, his jaw clenched tightly. It'll hurt later, how hard he's biting down, but that's a problem for a future Martin. He gives Jon a moment of silence, hoping it might help, might just do _something_ , because he's completely out of his depth whenever he chimes in. 

"I'm not taking your job," Martin eventually returns with the same volume. "But if it's something that gets me killed, or - or turned into a monster, you're not allowed to do it, either."

\---

"Martin," Jon starts, and then stops, and shakes his head, and lets the room fill up with silence for a long, long beat. He almost forgets to speak; why does every meeting with Martin feel like the end of the world, waiting to swallow them up? It's almost unbearable. It's intoxicatingly self-destructive. He feels too alive. 

"I don't have a choice."

\---

"Since I'm apparently trapped here, neither do I." 

It's flat and disconnected. He wishes he had something to hold, something physical, and instead of letting it all rattle inside him he reaches forward and stops the tape. He looks up at Jon and speaks with a voice he's only ever had the courage to use a few times in his life. 

"Don't take it out on me."

\---

"I--" Jon's gaze flicks from the tape to Martin, and back again. He repeats it. A shuddering breath escapes him in hiccupy waves. 

"I'm sorry, Martin, I--I just. It's one thing to lose myself to this, it's--" He shakes his head. "Not you."

\---

"Obviously I can take care of myself if I'm still alive," Martin continues as he tries to hold the same weight as the last words to come out of his mouth, "And you can't make my choices for me. You're my boss, but that-- It only goes so far. You wanted my help, otherwise you'd be pretending to still hate me or - or you'd have never told me anything. My choice is I'm helping you." 

He tries to keep talking before Jon can get a word in. "I've been _reading_ statements for years. I'm apparently stuck here somehow-- I haven't - I haven't _tried_ testing that yet, so maybe, just maybe, you just-- You didn't notice. Maybe you just never had a conversation with me long enough that I got to _ask_ you a question until very, very recently, and maybe it just feels sudden now because you're actually paying attention. And it's happened whether you were there for me or - or _not_." 

He takes a sharp inhale. "And maybe - maybe you're just - maybe you're just worrying because you have answers to give. To me. Because _I'm_ asking."

\---

Jon wants nothing more than to wholly, fully believe Martin. To wash it all away as nothing more than his own trauma-addled mind making up patterns and scenarios and, as always, catastrophizing. It would be easy, too. Martin's voice is a balm to him, even when it shouldn't be. 

But the problem is, it's not right, and Jon's skin prickles at the idea of letting whatever threads of falsehoods dangle menacingly in the air. 

"It can be-- It can be _both._ You're right. I probably haven't been-- I haven't been attentive enough, and I didn't know--" He laughs, bitter. "I didn't know that I _wanted_ to be. To you. And I want to be. Now. But it's not-- It's not that _simple_ , Martin. It's not. It isn't. You can call me-- You can call me paranoid, but I know better." 

He shakes his head. "It's not a choice if you don't _know_."

\---

"I know it's not simple. I think it _is_ both. I think - I think whatever it feels like - to, to have that happen, it's-- " 

Martin breathes through it, trying to avoid the stutter. "I don't think every question I asked you was... was like that. I don't know how to tell, I don't know - I... I'm not blaming you. You have a-a right to be on edge, I think." 

He rolls an idea around in his head. "Could you show me what - what it feels like, when it's something you really want to lie about? With me. Not - not from me. Er, on me. I don't... I don't know how I can avoid it unless I know."

\---

"You'd be able to resist. Right now, at least," Jon says slowly, the concept rattling around him and grounding him somewhat. Leave it to an experimental rhetorical thought experiment to bring him back to the soil. 

His expression still has a level of horror tight around the wrinkles of his eyes, but there's a thoughtful look bridging into it, a careful pondering. 

"You have to-- to mean it. To want the answer. It's not-- it'd need to be something painfully sincere."

\---

“Okay. You’ve sort of known me for… for years, right? I-I’m assuming you learned a few things, or - or wanted to learn something, but maybe you didn’t ask, or… I think if you have to mean it I can’t - I can’t make up the question, then.” 

Martin knows he’s playing with fire, but it’s true. He _won’t_ know, not until he _does_. Jon’s had the experience to tell the difference, sort of, but - Martin gets the idea it’s more of a hands-on thing. “I’m giving you permission. Unless you mean - like - unless you mean you can’t do it, physically. I don’t know how strong it is, from you.”

\---

"Not as strong as it was," Jon says, musing, thinking it out loud. He remembers the deep hot rage that had begun to fill him when someone resisted the pull, had the audacity to think they _could_ hide anything from him. In the moment it felt right; extracting from Breekon, extracting from that sailor. 

Now he's just horrified that he could feel that towards Martin. 

But he licks his lips and leans forward. He doesn't have specifics; couldn't. There's not a pull and being so precise has room for errors. He can't Know, yet, what Martin would want to lie about. But that's still a question. He musters it from deep within him, pulling at every thread of reality that sits heavy in the air, and he asks, "What don't you want to tell me, right now?"

\---

Something warm and unpleasant injects itself into Martin's veins, flowing up until it settles heavy behind his eyes. He fixates on the space between them, and he's not so much thinking the question over, as… Well, it’s right in _front_ of him, but the thought of sharing never crossed his mind. "I'm obsessed with your d-desk-- " 

Martin shuts his mouth, moving his arms to his sides to grip at the seat of the chair with his fingers. It doesn't do anything to stop him. "I think about it every time I come in here, and I was just gone for a week but I'm still thinking about it right now-- I don't know why, I got a bit of a rush when I sat on your side, not - not because I want your job, I just-- Sitting on, around it, even like this with the recorder between us, er... it's sort of communal, but just with us, like it's our ritual space, and I'm im-important, and _Christ_ , Martin, it's just a desk.”

\---

Truth be told, it's not exactly what Jon is expecting, but considering the deepest, most loathsome part of him expected something _vile_ , something akin to Martin's hatred of him, it's not necessarily a bad surprise. Just odd. He blinks, and feels something deep in him swell. Not just from getting the answer to his Question, but because he _likes_ the answer. 

The sanctity of his desk functioning like something just shy of a home settles some of his nerves. 

"I'm sorry," He says, because even with Martin's permission, he _stole_ that from him. But his hands move unbidden, apologies and gratitude and warmth filling him in equal measures, reaching across the table to pitifully gesture for Martin's hands. "You felt it, this time?"

\---

Martin comes out from the other side embarrassed more than anything else. It’s not like it’s He barely gets out his own "sorry" before Jon's hands start moving, and Martin pulls his own away from the chair. 

"Yeah. Yeah, I did. It was all up here," he says as he rubs stress from his eyes, "Sorry. I get it now, I think-- I'm taking a guess here, but it works better the - the harder it is for you to say it, right? Or - I mean, in the sense that it's tied to something - something you have trouble with?" 

Martin leans forward to offer Jon his hands, shame still written across his face. He's getting weirdly bad at wearing his emotions on his sleeve, with Jon.

\---

Jon nods and wraps his hands around Martin's, squeezing them. "It tastes better, in a sense, if you didn't want to tell me. If it _hurts_ you to tell me." 

He gives Martin a somber look. "It gets harder to resist asking. And you start to _know_ things, too. Things you shouldn't know. Things that tell you what to ask to make it _painful._ It-- You start to _have_ to do it. Or you'll grow weak. Sick." 

As it is, he looks sallow and exhausted. Too much compulsion, too early, perhaps. There's a slight tremor to his hands, and it's getting harder to focus his whip-like gaze in Martin without unfocussing, his head pounding from the effort.

\---

Martin keeps his eyes forward, though he's tempted to turn down and focus on the contact. He wins.

And he doesn't say it, but part of that sounds appealing. He doesn't show Jon the way the scales are tilting in his head, and he puts it away to stop thinking about it, too. 

"Do - do you need to lie down, Jon?"

\---

"I'll be-- I'm fine. Just-- Maybe no more statements for a bit. It's taxing; it didn't happen this fast, before." The words tumble quickly. He pulls one of his hands from Martin's grip to pinch between his brow for a long moment.

\---

"Ah-- Sorry. You should take a break. I could-- I should start unpacking my things, er-- Sorting them out. And take care of... her," Martin tries to console him with a brush of his thumb over Jon's knuckles. He's watching the way Jon's touching his face. "I can show you more ways to help headaches, if you - if you aren't going to take a nap. I don't know how much they'll help, with... this, but, you still have a body, you know."

\---

"Be easier if I didn't," Jon mutters, and the light brushing breaks some sort of spell; the careful focus he had for the day snaps, and he slumps forward somewhat, watching Martin's hands. "I slept for _days_. I shouldn't need to sleep now."

\---

“Mm, right, because the sleep you get from being knocked unconscious by an evil book is the same kind you need to heal,” Martin says fondly, absent-mindedly continuing the motion with his thumb, tracing the details that make it _Jon_ , and not someone else. 

“Be easier if you did,” he adds, insubordinate.

\---

Jon rotates his jaw, but after a few seconds he nods slightly, and a few stray locks of hair fall over his eyes. "I suppose you're right. Not like I have a mind to work anymore, today. And I doubt Elias will hound on us for slacking off in the afternoon." He snorts and slowly leans back in his chair. "So I guess you win."

\---

Martin lets his hand slip away and stands up to stretch. He’s actually invigorated. Like a shot of caffeine without all the drag. He thinks he’s genuinely ready to tackle the whole mess that is his things, his life - he got something off his chest that he didn’t know he needed _out_. 

“Anything you need me to do before you do that, Jon?”

\---

Jon pulls himself bodily from his position, and shakes his head slowly. "No. Thank you. I--I'll see you when I wake up, I guess. Um... Once I'm out, you can come bring your stuff in, I'm a fairly, ah, deep sleeper." He feels his skin heating up, like it's some scandalous thing to be seen by... By whatever Martin is to him.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two budding Archivists take some time for a pub date that goes just about as smoothly as you'd expect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, so sorry for the slow updates! We have over 200k words of stuff to edit and life has been a whirlwind the past few weeks. Hope you're all safe and healthy! 
> 
> \- Jack (Martin's POV)

Once the door’s closed on Jon, Martin sets about making sense of all his things. 

First, the Charlotte situation, which he’s handled in a way he decidedly _isn’t_ going to tell Jon about. He’d passed Tim in the hall with her jar in his hand and freaked him out a bit, which was just a _little_ funny, and used a ladder to reach the top of a bookcase in a darker area of the Archives. He tilted the jar and opened it, thinking maybe she’d like to use it to make her burrow, and let her be. It seemed fitting, to keep her close until she decided she wanted to leave. Spiders were resourceful. She’d find a way out if she decided prowling around the old books got too boring. 

He organizes his clothes, packs them up into the bag in a way that has order, files away some questions he has for Jon about _where_ , exactly, he’d be staying in the long-term, since this wasn’t _his_ space. Maybe he’d go make a fortress in those - those tunnels, or whatever. 

He decides not to do his job, not today, only because he deserves not to, but he can’t keep what Jon said out of his mind. About not reading them. 

Martin doesn’t bother Jon, extending that same kindness Jon had to him before. He doesn’t go into the room, either, despite Jon’s assurance that it’s fine, because he has no reason to. Much easier to tuck his things up nicely into a corner where they’re not in the way and wait for that conversation. He really doesn’t have much to call his own. Mostly a couple journals, some essentials, but... Martin does find one book he evidently packed in his fugue state, one he can’t remember reading, and ends up - somehow, who knows - sitting at Jon’s side of the desk, bent forward over it to start scanning the first few pages. He keeps the candle lit, and it makes him feel like some Victorian poet. 

The cigarette between his fingers ruins that illusion, but it’s a nice thought.

\---

Jon sleeps deeply. He dreams the dreams that he dares not tell anyone, but they're lighter than he remembers. Less chaos. Not as many entities plague his mind, only light touches of mournful Lonely, insidious Webs, rot and decay, and, of course, the ever-present Watcher. It almost doesn't hurt, but the Watcher sits smug above him, and he's all but thankful when his dreams morph into stressful, but blessedly normal, nightmares. 

When he awakens, it's decidedly dark, which means he at the very least slept through the afternoon. It's disorienting; he can't see outside in this small side room, but he can feel the penetrating darkness of the night like he knows blood flows in his veins. Fumbling for his glasses, he sits up, and is relieved to find his headache mostly subsided to its normal near-constant levels. His skin feels hot, and he prays he's not getting sick. 

He knows he's not, not in the normal human way, at least. 

As he stands, he discards his cardigan, reveling in the chill that hits his bare arms, the black tank underneath uncouth for the office setting. He doesn't care, as he stretches and steps lightly into the main Office, unsure if Martin will still be here. 

He is. And he's reading, and it's such a display of deep light falling handsomely across his features, smoke rising as he reads, that Jon stops and blinks at him, almost wondering if he's still dreaming. 

"Good evening," He says, and reaches for a cup of tea he'd made before he even went to pick up Martin this morning, not caring past his dry mouth that it's cold and stale.

\---

Despite himself, Martin jumps, a little twitch of motion without making an effort to move somewhere else. He's about to return the greeting when Jon then forces him to sit through the agony of watching him drink that. 

One flat syllable comes out instead. "Jon." 

After a brief second he realizes how harsh that is and adds to it, more alive. "That's disgusting. Do you know how long that's been sitting out?"

\---

Jon puts the mug down and frowns, almost dramatically overdrawn brows as though to say _how dare you. I've just awoken._ "Sometime before I got you. Waste not, want not, Martin."

\---

"I-- " Martin glares, venomous, up at Jon's face. He can't disagree when it's put like that, he's already lost if calling it out makes him someone who _wastes_ things, so he leaves it alone. 

"Feeling any better?" He was going to offer to get him more, but now he's committed to being a bitch about it, just slightly. He looks back down at the book to check the page number. "I put my things over there, and took care of the spider."

\---

Jon spins to see the lack of spider jar, and the grateful smile that flashes across his face is as genuine as it is quick. "Better. Much better, honestly. Normally don't sleep that well until after a good solid kidnapping." It's meant to be a joke, but the second it's out, he realizes that _maybe_ a future-joke, especially in his… General failure of a sense of humor, probably isn't going to be a hit.

\---

“Ah. Right.” Martin looks away, controls the expression he’s making, then continues. “Been a bit since I had a good kidnapping. Last June, If I remember right. I know exactly what you mean.” 

He drums a few fingers on the desk and continues, trying to keep Jon from having the chance to question it. “I was wondering - where, er - where should I stay? I could go a few shelves deep into the Archives and make camp, but I think - I think I’d just end up scaring someone who didn’t notice me who came for interfiling.”

\---

"It-- Uh..." He trails off, realizing he hadn't _thought_ about that, realizing he'd-- 

Oh God. He'd somehow been imagining them in the same room. 

He sits heavily in the chair in front of the desk and props his feet up on the desk, pressing his palm to his forehead in the very image of a man dying of weary, feverish consumption. Even he has the foresight to know he probably looks ridiculous. 

"I'd forgotten-- You can take the back room. The one we both, erm, slept in today."

\---

“What, your room? Er-- Jon,” he almost whines it, like he’s already dismissed the idea of taking that away from him. “If there’s another cot lying around somewhere, or-- I could probably get one, since, well-- Like you said, I’m not paying rent r-right now…” 

Martin watches Jon from across the desk and tries not to think about how Jon got that - that weird confession out of him just a few hours ago about it. “I’m not taking your room from you, Jon.”

\---

"It wouldn't be-- I just..." He laughs nervously, a high pitched chitter. "Truth be told, I probably won't be sleeping at, er, normal hours. And-- I guess I just. Hadn't thought about the… Ah. Bed." He sniffs. "We can order another cot, yeah, I-if you. Want."

\---

“Okay,” Martin says, and it ends like he wants to keep talking, but he leaves it alone. They'll figure it out. 

This is swiftly approaching awkward, and Martin's trying to end his day on a high note. He tries again. 

“Do you want dinner?”

\---

"And venture into normal society despite ourselves?" Jon asks, and drags his hands down his face. 

"God. Yeah, I really do. I desperately need to shower, first, though." He grimaces. "I smell like I've been sleeping in a sewer."

\---

“Oh, shit.” 

Martin forgot that showers were even a thing. For all his time in the bathtub, he’d been too-- He’d been too busy reacting to the whole situation in a deliriously panicked state to care much about hygiene. 

“Do you - do you want to meet up out front, in an hour?”

\---

It makes everything feel real-- the concept of scrubbing their strange existence from their skin and carrying on. But he nods, and grabs his cigarettes-- nearly out-- and walks towards his bags. 

If he's got an hour to be presentable, he first has a date with chain smoking and chai in the small employee gym showers on the first floor. 

"Pick a place; I don't go out much." Takeaway, maybe, but that doesn't much count, and the thought of choosing the wrong place, some-- some place Martin incidentally doesn't like, fills him a deep set terror.

\---

\---

\---

Martin’s a million times more comfortable with himself by the time he’s standing out on the sidewalk in front of the Institute, fresh change of clothes and everything, but not so much with the weather. His hands are buried deep into an oversized coat because it’s _cold_ and it’s _windy_ and he’s _upset_ about it, and he’s waiting for Jon in the middle of the walkway like some puffed-up, pitiful stray. 

He did get here a bit early, and he did kind of do it to himself, but he still stands there facing the brunt of it like it’s his sacred duty.

\---

After spending fifteen agonizing minutes raking his hair back over and over attempting to slip a hair tie over his freshly washed hair, Jon had muttered "fuck it" and brushed it out to hang loose. His coat is woolen and was a graduation gift to himself, a sort of symbolic 'you're not that idiot punk in college anymore.' It reminds him of Wall Street, a tenured history professor at Oxford, or perhaps of old, fancy generals during the second world War. Well regarded. Put together. Academic and wealthy in a breezy, easy fashion. 

It feels nice to be clean. As though he's a different person, one not so beholden to the dark and dingy crevices of the Institute. When he meets the windy breeze, he breathes it in and lets it wash over him, the jittering of his muscles feeling more akin to adrenaline than anxiety. 

"Ah! Martin!" He finds him and steps over quickly, his hands stabbed deep into his pockets.

\---

Martin greets Jon with a satisfied hum and starts walking the second he gets within conversational distance, hurried for the sake of getting somewhere warm and... safe, hopefully.

“There’s a pub down the street,” he says as he walks backwards to let Jon catch up, “there’s - there’s a nice one further down-- I’m not walking there, but this one’s good enough, their kitchen should still be open and we can grab something?”

\---

Jon snorts as he walks, quickening his step to catch up. "You're taking us to the less nice pub and introducing it by telling me there's a _nicer_ one?" There's a small smile on his face; the uneasy look of nausea and trembling fear is long passed, and it's almost possible to pretend they're normal people doing normal dinner. Jon clings to it like a vine.

\---

“I-- “ Martin stops, flustered, because that’s _not_ what he meant, just, “I-I was just, you said you didn’t get out much, so I was telling you what there is and - and it’s _cold_ .” He says it miserably, like it’s actually _that_ bad and not a perfectly normal cloudy day. 

He says the last part quietly, quickly. “...And I know the bartender and sometimes she gives me discounts if I ask about her day."

\---

"Martin," Jon says. "I was joking. I'm-- Honestly, I'm glad anywhere you take me." He steps in close, cautiously and almost awkwardly, and bumps Martin's shoulder with his own. "And besides. I haven't eaten food in nearly a week, evidently, so I could really honestly eat anything."

\---

“Mm,” Martin replies smugly, because he knows. He returns the gesture, pushing his shoulder against Jon for a moment, a little too hard-- In a playful way, not to get him to back off. 

This got so... easy, all of a sudden. “Did I say I was paying?”

\---

"... I guess I can pay. Truth be told, I haven't looked at my bank account since I, uh, came here. I genuinely don't know how much money I have." He laughs. "Is that bad? Oh my God, that's probably bad."

\---

“Ah, well-- We, we can figure it out when we get in. Long as you’ve got a wallet with you, right?” Martin smiles down at him, refusing to pull his hands from the coat as he stops walking in front of one of the buildings. “Get the door, Jon?”

\---

Jon blinks and complies all but immediately, holding it in place with the back of his heel as he lets Martin pass first. He looks up at the building and feels... Fine. It's a fine establishment. It's food. Good enough. It's not the food that has him in a good mood, even though he knows the yawning hunger in his gut will abate his nausea once he shoves something semi-corporeal into this mouth.

\---

Martin takes the open door, inhaling deeply to prepare himself. It's not too crowded - Martin doesn't even remember what day of the week it is, exactly, but he's set on the bar - and there's a pang of guilt inside him, natural and automatic, but he didn't _ask_ Jon if he wanted to sit there. 

Well, it-- If he hated it, then they could move. He settles on a stool with a free one next to it. There's actually a few, as a buffer, enough room for them to have space. Martin doesn't go out much either, but in all honesty, bars can run pretty lonely no matter how many people are packed into it. 

He exchanges a few quiet pleasantries with the bartender - she's an older woman, and he speaks politely to her with specific intent - and asks for a Mule in this _voice_ , as if he's nervous with Jon there to see what he's doing and no one's usually paying attention to _him_ there - before turning to him. "Er-- Do you want anything? I figured-- If you want to, we could just share some chips, um, but anything else?"

\---

"I, uh--" Jon rakes his eyes over the assortment on tap and can't help the sneer that passes over him; it's not necessarily a _good_ look for him, but neither is he going to dwell on it. Instead, he just requests a glass of whatever house red they've got, his voice lower and quieter in the wake of speaking to others. 

Drink ordered, he turns back to Martin and shrugs. "Food's food. I'll pick at anything." 

But then-- He turns to the bartender, and shakes his head. Changes his order from wine to a rum and coke, smiling sheepishly at her.

\---

Martin orders, turning to face sideways with one arm on the table so he's facing Jon proper. His drink comes first but he waits, thumbing the edge of the glass thoughtfully. 

"I... can't remember the last time I went out with anyone - just to talk, I mean, I don't count the coffee shop, that-- It wasn't all that... pleasant."

\---

"Not much of the last week _has_ been pleasant," Jon muses, but it lacks the Doomsday sensibilities of the way he normally talks, just thoughtful and melancholy and... Conversing. It feels weird to just _talk._

"Most of it, at least." He sits on the stool awkwardly; he'd never been much of a pub-goer, and when he was dragged out by the ears by pity-frilled friends, it was usually a booth-situation, where he could people-watch and ignore his own bodily presence from the shadows of some dingy time-worn wooden booth.

\---

"Right. Most of it," Martin agrees, taking Jon in before him. Eventually he gives in and just starts drinking. Not like he's got to travel far to get "home". 

As strange as Jon is, in general, he's a blessedly open book sometimes. Mostly, he's just not very good at hiding discomfort, and Martin doesn't like seeing him that way. "Jon, do you want to sit somewhere else?"

\---

"... Yes," He admits, and grimaces immediately, feeling... Spoiled. Demanding. It's not even close to a demand, but nonetheless; going out has never been _about_ him. 

"Somewhere with a back, somewhere with-- Less eyes."

\---

Martin's face goes blank, only because he remembers something. What was it, the watcher being watched? 

He shivers. 

"No, it's okay, just-- " The food comes and Martin loses himself in staring at it, realizing how hungry he is. 

He snaps out of it and grabs it for them, scanning the room for a booth. Doesn't take long to find one, and he points it out. "Oh, there. C'mon."

\---

Jon picks up his as-of-yet untouched drink and pulls himself off the bar stool, carefully scanning Martin's expression as he does so. 

Once he's sat, he stretches out some, popping his wrists and elbows and joints in what can only be described as feline hedonism. Darker here. Less eyes, his back isn't to the door... He feels safer. 

A smile graces his lips. "Thanks. You know, I haven't-- I really haven't just had _dinner_ in a long time. Though I guess this isn't dinner so much as chips, but." He shrugs.

\---

Martin's already shoving a few into his mouth while Jon talks to him, a bit too fast and definitely not the most polite, but it's easier for him to let go of that excessive self-control around Jon. 

Huh. That's a new thought. "Me neither, better not to jump into it with the highest standard," he says after he swallows.

\---

Jon chews on his cheek, and, after a moment of deliberation, leans forward, across the table, to steal a chip and hold it as a Shakespearean actor might over exaggerate poor Yorrick's skull. 

"Jump into it?" His voice is pointedly light.

\---

"Oh-- Going out to dinner. Um, you know, it-- Like, better to start with something cheap and easy, not - not breaking out the good wine on the first..." Martin says, stopping himself by taking a drink. And then going back to eating without another word.

\---

Jon almost drops his food and leans forward even more, the chip pointed almost accusatory at him. "Is that what this is, Martin? A date?"

\---

"I don't know! I just figured we were both hungry-- And - and we need to eat, and I needed a drink or - or a few--Don't point that at me," he snaps the last part in a misdirected outburst, heat pooling into his cheeks.

\---

Jon ignores the desire to look away and let them fall into an uneasy, uncomfortable silence, instead smiling brightly from around the fry as he takes a decisive bite from it, leaning back and pushing his fingers through his hair as he does so. "It can be, if-- if you know, you want it to be."

\---

Martin takes what he thinks must be an agonizingly long silence to deeply bury his fears so that he can be normal, and drinks. 

He decides to test the waters with something admittedly ridiculous. Something he’s never really done before, at least not with anyone he’s cared about. But hey, if it helps the anxiety, right?

"Okay, stranger, what do you do for a living?"

\---

Jon snorts into his drink and has to try not to flinch from the carbonation hitting his nostrils. It's just the right amount of cheesy, TV show scriptedness that never ceases to make him endlessly amused. He wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve and tries not to laugh outright as he answers. 

"You-- Well. You know how it is. Boring archival work. Nothing to it, really. Be more exciting to work at a library."

\---

“Oh, why don’t you quit, then?” Martin says with a pointedly comical lilt, “My job’s fine, you know, people always _want_ to be a billionaire but, well, I beg to differ. It’s a shame, really. They don’t know how _hard_ it is.”

\---

Jon's face splits into a grin and he leans across the table, eyes wide with amused excitement. "Oh, I didn't realize I was on a date with a _billionaire._ I'd quit for _that_ , but the problem is that I'm simply married to my work."

\---

“I wasn’t aware I was offering you any of my massive amounts of wealth,” Martin says with a tilt of his head, “That’s bold, Jon.”

\---

"Oh, how presumptuous of me," Jon takes another sip from his drink, his lips curling upwards around the straw. "I just assumed an overworked man without a flat would be irresistible to you."

\---

Martin laughs, comfortable in the bubble they’ve formed around the booth, reality far off and murky by comparison. “What, the same way an overworked man without a flat’s irresistible to _you_? Funny how that works out.” Martin hesitates on the next question, as if it’s too immature. “Er-- What’s your favorite color, by the way?”

\---

"My-- " Jon blinks, jerked out of the bit, and thinks it through. And then thinking it through some more, because even though it's just a simple _question_ , it's asserting a _favorite._ what a dangerous precedent to set. 

"Green sometimes," He says slowly, and then purses his lips and shakes his head. "Black? Maybe. Hard to say. Dark. I like dark colors. I-- Yours?"

\---

“Red,” Martin says simply, like he’d already prepared to be asked the question in return. “Of course. _Dark_ colors. Sorry-- I’m, I’m trying to learn more about you. And I don’t know exactly where to start, I’m just-- Taking a tour?” He internally hits himself with a newspaper for that turn of phrase, then breathes the anxiety out and takes a drink.

\---

"'Taking a tour'," Jon breathes, a smile in his voice. "A holiday around Jonathan Sims' brain. Sounds like a dreary place to travel."

\---

“Not when he forgets that he’s from the future and talks to me instead,” Martin says, trying to ignore the embarrassment at his own comment echoed back at him. “I like to know what’s going on in there. It - It helps me stay out of mine, more. I get stuck there. Not - not in your head, mine. Um.” He lost the plot.

\---

"Yeah, well," Jon says, flushing, the careful confidence leaking out of him at the sheer honesty. "I can mirror that sentiment with, uh, you. You focus me."

\---

“I can’t imagine that,” Martin says quietly, “Sorry. I’m-- I shouldn’t do that. I _can’t_ , but I want to, but-- I don’t know. You know me based on - based on things I haven’t done. I don’t know how to be the person you… you see when you look at me.”

\---

Jon opens his mouth to respond and then closes it, sitting back as he really _thinks_ about what Martin's saying. And he immediately feels guilt, guilt at the possibility that-- that he's putting an unattainable construct onto this Martin. But it's not-- accurate. Not entirely. 

"I think I've learned more about your personality based on _you_ , this last week, than-- " He knows this is a date-ruiner, knows its treading back into their awful fucking lives, but it's important. Feels it, at least. 

"It sounds awful, Martin, I-- I know, and it's-- not great, but." _But I didn't know what I lost until you began to fade away._ "I think I've finally let myself see you."

\---

“That’s not awful.” Martin fidgets with his near-empty glass. “I’m just not used to - to being seen? In a way that matters, I just-- " He sort of loses his composure. "Do - do you like dogs? Can you play instruments?-- ” He has to stop himself from adding a third one, realizing he’s going too fast.

\---

"Well." He says stiffly. "I notice you. I always do. Even if you don't-- Ugh. Maybe you're right. I'm sorry. I'm putting-- I'm putting a lot out-- I want to be better to you. I want-- I want to- to _listen_ to you." He takes a deep breath and then takes an overly ambitious drink from his glass and has to put a hand to his mouth to physically restrain himself from gagging, before he's able to swallow the veritable lump of liquid. 

"I've, er, never been around dogs. And I fiddled with the bass in college. Erm. And the, ah-- Well, frankly shitty piano and flute."

\---

Screw it. Screw it, just feel something. He can ask about Jon’s college adventures soon. 

“I notice you,” Martin returns cautiously, “I don’t know how to _handle_ it, and I-I’m not prepared for it, at all, really, but I’m living in it, right? Um, here, now, it’s sort of happening and I can’t really - you know - _deny_ any of it because-- I feel like-- It’s crazy, Jon, I feel like part of me _knows_ , like part of me can - can-- I’m so sorry this is the only word there is but _see_ , part of me can see why I’m here, in the bar, and not - not trying to leave, or - or quit. Do you want another drink?”

\---

"God, yes," He says immediately, and feels a stab of guilt, but shakes it off easily, his mind too occupied by-- well. Martin's everything. His words, in this space, are honey hypnotizing, and he wants to lay down and sleep on his cadence forever. 

"Why _are_ you here?" It's not compelled; his nails dig into his palms to avoid it.

\---

“I-- I-- One second,” Martin says, openly flustered, as he excuses himself to grab them something else. He feels like he’ll need it for where this is going. Whatever, he deserves to let loose. It’s been a long several weeks getting thrown back and forth between Hell and here. 

He comes back with another Mule and a refill for Jon, apologizing under his breath for doing _that_. It was rude, probably. 

He almost does feel compelled to answer, but it’s a different kind of gravity. 

“Right. Um. Sometimes you say my name in this - this _weird_ way that gives me goosebumps, and maybe if I keep sticking around and - and listen to you, you’ll keep doing it. Er-- I mean, that’s not the only reason, of course, um, when we - we forget about… you know, I like-- I’m alone, _so_ much, but it’s not-- It’s not because it’s _fun_ , it’s - it’s complicated, but it’s hard. It’s hard to not be. And you’re just-- _here_.”

\---

"I'm just here." Jon repeats, but it's not accusatory, just... Wondering. And, truth be told, if there's one thing to be said about Jonathan Sims, it's that he's a good listener, and makes one feel _heard._ Perhaps there's a near perverse morbidity to the reasons for his listening skills, but-- It's there. Nonetheless. 

He's quiet for a long while, just processing, and when he speaks again, it's not much. It isn't much at all, but it's hard to say regardless, because it's honest, and open and the possibility of rejection makes him want to curl up. "I want to be there, for you, when you feel alone."

\---

There's some vile, ugly part of Martin fighting against connecting with the man across from him, one he’s ignored this whole time until it’s crept up to hide in his shadow. One that _can't_ take his admissions as truth despite the growing mountain of evidence, one that _can't_ let Martin feel he deserves to be told any of this. One that he's had for company his entire life. 

It's so _dramatic_ , but it's true. He hadn't noticed how much he wanted to be seen. To feel like his presence mattered. The allure of being important to stopping some kind of cataclysmic event, to being near the center of something beyond his understanding, worth being looked at like this, it's just too much. He wants to go back to asking questions about Jon's life, who he is, why _he's_ here, but that's not what he really wants answered. 

He's not stupid. He can connect pieces of puzzles and fit them together enough to know there's things Jon keeps to himself, tries to _spare_ him from. Things Jon doesn't give him a choice about. Martin doesn't want it to win. He can feel it in his throat, all bile and acid and rebellion. He's just drunk enough to get the idea in his head, to even think to see it through, to suddenly need to push so hard against all the overwhelming acts of _care_. Against being dropped in a warzone and having to face feelings. 

Martin rests his cheek in his hand, propping himself up with his elbow. The doting, lax smile on his face isn't quite real, at least not in the same way as one without a motive, and he _tries_ , inviting and firm and wrong. "Why are you so scared of what happens if I'm left alone?"

\---

Jon sucks in a breath, and for a moment he's at a loss for how to begin. And then he realizes he doesn't _want_ to begin, and it hurts, hurts to not want to, as words come unbidden to his mind. He resists for a scant moment, both unused to the feeling lobbed at him and, deep down, wanting to tell someone, anyone, what it's been like. 

The pain he's felt and experienced guilt over, watching Martin slip away after he woke up. 

The world falls away as his mind wars against him, pin pricking to the singular awareness of _Martin_. Always Martin, these days. His voice slips from underneath him, and he says, "I've already lost you to it once."

\---

The only part of Martin that enjoys this is the part he's not even entirely sure is himself, but that deep, deep satisfaction goes miles. He just hates that he doesn't already regret it. 

He hates that he's never felt like he had a sense of control over anything, anyone, any time in his life where he wasn't at the mercy of someone else's fickle moods. Until now. 

Martin didn't die. 

Martin got _lost_. 

Processing it all is for a later Martin, though, and he tries his luck again. The odd present-future split in his head is airy enough to keep him buoyant there instead of back down on the actual earth. 

"What happened to me?"

\---

Jon's teeth hurt with the effort to keep quiet, and it's when the discomfort edges into a sheen of pain that he looks at Martin, the soft, vulnerable look turning to shock, guilt, hurt. 

"You're touched by the Lonely. You listen to Peter Lukas and--" Anger discolors his voice, "--let yourself _martyr_ yourself to his cause. I-- You become forsaken."

\---

The blissful separation of getting what he wanted doesn't get to last long, because suddenly Martin sobers up, face drained of color as he finally, finally sees the way Jon's looking at him, realizes he wants what was there back. Not what he just put there, not what Martin forced onto him. Suddenly he desperately wants to go back in time, to just accept it and be _normal_ about this, and not - not whatever his unfocused rebellion at himself and to Jon for daring to care, daring to intervene, was trying to cause. 

"I'm sorry," He whines, genuinely frightened, and gets up too quickly. Suddenly he feels very sick but not from drinking, he's barely even had that much, and he can't get another word in before he's leaving Jon to make sure he throws up somewhere more appropriate than the booth they'd been sharing. 

It's not until he's drooling into a pub toilet after losing his dinner that he comes to the thought that he left Jon back there. Alone. To deal with this. Alone, alone, it just loops in his head like a tape on repeat. He's never seen Jon _make_ that face before, _anyone_ make that face before, and there were glimpses there of things Martin couldn't know, couldn't have felt, couldn't have caused, but somehow did.

\---

Jon finds himself face-down on the table, nose uncomfortably pressed against the grain of the wood. He'd move, but the sensation, just edging into pain, grounds him, keeps him from absolutely losing his mind in public and causing a scene. 

Anger swirls around him, and he wants to march to the bathroom and _demand_ Martin explain why he did that. How he could breach Jon's boundaries in that way, _destroy_ Jon's autonomy. 

But. It'd just be hypocritical at this point. 

And now, untethered, alone in this booth, he thinks of the Martin he left behind and a choked-off cry wrangles itself from his throat, and he has to sit back and all but slam the back of his head against the booth and slap a hand to his mouth to avoid the cry turning into a sob. 

It's not fair to have kept this from Martin. He knows. But he didn't want to say it like _this_ , extracted from him with a dazed look of confusion and hurt and betrayal. Not while Martin looked at him with fake fondness, a facsimile of devotion so well-crafted that a deep pit in Jon's heart asks him if it was _all_ trickery. 

He dredges himself up from the seat when that thought threatens to choke him, fill him with dirt, and one second he's a pitiful creature near-sobbing alone, and the next he's in the bathroom, scanning the stalls. 

"Martin." His voice is ice. "We're going home."

\---

Martin winces at the sound, knees on the tile and uncomfortably leaning on the edge of the toilet seat while trying to touch as little of it as possible. He wants to shy away, back into a corner where Jon can't see him or touch him or hurt him back-- 

All over again, he's a kid who's ruined something, something in public, something that warrants a promise of punishment somewhere that no one can see. Alone, at home. Fear thoroughly worms its way through him, threatens to take over, but this is different. Martin _knows_ that's not the case, that he fucked up in a way that wasn't just the harmless screw-up of a child who didn't know better, that he _deserves_ whatever happens next, but he doesn't feel any better about it. The need to know felt so reasonable in the moment, the desire to be kept in the loop felt so natural. 

Martin just barely resists the urge to recoil and spits into the toilet, pulling his body up from the floor. By the time he gets out he's got one hand around the opposite arm above his elbow, fidgeting to ground himself, to physically shield himself from something he sees in Jon that has nothing to do with Jon. 

He doesn't say anything, but he's not hiding that fear, that shame, the stress in his eyes and the repulsion turned inward, like Jon's activated some magic words for him to follow in easy submission. Like that will somehow make whatever happens now less of a torture.

\---

Jon feels tense as a whip, and he watches as Martin slowly brings himself to stand. Maybe it's callous, cruel, but he doesn't offer to help him up. He'll just end up saying something snappish, make everything worse, if he does. 

The look Martin gives him makes him regret how cold his voice was, though, and he backs up slightly, trying not to crowd in his space and make whatever... Whatever _this_ is, worse. 

It's not _fair_ , this anger, but it's not all aimed at Martin. Not in the slightest. Half the fury is aimed at himself, but he's never been good at bottling that up into something silent, something that doesn't leak out and affect others. It's only with the fate of the world ending, has he learned to stop lashing out pettily. And even then, he just has found other ways to seek out inflicting that rage, that fear, that anger. 

Jon can almost smell Martin's fear, and it's that awareness of acute _knowing_ that gets him to turn on his heel, not having the wherewithal to check if Martin will follow or not. So _much_ is radiating from him, and he doesn't know what to _do_ , other than to stalk out of the bathroom. 

If he speaks, he'll ask questions. Already, there's one burning a hole in his tongue, but he bites down hard on the inside of his lip to stay silent.

\---

Martin follows, deeply glad that his practice of paying upfront each round paid off in a way that he doesn't have to speak, threatening to let everything pour right out, with some poor bartender. 

He doesn't quite fit entirely in Jon's shadow, but that's where most of him stays regardless. He wants to apologize, again, but when does that ever work? Not just to spare him from whatever's about to happen, but to express how much it weighs on him now. 

For thinking it was anything short of violation. He's never been able to _do_ that before. He just wishes it hadn't been Jon. But maybe, since it _was_ Jon, he'll know how to - to... 

No, probably not. The silence of a pile of wood drenched in gasoline before the flick of a lighter is all he has for company, because Jon's not with him, they're not walking together, and as much as he would like it to stop he can't keep that anticipating fear from radiating off him. Like it's an integral part of him. Like he's trying not to slip somewhere else. But he doesn't deserve to _not_ feel it, so it loops. And loops. And loops.

\---

The London night washes over him, and helps to dispel some of the clouded, claustrophobic heat that wants to cling to him in spades. He walks briskly, but not faster than normal, his hands stabbing into his pockets. 

And he thinks. 

Thinks of what to say, what not to say, how to even breach the mountain that is _this_ , and knowing that Martin can't logically know what all he's angry at. He thinks of preying on people in cafes, on the street. Feeding from them and growing stronger to feed his God. Knowing that Martin belongs to it too, now. 

They're nearing the institute by the time he finds his voice. It's not angry, but it is low, carefully constructed with a gravitas he hasn't used since he was still pretending he didn't believe in the statements. 

"I wanted to tell you. I just didn't want to tell you like that." He turns slightly to look behind him, Martin's fear his constant companion the entire walk home.

\---

Martin wants to be present, wants to engage with this healthily, wants to trust Jon about this. He doesn't know what to think of it, of Jon's kindness. Where manipulation ends and an inherent _goodness_ starts. But then Jon looks at him, and he's fixed his eyes to the floor before Jon can even completely turn. 

What takes him so long to answer isn't that he doesn't know how. He's trying to figure out how to phrase it that _isn't_ a question. He thinks he has it. His voice is so small, acquiescent in the face of whatever way he's unwillingly combining Jon with something else Jon could never be. 

Hopefully. 

"You wouldn't have told me until something bad enough happened that you had to."

\---

"You can't _know_ that," He snaps, and regrets it immediately. He's angry, not because Martin's tone, but because he's right. 

He probably wouldn't have. 

Defenses that he didn't know he _had_ rise hot on him, and he shakes his head, shakes it again, and then just stops walking altogether, pinching between his eyes and taking a deeply unsatisfying breath. 

Something is changing; he shouldn't be able to drink in Martin's fear yet, and yet. And yet. And yet. "You don't want me to compare you to that version, but you want me to tell you everything when it suits you? Is that it? You don't want me to talk about it unless you can spit it back at me like venom? Do you know how bad that _hurts?_ " 

He tries, he tries, but he's too angry; some of the protective measures to make them just _questions_ are too hard to maintain and even he can feel the air shimmer around him, and he winces, shutting his eyes hard enough to hurt.

\---

" _Yes_ ," Martin says like he's in physical pain, like he's saying it through lungs filled with blood. The questions meld together, unable to separate fully-formed into comprehensible portions to tackle, and he just ends up overwhelmed and terrified. 

Martin braces a hand on the nearest brick wall and slides down with five different headaches pulling him apart into different directions. "I don't know what I want, I don't know what I want to know, I want to know all of it and none of it and I want to know how I was _good_ and how I did _good_ but I don't want to know that I could, if I really tried, I could _do_ something with myself, and when I've spent my entire life b-bending to someone else's needs it's - it's so tempting to just take _something_ back, just once, to feel what it's like to be able to, to know where the conversation'll go because you're in charge of it, and--”

He shakes his head to clear it, but it doesn't go away. To his own horror, he keeps talking. “--and it does hurt, because the second I know I've just made someone stop trusting me, like - like it's a preventative measure against someone daring to love _me_ , because I'm not a p-person, I'm just a thing, I'm a servant, I'm apparently serving some fear god, I'm serving you, I'm serving other people's needs and I-I want it to hurt because then maybe somebody can see how much something hurts _me_ and then... then they'll stop hurting me instead.”

Down on the cold, empty concrete of a street he no longer recognizes, he shakes with the pull of it, shakes with how much he’s adding that Jon didn’t ask for, like the floodgates have burst and he’s held onto this weight for years, and years, and years. 

"Sometimes I want to know _because_ it hurts me to. I ask about who I'm supposed to be to you, and I fight it, because it hurts more to indulge some kind of fantasy where I'm loved, and I-I didn't even get that from the person who put me in this _world_ , how am I supposed to get it from anyone else? How am I supposed to deserve that, when everything I am is just - just a response to someone else? I-I don't know, I don't _want_ to use it, I don't _want_ to ask, I don't know what I want and now s-somebody's asking me every day what I want and - and making me talk about it, making me think about it, all while k-keeping things from me that I'm scared of. I'm _scared_."

\---

Martin answers; Jon falls apart. 

It's too much; too many Answers to Questions, too many revelations that aren't even compelled, just-- messy. Human. He stands stock still on the sidewalk, because if he moves, his legs will fall out from beneath him. So he just breathes. And breathes. And breathes. Because he's still human, himself, and he wishes he wasn't. 

It feels like an eon; it might be a second, or two, or minutes, or an eternity, and he slowly raises his face to look at the sky, the wind blowing across his features and leaving him chilled to his core. He wonders if the Beholder is looking back, drinking in the misery of two of its servants, feeding from them as they lose themselves to its knowing thrall. 

"Ask me." He says, and still, he looks to the sky, his voice strained from the angle of his neck. 

He says it again. "Ask me. Because I want to love you, and I don't think I can if I don't tell you. I want you to know. I want you to know because I don't want it to hang over you. I want you to love me, and _choose_ to love me. I want-- there's too much I want and I think you deserve better." 

"I want you to ask me. But I also don't want it to be-- it can't be a _weapon_ against each other. It can't. I won't feed you to the Eye. Not the way it wants. Not the-- way you did, in the pub."

\---

" _Better_ , right, because someone would take _me_ , someone would care about me on purpose, someone who could take advantage of me without coming up with something as complicated as being from the future-- " He pauses when he realizes he's implying something he doesn't mean. "I believe you. I just-- I mean it's not exactly hard to get on my good side." 

Martin's running his mouth, and he wishes it _was_ forced out of him. "I don't know how to ask without it being a weapon, and even when I didn't do anything but _ask_ about you, what happened, it still scared you, like just asking at all is a weapon, and I can't tell if-- If you're asking me to ask you like that, with purpose, or-- Ugh, all the definitions make this so _confusing_ .” Martin inhales sharply. “It felt good. In your office. It - it didn't, later. Why can't - why can't you just use it the other way around, to - to compel people to say the things that make them happiest? It's the same energy, isn't it? I'm-- Has anyone ever even _tried_?"

\---

"Tried to--" Jon can't help himself as he splutters, astounded for a moment. He looks away from the sky and at Martin, shaking his head. "It's _fear_ , Martin. It feeds on fear. _We_ feed on fear. You do. It's in your blood now." 

He's angry. Not at Martin, but the question is so ludicrous, he almost breaks down every wall there and then that's kept him _sane_ these past few years. That let him move forward and just _work_ , instead of address the elephant in the room-- what he's becoming. 

What Martin is, now. 

Oh, he's had little meltdowns, but it's standing here, looking over Martin, that he feels the preternatural chill of awareness wash over him, and he laughs. "If you find a way, let me know, because I've been feeding on strangers without even really realizing it for months. It's not happy stories that feed you."

\---

“I don’t _like_ fear. I’m _tired_ of fear, Jon-- I-- When someone’s allergic to milk, they don’t just keep _drinking it_ until they can suck it up, they go out and get something that - that they actually like.” Martin feels ridiculous, not just because Jon’s telling him he is, but because he’s right. Jon’s right.

Martin’s already exhausted, exposure-sick, emotionally compromised, and ashamed. “Can I try?”

\---

"It'll _work_ if you compel me, Martin, but it won't feed you." He ticks his jaw, anger turning to annoyance and his body shivering at the slingshotting emotions. 

"Fine. Try it."

\---

If the circumstances were different, he’d probably find Jon’s annoyance endearing. As-is, he can only appreciate it from afar. Martin _tries_ , though he’s not sure how to explain it=- Like flexing a muscle, but - but it’s sort of in his throat, his eyes, his heart all at once. Thinking of a question is actually blessedly easy. 

“When you were a kid, what made you feel loved, more than anything else?”

\---

It _is_ strange, how the painful coldness that usually accompanies him thinking about his childhood falls away. He doesn't think about his grandmother. He doesn't think about being friendless and bullied. He doesn't think about long, agonizing sleepless nights of such sheer loneliness, it felt like he was the only soul alive and suffering for it. 

It's there, he can remember it, but it doesn't choke him like it normally all does, and before he knows it, he's speaking, his words quick and light and _wanting_ Martin to know something about him that isn't mired in tragedy. 

"Sometimes, in the mornings, on, er, Saturdays or Sundays, I'd have a new book and we had this-- this bay window, and I'd pile pillows and blankets, and I'd steal-- well. Not steal so much as just take and hope my grandmother didn't find out-- some candles and light them and I'd just... _read._ And it's less-- I don't quite think I've ever been loved by a person, but those moments... It felt like the earth was humming, and loving me as I sat decadent. Like the whole of nature out the window was greeting me, and accepting me, and loving me whole." 

It's so dreadfully cheery, and when he's done, he pulls his fingers through his hair, feeling tired, exhausted, but better for it. Grounded. 

At least it's not other Questions, right now.

\---

Martin’s beaming up at him, even in the dark. Even though gathering the details of Jon's face is a difficult task. Because it’s not quite about gathering those details, and more just about listening. The way he says it, the way his mouth works to pronounce the words, what they mean to him beyond just reciting a story. Martin can see himself in that, can see the desperate need to be loved and having to find it away, away from other people, because the people around aren’t _good_. To be a kid who deserves love, and isn’t getting it. 

“I don’t know if it’s the same, _exactly_ , but I’ll feed off that if the Eye won’t. I think that’s sweet.” He does feel better, like part of the earlier trauma was washed away, just a fraction. Whether that’s because of some magical entity-related scheme, or just because he’s the one who got Jon to say it, to open up about it - that’s a power in it’s own right - only time could tell. “Is that why you had candles up instead of lights in the office earlier?”

\---

Jon blinks rapidly and shrugs, though he looks distinctly embarrassed. "They make me feel warm. Less cold. More homely." 

He steps forward and offers his hand. "Can-- can you stand? I'd like to get back now. I, um, don't want to be on the street anymore."

\---

Martin nods, surprised that he's even on the floor at all. He doesn't remember getting there, but he had been, for a while. Martin takes Jon's hand with his own and lifts off the ground. 

"Right, sorry. Um, you should take the cot tonight, at least. I'll sleep on some jackets I brought." Putting himself in the doghouse, isn't he?

\---

"You'll sleep on... Martin, are you listening to yourself?" Jon pulls him up and lingers where their hands are, incredulity masking his face in a surprise 'o'. "Take the cot. If I sleep, I'll just-- I'll just join you. Or something." He pulls away and starts to walk to avoid addressing his embarrassment.

\---

"I'm sleeping on the floor, Jon," Martin says quickly and with finality, not to punish himself but to offer a kindness in return for what he did. It's only after he says it that he processes the rest. 

He technically does have enough clothes for that. But it's not about the logistics, it's about the boundaries. His surprise is obvious, unmasked. Jon has a weird knack for getting that out of him. "I-- If you want?"

\---

"Well, you're not sleeping on the floor," He pushes back, and _glares_ at Martin, whipping his face back at him to do so. 

"And neither am I. So I suppose we'll just have to make do with each other's body heat."

\---

Martin’s not expecting Jon to turn back around with that _look_ and it startles him into walking a little slower for a half-step, but not in a bad way. It actually snuffs out all the sureness he’d had while asserting his position on the floor. Martin smiles, and it’s an honest one. 

“Okay. Okay, Jon.” 

They’ve made it back to the Institute, and Martin realizes he’s liking the place a bit more. Despite the ominous comments, despite the lack of a bed he knows, of having his own _nest_ , despite the awkwardness, it feels more like a home than most places ever have.

\---

By the time they get to the office, Jon's pulled his coat off and thrown it haphazardly to one corner of the room; he's got cleaning to do, but it won't be tonight. Even though he technically slept through the entirety of the afternoon, he just wants to lay down again and not process anything from the past day. 

He slips off his shoes and goes to start rummaging through bags he has yet to actually unpack. Unpacking means finality; it means staying here. And that's almost too much to handle. To accept that he's _here._ He expects to wake up back in his future, but more and more, he's hoping it doesn't happen. 

"If I catch you even _trying_ to sleep anywhere other than that cot-- which I'll have to buy a mattress topper for soon, I imagine, and a quilt, maybe-- I'll get you. I will, Blackwood."

\---

Martin lets - no, wait, that’s a bold-faced lie. Martin _gives in_ to Jon’s tone because of _how_ he’s saying it, not because he’s graciously allowing Jon to make those demands. It’s a different sort of demanding than he’s used to, especially from Jon, but now he’s starting to finally lean into the fact that this Jon has been around much longer than the old one. In Martin’s life, anyway. And this Jon is one he likes. 

And how is he supposed to argue, when hearing _Blackwood_ in that tone of his makes him shiver in - in an odd, unexpected way. It’s only odd because he likes it. Because it’s _weird_. So much so that all he can do is nod, store the information away for later, and wait for the perfect moment to point that same feeling right back at Jon in sweet retribution. In a totally normal and friendly way, obviously. 

Without another word, Martin spends a few minutes adding his own personal touches to the cot - he did bring a blanket, one of his favorites, and in lieu of a pillow he’s got one of his more plush coats to put his head down on. He wears it so rarely that it still smells like the beach, actually, when he’d gone fishing with it last. That was a while ago. He didn’t remember that. 

He’s sitting on the cot and ready to go when he finally speaks up again, knows he can do that without his voice cracking. “Will you be up for awhile, Jon? Or, or are you done for the night?”

\---

"I think-- " He starts, but yawns in the middle of it, and well. That answers that. He does some idle tidying up that he knows will prevent him from ever falling asleep if he doesn't attend to-- the kind of organization that doesn't _look_ like anything's been done, but makes all the difference in Jon's brain. 

Satisfied, he pulls out a pair of sleep pants and changes quickly in the belly of the office, and when he's finally satisfied, he comes to the doorway, looking at the way Martin's set up the cot. 

A jolt of energy runs down his spine, and he gives a nervous little smile. "I suppose, uh, I'll sleep."

\---

The reality of the situation hits Martin like a truck, but he does his best to hide it. He’s not sure how to address this. Easier if he doesn’t. He’s shared a bed before, but not for very long, and in _very_ different contexts, but, well, it’s just a person. 

It’s just Jon. 

“Night, then,” he says cheerily, if just plain _tired_ , to clear his head, and puts his head down facing the side. The way his jacket bends to the weight covers up enough of his face that he’s comfortable shutting his eyes, but not comfortable enough to just pass out, or anything. He’s exhausted down to his cells, but this is still new, puts him on edge, if only for the unplanned nature of it all.

\---

"Night," Jon replies softly, and then flicks the lights off. But he doesn't climb into the cot yet. He's not necessarily _spacing out_ , but-- well. Yes he is. 

It's a lot. 

To share a bed with Martin, to be near him and have to somehow sleep even though his body heat will be right there and if he opens his eyes he'll be able to see him, his hair, his skin, his eyelashes. Too close. Not close enough. 

He doesn't realize he's just standing there, staring at Martin's form from the doorway, because his brain is too loud.

\---

Martin keeps his eyes closed, and he’s close to drifting off, but not close enough to _not_ notice that nothing’s changed, and Jon’s either standing there stuck in his head or off into the office. 

His voice is muffled slightly by the jacket, and he doesn’t open his eyes, but he’s stern. Easier to justify it, tired. “If you go and sleep on the floor instead I’ll kill you, Jon. Either kick me out or get in. If - if you don’t sleep I’m not accountable for your mood, and I’m _not_ getting you breakfast.”

\---

Martin's voice jolts him from his revery, and he jumps slightly. Stammers out something incomprehensible and then takes the short steps across the room to hover over the cot. He huffs. 

"I wasn't going to sleep on the floor," He mumbles and very, very slowly slides into the cot, his muscles tight and tense. He doesn't want to jostle Martin, to be rude on accident, to be overly familiar. "I was just looking at you."

\---

Martin doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say to that. He’s too busy trying to even out his heartbeat before Jon touches him, and it’s sort of _pounding_ so that’s not much of an option. 

“It’s easier to look at someone when the lights aren’t off, Jon,” Martin says, and he says it in a way that’s almost bitchy, straight-up, only because he thinks it might be the only way Jon will snap out of it. Not that Martin really, really wants him to, but for the sake of maturity it’s the right thing to do. 

They need sleep. Naps earlier don’t erase the debt.

\---

"I didn't _intend_ to do it," He bitches back, and pulls his glasses off and rests them with deliberation against the wall under the cot, so he doesn't step on them when he wakes up. 

In the darkness of this room, so close, his voice is too much, an intimacy that freaks him out. He could smell Martin's _breath_ if he wanted to, and that sends a cold jolt of panic down his nervous system. 

"So, sorrrry. Good night."

\---

Martin snorts, content with Jon’s toothless attempt to bite back. He settles in, and it’s easy enough now that he’s _letting_ himself, and sighs. “Night, Jon. Thank you.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love blooms under the watchful gaze of the Eye.... Be a shame if someone ruined Jon's chair. But not today.

The morning is crisp, with the kind of breeze that speaks only of omens and possibility, and it's the latter that has Elias' steps all but bouncing as he makes his way down to his Archivist's - Well, _Archivists'_ , he thinks happily - office. 

It isn't quite that he wants to scare the little lovebirds; quite the contrary. He wants to assure them that they're in safe hands. That everything is being taken into account. That their perception of their cage is merely the guiding hand of a benevolent teacher, a caretaker even. 

He's never been quite so hands-on with his _Archivist_. But it's high time, and if the fact that the Watcher gave him _two_ at once is any indication, the Crown will fit secure upon one of their scalps. Might not even need thorns to keep it in place. Always a much better look without the blood, anyways. 

But he's getting caught up in extravagant mental imagery. Blame it on the celebratory fancy pour-over coffee he bought on the way to the Institute today. He deserves it, though; Jonathan Sims is a pretentious, vile little handful in the best of moods, and he has yet to try to pin down Blackwood; truth be told, he hadn't seen much potential in him besides his exemplary resumé of being the exact kind of social, ah, _loser_ , that necessitates being employed in his Archival department. So he has his work cut out for him, balancing his ideal candidate for the Crown and this new, unknown factor. 

His knock on the office is polite, but pointedly so; the kind of authoritative knock that jostles you into standing to attention, knowing you're being surveilled and judged. It makes Elias _giddy_.

\---

Martin jolts his way into consciousness, like slamming to the ground in a dream just before impact. At first he just makes an indignant noise, face burrowed into warm fabric he doesn't want to leave, but then he gains his thought processes back. 

One, he's nuzzling up against Jon's back right now, and two, Sasha and Tim don't knock like _that_. Martin sighs out an "oh, fuck," as he presses his forehead against Jon for one more second and completely detaches the next, hurrying to put on something presentable. 

"Jon, get up," he whispers hurriedly, gently slapping his shoulder to make sure he's awake. "There's someone at the door."

\---

The second he feels Martin move, Jon sits up straight, the movement so fast he sees stars for a few seconds as his eyes try to focus on the spinning world around him. 

"Wha' time's it?" He mumbles, and fumbles under the cot for his glasses, the movement making him bend over and jab his feet into Martin's thighs. He's too half-asleep to register the intimate domesticity, too harried as he tries to find the cardigan he'd thrown on the floor yesterday and wrap it around his shoulders. "An' who is it?"

\---

"I don't know," Martin continues in the same low tone, buttoning up his shirt next to the cot. "It's not-- I think it's Elias, Jon." 

He tries to keep the serious gravity out of his voice, but he's not exactly prepared for this if he's right. "Is - is my hair alright?"

\---

"Your hair's always alright," Jon responds immediately, and slides off the cot, stretching slowly to the sky. Forgive him for not necessarily pretending to have an air of professionalism around Elias anymore. 

He looks out the open door of the safe room, out into the office, and nods. "It's Elias." 

The lights of the office flick on on his way to the front door, and he slips on a pair of loafers just before opening the door, his expression the very definition of unamused. 

And, as they thought, Elias stands there with a bland smile plastered to his face, the smug bastard look pairing nicely with the dark navy suit. 

"Good morning, Jon." His sharp eyes rake over his appearance, and, if possible, the smugness in his features grow. "Late start to the day?" 

"Tends to happen when you succumb to a Leitner," Jon growls, and can't feel how hard he's holding onto the doorframe.

\---

Martin nearly snaps out a "That's not what I _mean_ " but he bites down on his tongue, because they have better things to worry about than how presentable Martin is. No one worries about how presentable Martin is. 

It takes him longer to sort of stand up against the wall by the doorway where Elias can't see him, and he feels very much like an awkward third wheel to an intense couple's spat. He figures it might be better to let Jon handle this until he's roped in, too, and he's not sure if Elias has even heard or seen him yet.

\---

Elias hums, and gives Jon a placating smile. "No need to be hostile, Jon. So early in the morning, too." 

Jon ticks his jaw and pulls back from the door to look at Martin, and says, his voice flat, "Martin. How early is it."

\---

Martin sends Jon the dirtiest glare he's ever done in his life, and answers, monotone. He remembers, in his haste, he'd seen a screen light up at one point. "I think it's about eleven, _Jon_."

\---

"... Hm." Jon hums, none too pleased. He can't exactly fault Elias for coming up to him during work hours. He assumed it was early, crack of dawn early. 

Elias' eyes widen comically, and he cranes his head through the door, mock shock crowding his face. "Mr. Blackwood! What a surprise. I knew Jon had been staying in the Archives, but I wasn't aware _you_ were."

\---

Martin waves politely, moving into sight, pushing Jon's back a little so he'll move out of the way. Cat's out of the bag, might as well kill it. "Er, temporarily. I had... bug problems. Should be fixed soon."

\---

"Ah. Quite. Well, I'm certainly glad you made it out safely. It would be such a shame for you to have to use any more vacation time up, and so early in the year." 

Jon glares at him.

\---

"Wouldn't it?" Martin says cheerily, "I love working here, I try to keep it down. Felt it'd be better for my work if I stayed close, save a few extra trips in the morning... so." 

He feels awkwardly put on the spot, only because he's not used to someone else who can see through it next to him, someone else being Jon, paying him any attention, while he does... this. Acts differently. "Did you need something, Elias?"

\---

"Is it not enough to check in on my treasured employees? You _do_ realize how unorthodox sleeping in the Archives is, yes?" Elias clears his throat, the plastered smile never waving. Oh, how delicious this is. The embarrassment, the underlying waves of fear that even his prodigal Archivist holds just under his skin, vibrating, even though he's spent _years_ under his tutelage... It's hard not to laugh. Difficult not to just begin speaking and speaking and speaking. But there _is_ such a pleasure in keeping it all close to his breast. 

Besides. They're not ready to blossom quite yet. Faster than he's ever seen, perhaps, but from what he's gathered about Jon's peculiar little predicament, it makes sense. It makes him want to shiver in his shoes; his plans can be moved up exponentially. 

He holds up a manila folder, waggling it slightly. And _oh_ , how Jonathan Sims eyes go hungry. Elias can only wonder how far along he was, in his quaint hell of a future. A pusher to a junkie. It's excellent. "I have a few statements for your... perusal. They weren't in the normal filing systems; you should probably add them to your list."

\---

"Unorthodox job calls for unorthodox..." Martin says quietly, but he trails off, eyeing the folder for a short second before turning his attention as subtly as possible toward Jon's direction. 

Martin's in no position to grab it, he's still Jon's assistant at the end of the day, but he wants Jon to get on with it as fast as possible so Elias will leave them alone. He actually... hadn't interacted much with him, since Jon came out as a time traveler, pointing out how evil he supposedly was, but now that he's looking for it... at the very least, he's uncomfortable.

\---

Jon takes the folder when Elias offers it to him, tucking it under his arm and giving a short nod. They watch each other for a moment, and then Jon says, "I'd like access to funds to purchase extra fire extinguishers and CO2 canisters". 

Elias raises a carefully manicured eyebrow. "Is this something you Know you need, Jon?" 

"Yes." Jon says, and his smile is tight, fake, an artificial to the point of a grimace. "Wouldn't want Martin's bug problem extending here."

\---

Martin watches. He's good at being a fly on the wall. It's interesting to see how they interact, how a thousand secret conversations are happening in front of them. They sure do have so many words that are just words but capitalized, don't they? 

Oh, they're _fighting_. 

Martin smiles sweetly from his position by the wall, but he's smiling more at Jon than anything else. Jon can't _see_ it, from where he is, but it's encouragement nonetheless. He seems to be handling it just fine for someone prone to bouts of incoherence.

\---

"It _would_ be a pity. Thank the heavens neither of you have gotten sick." Elias peers into the office once more and scrutinizes Martin for a moment, raking his eyes a little _too_ closely at him. His smile turns beaming. "If the workload is too heavy, Jon, do have Martin help you with recordings, hm? It might... Expedite the mess Gertrude has left us in." 

“Yes, well, luckily I've devised a system for filing," Jon waves a hand at him. "We'll be fine." He breathes in deeply and says stiffly, "Thank you. For. Your concern." Elias waves him off and takes a step back from the door.

\---

Martin feels it, that prodding and intense _look_ , and decides he has something very specific to say about it the second Elias leaves. It can wait, though. It can wait. 

He perks up, genuinely, at his name. Elias invites him to collaborate on the project, that's... well, it's not odd. Not in the slightest. But it's only not odd if he's working under the assumption that Elias might know things he's not about to share. 

"Have a good day, Elias," Martin says breezily, trying to get him to leave politely. A hundred words are threatening to burst out of him, some questions, some comments, a surprising thing from him. To have to hold back initiating it instead of shying away.

\---

Elias gives a short wave, and a small laugh. "See, Jon? A little politeness would do you wonders. Martin is _so_ much more charming than you even _try_ to be." He steps back enough that Jon has the chance to close the door, and does so the moment it won't be misconstrued as rude to slam the door in his boss' face. 

He doesn't really much care if it _does_ slam in his face. 

The second they're alone, he breathes out, running the pads of his thumb across his fingertips. "Christ, he's so much less infuriating when he's in prison," He mumbles, and leans up against the narrow bookshelf that sits just to the right of the door.

\---

Stepping over the can of worms that is the future, Martin holds in the tiniest of laughs until he's sure Elias can't hear them, at least not in the normal way. 

"He - he has a bit of a point, though," he teases, then quickly follows it up with something he'd been bursting to say. "I think he just Eyefucked me," he says, and then regains his composure enough to clear his throat. To say the last part like some stalwart professor adding an aside. "With an uppercase E. To clarify."

\---

The look of irritated weariness falls from Jon's face all but immediately, confusion and then shock passing over him in equal waves. Pulling himself off from the bookshelf, he blinks owlishly at Martin, and says, "Eye? Fucked? You think Elias was... Checking you out?" 

"Martin, I'm not sure predators really _check_ people out. Not that you're not worth the effort, but--" He cuts himself off before he babbles something incoherent.

\---

"Not - not like _that_ ," Martin scoffs out, flustered through it. "I meant, you know, capital E - _Eye_ , I-I meant he was looking right at me and not in a _normal_ way people without something weird about them do." 

He looks down to mess with the edges of his shirtsleeve, and he's too busy trying to convince him of the first fact he doesn't even hear the compliment. "That's not what I meant, it was-- I can't _replicate_ it, obviously. Don't look at me like that."

\---

Jon blinks slowly, and a smile spreads across his face, a laugh escaping him despite his best efforts. Even in the macabre realization that Elias _knows_ about Martin's involvement with the Beholder, it's just-- 

"He hasn't seen you since you started reading statements," Jon says around the laugh, and by increments, forces himself to sober up. "Probably gauging how human you are, yet."

\---

Martin's entire face is tinged with embarrassment. All he wants to do is crawl back into bed. "That's _worse_ somehow, I'd rather have a boss who checks me out in the normal way," he grumbles, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. Trying not to be testy about it.

\---

"Trust me," Jon says, and gets no too-little pleasure from imagining Elias listening to them right now. "I'm fairly certain Elias' affections lie elsewhere. You're safe from _that_ aspect of him." 

No idea where this decent - nay, even _good_ \- mood has come from, Jon steps away from the door, and sets the manila folder on the desk, opening it up to glance at some of the statement headers.

\---

"Jon." Martin says it as sternly as possible. "I'm not _worried_ about it. I _know_ . It-- there's no other word for it, for looking someone up and down and making sure they know it. It was heavy on the _Eye_ , not the _fucked_." 

He waits for Jon to share what's in the folder instead of glancing over his shoulder to see, because he figures if it's important he'll get to that point anyway. No rush.

\---

"Yes, well, get used to it. Elias has 'plans'. It's creepy; but he's useful." He says, almost flippantly, his attention focusing in on the statements. Most he's read; it's a collection of nearly ten. A couple he pulls and slides away from him, knowing immediately they're useless. 

He doesn't have the knack for choosing quite yet, for Feeling the potency of statements, but hindsight is a useful quality, and he knows some of these are Elias' excruciating attempts at red herring false leads that he doesn't feel like following.

\---

Martin, in an effort to mentally scan through yesterday's events again to remember where he is, sits down at Jon's desk and waits. Rests his knuckles against his temple with his elbow on the desk, at peace with it because technically Martin did do something very, very horrible last night, but also Jon _did_ do it right back - out in the street, forcing out things he doesn't even want to repeat in his memories. 

So he doesn't feel bad about taking the seat from him. "Anything good?" He says like he's not interested, but mostly he's just trying to parse consciousness.

\---

Jon pulls his attention from the folders to blink questioningly at Martin, his voice not quite penetrating his focus for a second. He comes to, and shrugs. "Leitners. That will prove useful; I'll have to record those." He begins sorting, and in another pile, "The Unknowing. Not a lot, yet. Not what I want."

\---

Martin hangs onto Jon's words as if waiting for him to extend an invitation. For help. For Martin to help. "He probably just wanted an excuse to check up on us, considering - um. Room, and all."

\---

"The statements were an excuse to check up on our rooming situation, which was likely an excuse to look at _you_. You weren't his intended Archivist." 

Jon hovers his hand over a couple statements and eventually seems to linger on one, passing it over and giving him a slightly unsettling grin. "Hilltop road for breakfast?" 

The rest, he puts back in the manila, sorted through for a later date; Jane Prentiss is more immediate, and very little of the Corruption has been put to audio yet.

\---

"See, he _was_ checking me out," Martin says, satisfied with the confirmation. He lifts up the statement and sits back in the chair, glancing over a portion of it before looking back to Jon. 

The discomforting implication is lost on him, because Jon's chosen to include him. Martin returns a smile, but it's almost sappy. "Sure. You want a tape for this one, right?"

\---

"All of them. Always. So the next Archivist doesn't have to wade through _muck_ like I did, inheriting Gertrude's mess." 

He stands still, hovering over the desk and clearly mulling something through, and after a while, he clears his throat and says, "I think I'll go to the tunnels again today. Since my last trip was so fruitless."

\---

"Oh. Wait. Are you not reading this with me?" He makes an effort to hide his disappointment. Martin forgot about the _tunnels_. 

"I— Not without someone _with_ you, since last time you were knocked unconscious for nearly a week and it just happened to overlap with me getting held _hostage_ , Jon. How is that a good idea?"

\---

Jon waves his hand flippantly, and then twitches slightly, his eyes widening somewhat. "Do you-- you want to read the statement _together_?" Not that he hasn't had Daisy in the room with him, but it's-- 

Different, somehow.

\---

Well, this day is shaping up to be as tumultuous as yesterday, and it's barely begun. Martin softens, content with Jon putting the tunnels aside for this. For him. For the statement.

"Yes. Sure, um. How would that work? Is - is there a specific way to do that, for clarity's sake? On the tape."

\---

Jon hums, and then shakes his head. "Hard to stop, once you've begun. I suppose you'll just read it to me. And the tape." He feels a slight indecisiveness at this but, after a night's sleep, it's clear he can't very well _stop_ Martin. And if Elias' visit is any indication, he doubts Elias will allow Martin to cease... Archiving. 

He files it all away for later. Useless to get worked up so early in the day. He hasn't even had tea yet, for God's sake.

\---

"Okay," Martin says like he's been given a very important job, ignoring the warnings Jon's given him before. It's just _one_. It's irresponsible, maybe, but he's read parts of statements out loud before. It never made him feel any type of way, and it was mostly just for fun. 

"I should make something first. Hot water. Do you - do you want something to drink?"

\---

"Tea. Caffeine will do us well." He sits across from a chair that is slowly becoming Martin's throne, propping his feet up onto the desk to spread out, any decorum he once had long, long gone. "Cigarettes, too, if you've got any. I'm out."

\---

Martin hums in acknowledgment, getting up to check the extra room for one of his coat pockets. He makes a satisfied noise as he comes back in with a pack to throw on the desk. "Be right back." 

And then he's out the door. Martin spends most of the time leaning over the counter in the office kitchen drumming a finger on it impatiently, but eventually he gets to come back, and I'm not going into the details of Martin's tea-making process right now. I'll say it's to point out how rushed he is to get back to Jon and not just me being extremely lazy. 

He left the office door cracked so he could walk back in without needing to open it, and starts to settle in again. There's anticipation written in his body language, in every part of him, like he's about to give a presentation. For some kind of grade.

\---

Jon takes the tea gratefully, and sets it in front of him. While Martin was gone, he got the tape recorder set up and cleared some of the perpetual mess to the sides of the desk, to give them more space with which to work with. Not that statements needed a lot of work space, but-- the principal of the thing stands. He needed something to do with his hands while he waited. 

He smokes, and watches Martin settle in, a look of fondness plastered to his face like it's been woven into his very pores via threads by some artistically minded God. "Ready?"

\---

Martin nods. He feels like-- It's weird, but he feels like he's watching himself do something, separated from himself. Like he's present in the room, but observing the scene from a corner instead. 

But Jon is smiling in a way Martin's never seen before, never had aimed at him before. He never wants it to stop. 

Martin presses to record, sitting forward as the box whirs to life. 

"Statement of... Father Edwin Burroughs, regarding his own demonic possession. Original statement given..." Martin reads off the date, and the words are somehow crystal clear and make him woozy all at once. "May 30th, 2011. Recorded by Martin Blackwood, Archival Assistant under the supervision of Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist, at the Magnus Institute, London." He figures it pays to be thorough. 

He starts reading, and he's not lost in it, per-se, but focused. He finds it easy to put real intonation in it, to talk conversationally rather than stiff recitation of words. 

It's not until he gets to the point where he thinks his own thought that he realizes how invested he'd been. There's a part where a word gets caught in his throat, won't come out, that Martin has to pause at. "’—firm up my belief in the Devil and my faith in my Lo- L—’" He thinks, for one second, that he might not be able to say it, either. 

He looks at Jon, for something. Encouragement? Signs that he's doing it right? That this is how Jon wants him to do it.

\---

It's a strange thing, to watch someone read statements live. In the thrall of them, eagerly digesting them, it's as natural as breathing, as normal as blinking. Watching Martin wrap into the words, though, has him curious. He wonders if he looks like this, nearly embodying the voice of the statement and its person. 

Part of him feels sick, to see Martin do this. Part of him is elated, obsessed, captivated. It's a hard thing to balance, and he focuses on the statement instead. He doubts listening to a second-hand story spoken by someone else is as potent as directly reading them himself, but even so, having had read this before, he finds himself mouthing the words, a rhythm worming its way through him, despite not looking at the page. 

When he catches on Burroughs'... Ah, affliction, and looks up at Jon, he waves a hand, nodding somberly. He remembers this one, the way the word closed around his throat and he'd had to move on, to skip across it like the devil was in him, too.

\---

"’I'm sorry, it won't let me say the words.’" Martin says with his eyes on Jon, like they're his words instead, and then turns back to the page. 

It's not until he's deeply in, where Bethany's exorcism takes a turn, that he realizes how heavy his breaths are. There's panic there, like he has two sets of eyes and one set isn't his, it's Burroughs’, but not enough to put him there completely. Those ones are glazed over. It's just... it feels like the vaguest heightened empathy. 

Without thinking, Martin flexes a palm in the air by the desk to rid himself of the way he's sweating just a little, just before a fever breaks. "’I was starting to grow very hot, as though the room was heating up very rapidly…’" And he's blessedly relieved that when he reads off, "’my skin began to crackle and burn’," mostly all he feels is pity. 

But then all at once, it stops. "’It was the first time I experienced— ‘" and Martin halts abruptly, too, surprised by the way it ends. He turns the paper over, finds nothing, is able to make eye contact with Jon again. 

"Um, it's gone. This is only half of it."

\---

Jon watches him, and anticipates the abrupt end with a short inhalation, running his fingers through his hair as the strange, otherworldly space the statement occupies in his brain snaps. He sits back, and nods. "It's somewhere. I'll have to find it again. Dreadful cannibalism under the thrall of hallucinations," Jon waves a few fingers. "Spiral. Maybe the Flesh."

\---

"Um," Martin says again, blinking a few times. And then he laughs, light and floaty, running a hand through his hair in a way that just makes it messier. His pupils are still blown, a bit, the way they'd been the last time he and Jon spoke between a tape recorder. 

Speaking of, Martin reaches over and stops the thing. He's still bending forward, leaning over the desk, when he grins at Jon. 

"You think Elias wants us to go looking for it?"

\---

"Yes, well-- I imagine he does. It's in one of these files--" He gestures to the general office, keeping his attention on Martin. "You're awfully chipper for someone who just read a statement about possession." The energy is infectious, and he wants to read a statement himself, to match this, to feed their God. 

Martin looks good like this. It surprised Jon; there's a frantic energy about him that's hard to look away from, and he finds himself leaning forward too, elbows propped on the desk.

\---

"I like being helpful, I feel very helpful right now," Martin says, and it's not that he's saying it _fast_ , it's just that he's trying to convert this restless surge of energy into something just as productive as archiving, so it comes off the tiniest bit tilted. "Maybe in a thousand years they'll figure out how to engineer a tape player and it'll still be intact. I think about that sometimes, when I'm putting things away in, you know, the acid-free bags. How they'll outlast me if I do my job right. That makes me feel helpful." 

Martin hovers there with both hands palm-down on the desk, and he's looking at Jon. 

"And I like when you pay attention to me."

\---

Jon's smile is a slow, deliberate Cheshire cat-like thing. The kind of slow-drawn confidence that he rarely rarely has. "I like paying attention to you," He says lowly, and breaches the table to put his hands over top of Martin's, like a strange seance is about to commence.

\---

It's the oddest thing, really, that Martin wants to tell the truth. That he has no compulsion to hide it, to dumb it down, to ignore it. He's not compelled, he's just _open_. He thinks most of it is him, just him, at least - it's nothing he doesn't already know. Admitting it is always the hard part. 

He's not even sure it has anything to do with what he just did, but for all Jon tried to frighten him about this, he doesn't feel frightened at all. The fear was never his, it was someone else's, someone who wanted help to get it out. Coming back to himself after that whole ordeal actually makes him feel like a living, unique person. "I like that you like paying attention to me," he parrots back, "and I like your hands. I like being in your office with you. I like being on Earth, I like talking to you." He laughs a little, sighs on the last breath. "I feel really good right now." 

So sorry to Burroughs.

\---

Jon doesn't know what to do with that. No one's ever _spoken_ to him like this. Like he's wanted, not just a quantified factor to be accounted for. A necessary but unwanted factor of life. He doesn't realize he starts to rub his thumbs across the back of Martin's hands, his eyes wide and his expression nothing short of doting. 

"I feel surprisingly good right now, too." He says, his voice still low and a surprising heat in his cheeks. "God knows I-I shouldn't, but I do. You make me feel like things could be _good._ like I want them to be good."

\---

Martin's smile widens, and there's some _weird_ unspoken game of chicken at play here, but Martin's content enough where he is. 

"I feel like I know you, like - like I _already_ know you. Not— there's no capital K's there, it's not like _that_ . It's _bizarre_." He pauses, but not because he's planning to say anything, because he's waiting for the first thing that comes to mind. "I like when you get your voice to do that."

\---

Heat pools somewhere, but Jon isn't thinking about that. For once, his mind doesn't wander. For once, he's focused, laser tuned, to the present and the now. His smile grows lazier, cockier, and it softens his face, the tense-borne wrinkles disappearing and making him look his age for once. 

"Do you now." It's not a question. But it is in the same low voice. Martin is the only one it doesn't feel like a facade, a facsimile to. "I think you're the only one who's ever known me."

\---

Martin watches his face with rapt attention, and he's not thinking about how foreign this all feels, how complicated it all is, he's riding the high. Even though he's got the height advantage on Jon right now, it feels like he's somehow equal and smaller all at once. 

It makes him feel safe in the least safe way imaginable. Martin's good at masking things, at keeping his emotions and his expressions in check, But Jon's chipping away at it. Doing a damn good job of it, too. Martin can't help but swallow. It's obvious in his face, in the way his fingers tense a little beneath Jon's, he wants him to keep doing it. 

Martin tries to return the smile, but he can't match the way Jon's doing it. He tries. He's acquiescing. "That means I get to keep you, right?" His voice is dry, especially after the statement. It's so new for him, all of this, and he wants to test it, figure the situation - and Jon - out like a puzzle, but he's genuinely concerned that Jon might actually be a bit ahead here. Well, not concerned. He likes it. A bit too much. But he's not sure how to handle it.

\---

Jon shivers. He's not quite certain it's something he's felt before. It doesn't matter, really, because he's feeling it now. "If you'll have me," He says, and he can't hide the hope from his voice as does.

\---

"Maybe," Martin says, getting back into his groove with Jon a little more strung along. "Depends." He wants Jon to push back, he does, if just for the sake of understanding the spectrum of his behaviors. To see him riled up without it having something to do with outright hatred. 

He feels so bold. Maybe Jon just tried to get him to shy away from statements to keep them all to himself. It made him feel so great. Selfish bastard. He's afraid to ask about it, to bring attention to it, to snap Jon out of the weird-normal they're starting to establish. Talks of the future tend to do that.

\---

Jon leans forward some, and he's nearly on the edge of the chair. If this is a repeat situation, them sitting in these chairs, he'll have to invest in a better 'guest' chair, if only to save his poor back from the anguish of resting against hard, unforgiving wood. 

"What does it depend on, Martin?"

\---

Martin shrugs, but it's not the indifferent kind. He slides his hands out from under Jon's to replace them at the top, tilting his head smugly. "I don't know yet, Jon." He blinks again. "Wow, I feel fantastic. Um." 

And he's embarrassed there, too, now that he's moved his hands. His usual demeanor is threatening to crawl back in. "Talking like that's a good start. I think. Well-- There's other things, but, you know."

\---

Jon feels like a furnace. The bright morning light washing in from the small upper window behind the desk is too bright, almost. Martin's features are honeyed; this would be easier to navigate if he couldn't see just the way Martin tilts his head, just the way his movements drive Jon wild. 

His hands feel like liquid molten lava, and he melts under the swap of their hands. "We can talk like that," He says quietly, follows it up with, "I like this."

\---

"Oh. I meant-- " Martin lifts one hand off Jon and pushes his hair back again, reveling in the extra warmth he can't get without touching someone. He's usually got it under control, but only when he's seen a mirror once before human interaction. Oh. Jon's dipping this into romantic territory. Martin's in a different place. Light's different at his angle. "What you were doing. Earlier."

\---

"Well," Jon begins, and flips their hands again; his on top, Martin's on the bottom. "If that's what you like." It's not even _hard_ , is the thing. Talking like this, dancing around it in direct terms like ballet, it's easier to fall into a strange cadence that feels sleep-worn, confident, low.

\---

"Jon," Martin sighs. "I'm _not_ putting my hands over yours again, but I'm just letting you know that I've - I've done it in spirit." Jon's calm is bringing him down a notch, like it's a sickness. 

"And-- I do. Like it." Martin says, compliant as he sits back a little to ease the strain on his lower back.

\---

Something tense breaks, and Jon laughs, embarrassment creeping into the tail end of it. He doesn't get it, not entirely, but he's starting to think that maybe there's some things that can't be fully understood. Maybe that's good for a creature like him. Maybe that's Martin's greatest comfort to him. He _likes_ how unpredictable he can be, in a way that shakes Jon around and keeps him light on his feet. He can't get lazy with this one. Complacent. It's invigorating. "Okay. You win."

\---

"Of course I win," Martin scoffs, "I don't start it if I don't think I have a good chance, Jon." He pulls his hands out, as much as it rips him into pieces, and shakes it out. "We should find the second part, shouldn't we? Finish it off?"

\---

Jon leans back once Martin pulls away, his brow hiking upwards. "Two in one day's still a lot, Martin." but he's getting up already, the knowledge that technically he hasn't read one today deeply embedded into his skin.

\---

"Would it work if you picked it up from there, mid-statement?" Martin looks hopeful, like he wants Jon to be where he is, where he's floating. But he's curious for the sake of curiosity regardless, because all of this is a little fascinating. If he didn't like knowing things, he wouldn't have tried working here, anyway.

\---

Jon shrugs. "I still don't know the science of it. And whatever effects I _once_ felt-- I can't tell if I feel them less because I've technically _read_ them already, or if I'm just not... N-not as hungry yet. Haven't whetted my appetite yet." 

He looks behind him as he gets up, squinting at Martin. "Your reaction is... Didn't happen to... To me. I was _exhausted_ reading them. At first."

\---

"Your sample size is one, isn't it? Or - or two, if you count Gertrude-- No, wait. I don't know _how_ she felt doing them." Martin fidgets with the tape recorder on the desk to have something to do with his hands. "We won't know the science of it unless we take it apart, and - and I feel like there's, um, with us, it could be - it could be fun to compare, and, I don't know, build a framework? Nobody writes this stuff _down_. No wonder they have so much fear to feed off, it's a lot easier to be afraid of things you don't u-understand." 

He shrinks back in the chair a little, getting shy after running his mouth for so long. Shy that Jon's pointing out his reaction. He'd just been living in it, not analyzing it. "Sorry."

\---

"Don't be." Jon says, stilling where he stands, listening, thinking, eyes wide. He hadn't thought of that. It's-- 

He thinks of how lost he's been for the last few years. How alone and adrift this has been. How if there's a future Archivist-- God forbid-- he'd want them to have a _guide_ , to have the necessary steps and information to _decide._ It prickles at his id, a sensation of _record, document, preserve_ that's always been as natural as breathing to him, enhanced by the Eye's strange methodical sensations of Knowing. 

"That's smart. I guess I assumed-- stupid, really, to assume these things-- that it would all be the same. Even though--" He laughs, light and airy and _excited_ as he filters through everything Martin's implying. "Even though Gertrude resisted more and-- and Elias, his abilities are different, and it seems _Gerard_ had everything but just _lesser_ \-- Each person reacting to the Fear differently makes _sense._ "

\---

_That's smart,_ Martin replays in his own head, smiling to himself instead of wallowing in his own embarrassment. "After I read it, I was just glad to be alive, here, with - with you. I came back to being... to being _me_ and I didn't immediately hate it. I liked it, for... once." Martin clears his throat. "The only issue is that it's not _done_. The recording. It can't finish without the last half, we don't know how it ends."

\---

"Oh, yes, well--" He spins to look at the filing cabinets he'd been hacking away at, trying to remember if he'd seen the file when he'd begun to separate everything to their specific entities. "I have to find it. Really missing when I could just Know things." He starts pulling cabinets open, rifling through folders.

\---

"Thank you for having these ordered, by the way," Martin points out as he watches Jon's back, "makes the office look lived-in, but not-- Well, as chaotic." 

He hasn't had the chance to rummage through all the cabinets himself yet, so he's not about to get in Jon's way while he's actively looking for something. As messy as he appears to be, Martin understands there's always been some sort of system with him. 

Seated at the desk, with Jon looking for something for _him_ , though, it makes Martin imagine how he must look when the positions are switched. It actually gets him to laugh, just a little, stifled by the hand he's brushing over his mouth. It's like - like they accidentally started roleplaying, or something.

\---

Jon pauses mid-way through sorting through a folder, cocking his head at Martin as he cranes his head to look at him. "What." 

He squints quickly at the folder in his hand and shoves it back into the filing cabinet, grabbing another blindly to check while he still keeps himself angled towards Martin.

\---

Martin perks up from his thoughts, bringing his hand down to his lap. “What?”

\---

"You laughed." Jon narrows his eyes. "While I look through the files."

\---

“I wasn’t-- Not at you,” Martin says, halting under the weight of scrutinization. “At-- I don’t know how to explain it. I’m not laughing at you.”

\---

Jon watches him for another moment and then nods. "Okay." And returns to searching for another moment before pulling a file out victoriously, scanning the top few lines and looking away before he gets caught up in the cadence of Burroughs. "Found it. Are you reading it? Or me."

\---

“Oh! I-I can finish it, unless you want to, I’m fine either way,” Martin says, but he’s eyeing the papers with piqued interest. “You shared them with me, it’s your job, so it’s - it’s sort of not up to me, isn’t it?”

\---

Jon purses his lips and straightens, coming back to the desk. "Finish it." He sits and, before handing it over, he squints somewhat. "I mean-- it _is_ up to you. You-- you get that we can _compromise_ on things, right? I know, I know, _technically_ I'm your boss, but employment papers and job duties didn't exactly extend to... To this. I want-- you realize I don't want to just.... Lord you about anymore, right?"

\---

Martin startles at what _sounds_ like a command, almost, but then Jon’s following it up with… with all of _that_ , and it’s strangely endearing. “Oh, I-I wouldn’t say yes if I didn’t want to, and - Yes, Jon, I know. I mean that this is _your_ project. It was your idea, recording them. If you want it to just stay yours, you don’t have to include me. That’s - that’s what I meant.”

\---

"Oh." He says, and then shrugs, trying to cover up the embarrassment flooding into his expression. He drums his fingers on the desk. Maybe he _does_ need to record at some point today. 

But he kind of has a desire to watch Martin fall into the statement again. It was captivating, somehow, in ways he doesn't know how to understand yet. 

"Well, we kind of have to record them. I think. It's less-- I think the Eye _wants_ them recorded, you know."

\---

“If it’s ‘we’ to you, then I’m okay with that. I think, even though, yes, the Eye wants it,” Martin says, continuing as he stands up, rolls his shoulders, and picks up the guest chair with both hands. “The Eye wants it, but I like it, because I’m helping make sense of it all, and you - you get to keep it all organized, and then-- “ He puts it down on Jon’s side, comfortably close to Jon’s own chair. “--As we go on, I think we can figure things out. I’m going to _guess_ it was harder to do alone, the - the first time.” 

Martin sits down, grabs the stack of papers in one hand. “We don’t _have_ to record them. Even if it feels like it, even if there’s some weird - weird fear-god pulling strings. If they had complete control, they wouldn’t have to work so hard to keep us afraid of them.”

\---

Jon watches him silently, and something seems to have solidified, something has settled, and he's quiet for a long moment. 

These gestures, these movements Martin makes, they stutter him to a stop and have a habit of catching him so off guard as to almost shift the fabrics of reality. And the longer it happens, the more comfortable he gets with it. He nods, nods again, and then says, "We're recording them. Eye or no Eye. I want something left behind when-- It's just the best idea."

\---

“I know!” Martin says brightly. “You’re the only entity I care about - about _Assisting_ .” He realizes, maybe, that that’s _not_ appropriate, it’s a bad joke, but he tries to smile in a way that shows he doesn’t mean it in any other way but friendly. Martin reaches one hand over to bring the tape closer on this side, to make sure it picks up his voice.

\---

"Is entity better or worse than 'monster?'" Jon asks, and then blinks, surprised at how _light_ he can be around Martin. He fidgets in his seat, leaning closer to where Martin is.

\---

“I’m - I’m using entity by definition, like you exist, you’re alive. Not-- “ Martin snorts. “I’m not sure you _could_ ever be a-a monster, Jon.” He thinks about Michael, in the library. Had he always been that way? Jon’s only crime was being off his rocker often enough to keep Martin on his toes.

\---

Jon's expression sobers. "Martin," He begins, and sighs, because he _knows_ it's not the time, but it's important. He laughs, and continues tightly, "I _am_ one. To insist otherwise would be a lie. A-anyway. Let's read."

\---

Martin meets Jon’s invitation to read with silence, and he looks to Jon with a serious flatness that takes real effort to maintain. 

And then he backhands Jon’s shoulder. It’s not _hard_ , by any means, but it’s pointed, and before Jon gets to say anything about it, before he gets the chance, Martin starts the recording. Jon’s not allowed to argue right now. He’s still glaring at Jon when he starts talking. 

“Continuation of Father Edwin Burrough’s statement regarding a demonic possession. Original statement given May 30th, 2011. Recording continued by Martin Blackwood, Archival Assistant under the supervision of Jonathan Sims…” 

A few more words and he loses the ability to focus clearly on Jon, a subtle, far-away focus seeping deeper and deeper into his tone until he finally has to look down at the statement instead.

\---

Martin is damned lucky Jon respects the sanctity of the statements. But he can't even be mad; by the first paragraph, he's back in it, his chest clawing painfully at the secondhand reading. It isn't as potent as when _he_ reads, when _he_ takes interviews, but there's residual.... Power.... To these Real statements, not dissimilar to blowing the smoke of a joint into someone else's mouth. Muted, but still does the job.

The unease that grips him is hypnotizing, and once more he finds himself mouthing the words in time with Martin's cadence, the emotional outpouring of Burroughs' experience with the entities a near-real thing in his own breast.

A faraway place in his mind looks at Martin through this haze and sees something powerful, something regal, and it's only fitting he gets the Head Archivist chair. By the time they've reached the middle of the statement, Jon has shifted, facing Martin head on, his eyes following each movement of Martin's mouth in rapt attention, rapt devotion.

\---

The headaches, the tears, the nausea, the _vertigo_ , Martin has to use his free hand to grip tightly onto the seat of his chair to keep stable, the terror of his own sins listed back to him - sins that weren’t _Martin’s_ , but _were_ \- with intense clarity, 

“‘I could have left. I know that now. I know that my will and my actions were my own, and even at the time I knew that what I was seeing was so wrong. So very wrong, but…’” As Burroughs pauses to breathe in his own statement, Martin manages a glance in Jon’s direction, to sit on that for a minute. To make sure Jon hears it, really hears it. 

Burroughs hands sweat so much, Martin notes from his secondhand perspective, like he’s an audience in the room. One who, well, somehow shares firsthand feelings. He ends up releasing his hand from the seat to shake it out as he reads, and spends the rest of the statement switching off his hands to fight off the feeling. It’s _gross_.

“...’Thank you for your time’.” 

Martin doesn’t say ‘Statement ends’, he just stares down at the paper.

\---

By the end, Jon's eyes are blown wide and he's breathing heavily, goosebumps trailing down his flesh like tombstones. His own voice is shaky, but rote familiarization and habit and... Something far more primal, says, "Statement ends. The work of the Spiral, or, no doubt, the Flesh." 

His mouth moves like a speakerphone, speaking the words of his supplements from the first time he'd done it, modifying what he once said with terrifying ease to fit in what he _knows_ , now. It's strange, to remember something with such clarity, but with Martin's spell of voice, it's easy. And his own muscles, buried deep within him-- he remembers thinking of stopped corks when he first came here. He wonders how long until the champagne flies in a torrent of foam.

It makes him shiver, and his mouth dries up the moment the supplementary information ends. He fumbles to end the recording, and his fingers shake. 

He rolls out his shoulders; he remembers how tense Burroughs' statement had felt, and that was far, far before he had begun to feel inhuman enough to _truly_ feel it. The silence of the office is stark against the near palatable energy that had inhabited it just moments before.

\---

Martin is looking in Jon’s direction, but there’s this cold and horrified layer to it. Not because Jon’s reading something off from memory, or finishing it all up for him, or - or _possessed_ , in some way, in a different way than Martin, but because Martin can’t hear him, while he does it. 

All he hears is a bell. 

He shakes his head a bit, and the cottony, vile taste in his mouth starts to go away. The nausea leaves, too, and he’s inching his way back up to clarity. He’s not quite there yet, but he can see it, and just before he’s about to climb out of the hole he opens his mouth. “Can you hear me?”

He can hear himself just fine, so that’s good.

\---

Jon had allowed his eyes to fall to half mast as he calmed down, but now he blinks and focuses on Martin, cocking his head. "Hm? Yes, yes of course. I--" He gestures to the recorder. "Sorry, I-- I just remembered all the research I did on this case, the first time, thought it wise to commit to the tape."

His body feels boneless, but Martin looks _lost_ and he reaches out to brush his fingertips light against Martin's wrist. "Are you alright?"

\---

Oh! There he is. That's all he needed, actually, to make it back. Jon addressing _him_. It makes him giddy. God damn it, not again. 

Jon's fingers meet his wrist and all at once he's _very_ present. He has his own body. And he likes it. Edwin Burroughs is living in his own personal hell, a life of complete misery, but he's not _Burroughs_. He's here, with Jon, in this room, and he's happier than the good Father ever gets to be for the rest of his life, probably. 

"Well, _he_ wasn't, but I'm fine now. I think I might be a very lucky person. I've never felt like I was lucky at all in my life, but I think I am."

\---

Jon is startled by the sudden rush of energy. His fingers still, and he jumps between looking at Martin and the paper. "Compared to him, I suppose," he says slowly, tentatively, honestly just trying to keep _up_ with him.

\---

"Yes, compared to him. That's what I mean. It makes me - it makes me feel better. I could be in a ditch somewhere, or - or in prison, or in some _weird_ ritual where I-I-I eat human flesh, but I'm not. I'm here with you."

Martin searches Jon's face, and normally he'd sit with the anxiety he feels upon seeing reactions from others, sit with the idea that he's the source of the issue he sees in front of him. And then he'd let it turn into blame. He blurts it out instead before it can take shape. "Am I bothering you?"

\---

He blinks rapidly and says, "N-no. Just-- catching up to you. I don't-- I don't feel this way after statements. It-- I'm a bit foggy, still." He wraps his hand around Martin's wrist to ground himself, faint waves of nausea still spinning him in place.

"Pesky humanity's still getting in the way of feeling full," He says quietly.

\---

"Oh, I think mine comes in waves, and then it goes back and forth until it - it-- " Martin does that stupid motion with his free hand where he makes a fist and splays out his fingers again in a mock explosion. Then he puts that hand over Jon's fingers where they meet his wrist. "So, I think—" 

He tries to make eye contact with Jon, and there's a wave of pity. 

He's glad he's not Jon. 

It's gone again. 

"Maybe I should just write it out for you. I don't— I don't want to make it harder, to - to come back."

\---

"You're not." He says immediately, and leans closer, trying to catch Martin's definitions, his mind slowly waking back up and thinking, thinking, thinking. "It's hard sometimes, t-to get back to myself. You talking helps. Gives me a perspective to focus on."

He watches Martin for a long moment, his eyes searching, and he wonders if he'll ever truly figure him out. If Martin will always be a perpetual mystery, in some way. If he's better at this, than Jon. If that's a good thing, or a punishment Jon has inflicted upon him inadvertently.

The way Martin had looked at him, when he'd read Burroughs' statement. _What I was seeing was so wrong, so very wrong_... He feels a stab of guilt, and looks away.

\---

Wow, they're very close, aren't they. 

He breaks into an easy, accommodating smile, even as Jon looks away from him. He's remembering what he's good at, like he'd lost it before. Remembering how good he is at just - just _talking_ to people, when he lets himself do it. When he's not so frustratingly preoccupied with a thousand layers of nerves to get there.

"Jon," he says, and he's definitely teasing him a little for the drama but it's above-all-else affectionate, drawing out the "o". He's mostly trying to bait him into looking back. "You're okay."

\---

Jon hums questioningly at his name being said, and then focuses when he realizes it’s being said like _that_. He lands his gaze on Martin and looks at him, and then nods, and looks at how their hands touch. Perhaps he is. Okay, that is. He looks back.

He breathes once, twice, and supposes yes, he's okay. It falls away like a sheer curtain. "Alright. Alright yes, I'm okay. Thank you, Martin."

\---

Before he can control the impulse, Martin leans into the gap between them and presses his forehead to Jon's. There's nothing inherently romantic about the gesture, it was just something his fizzing-out brain decided it wanted to do. 

His grin is as shit-eating as Martin's probably capable of. His own voice is low, not exactly the same as the tone Jon had not too long ago, more a mockery of it. "If you're a _monster_ for some completely normal, unpleasant response to this, what does that make me?"

\---

The closeness is dizzying. His eyes widen and scan across every pore, every acne scar, every little perfection and imperfection in Martin's face. Every fleck of color dazzling through his eyes. The way his grin wrinkles his expression and makes him beautiful.

He's suddenly aware that neither of them have actually gotten ready for the day, not even to put deodorant on. 

But his response is instantaneous. "You're a monster too." Matter-of-fact. But he still tries to cover it up, pushing slightly heavier on their touching foreheads. "I'm not just being cruel to myself when I say it."

\---

Martin's smile falters, and he's tempted, very tempted, to keep pushing back, but he doesn't. Instead he pulls back, hands still touching Jon's. 

He wishes he didn't, as soon as he does. But he can't go back. His voice is still upbeat, but confused. "That's harsh, Jon." 

He's in too good of a mood for it to hurt, and that's the worst part, he shouldn't be reacting like that's _fine_ to say, but there he is. He laughs, and it's a bit nervous on the edges. "Maaaaybe we should go back to complimenting each other, instead of - of debating about monsters."

\---

Jon narrows his eyes, and there's a flash of frustration there; Martin brings it up and then wants to _drop_ it? It isn't fair. It's not-- it's not fair to leave it at such a cruel juncture. He shakes his head, and pulls his hands back, just to bridge the gap between them and lean oh-so-close, nearly nose-to-nose.

His pronunciation is crisp, slow, careful. He doesn't want to stutter around this; it's too important. "Martin. You're going to have to accept you won't be human for much longer. That's all I _meant_. It wasn't-- it wasn't diminutive."

\---

Martin makes a soft noise of startled surprise when Jon pulls him in. "I— Okay, I'm..." He shivers once, an involuntary and contradictory combination of don't-do-that and please-do-that. 

"I was trying to make you feel more normal, not— I don't want to think about that. Right now. Jon. Turning... into a... monster... " His words fall away, because he's getting stuck in Jon's fucking eyes. Stupid Jon. Don't say anything, _Martin_. 

"I've never seen your eyes this close."

\---

He's prepared to argue back against whatever Martin says, and opens his mouth to do just that, but then he's _moving on_ , and damn if he isn't good at distracting Jon, jolting him from his head and forcing him to switch to something new. He wonders if he does it on purpose, or if it's just _Martin_.

"Yes, well--" He stutters, and almost pulls away, but forces himself to stay close. "Me neither. To-- to yours." He's infuriating to talk to sometimes, but he loves it, all at once. Perhaps he has a point; Jon tends to catastrophize.

\---

Check. 

Actually, he has no right to be smug when every time he looks Jon in the eye he starts desperately wanting to tell him things. Like they’re their own sort of compelling. He sucks in a breath, and suddenly feels very determined to dig his own grave. Because right now it feels good to. That's the reward. That's his reward for reading through that _garbage_. "Earlier, when I was laughing, it was about how it looked like you were my assistant." 

Once that first one tumbles out, the others come out too fast, too. Like he's afraid of being interrupted, by something or some _one_.

"I like when it's easy to fluster you. I like when you surprise me. I think I have you figured out and then you say a-a word, and it throws me off so I have to start over again and I _like_ that. I think I'm - I'm okay with feeling important? I think I'm _okay_ with that? I think you're small enough that I could pick you up. If I asked would you put your hand in my hair? Christ, _Martin_." He only manages to stop himself by shaking his head a little too hard.

\---

Jon's vision blurs as he tries to keep up, and when he finally focuses back in, his hands are up, and he's saying, "Well, are you going to ask?"

He doesn't know where this comes from; they'll be freaking out and in pain and close to tears and then Martin will say _something_ and everything will shift and it's like the room thickens up, narrows down to just them two, and something akin to mischief will fill him up. It's a foreign feeling; he's not sure if he's never been capable of it, before, or if he's just never had a reason to.

Even with Georgie, the only other long standing relationship he semi-had, was an awkwardly fumbling mess of 'sorries' and 'maybe one day' and 'thank you for understanding'.

So he falls back into the one thing, so far, that he knows Martin _likes_ , likes with a terrifying depth that makes Jon feel out of his, and he says low, slow, and with a gravitas he swore was just an act even just days ago, "I like when you tell me the truth."

\---

Martin knows, somehow, that Jon's not done talking, and he waits patiently for it. Sits in the silence as Jon deliberates, ready with an answer fired up and prepared to shoot the second he's given the chance. 

And when he finally does, Martin sighs audibly. Based on the heat rapidly washing over him from the inside, he knows he's screwed. He takes a second, just to revel in it, closes his eyes. "Oh, that's getting me in trouble some day, isn't it?" 

And then he tilts his head again, and that's a strange new tic for him, one he's only started doing so much since Jon fell back here. This time, though, it's for him to give Jon's hand a better angle if he wants to. "Please."

\---

Jon isn't, generally speaking, the most tactile person in the world. Touch can be overwhelming at times, and, in his experience, it's a tenfold sensation when it comes to _people_. That's not even diving into the visceral memory of plastic hands and tacky lotion making him cry out in sheer and utter disgust. It's just _hard_. Hard to touch, hard to immerse himself, hard to not shock his system into a shutdown. 

He thinks all of this, because when he shivers and pulls his fingertips through Martin's hair, the jolt in his body is overwhelming, but in a very, _very_ different way. The opposite of dislike. The opposite of uncomfortable.

His eyes are wide and focused, tracking every single follicle, every single moment of Martin's face, _everything._ He doesn't care how owlish he looks, because he's not really thinking at all. Not anymore.

Martin is soft, and his fingers feel like they're molten as they run through his scalp. "Everything about you is so _good_ ," He says.

\---

Martin leans further into the touch, and it's so _easy_ to will everything but the - very human, by the way, Jon - warmth fade away. 

God, he really _is_ screwed. How is this _happening_ ? It's not something he's in a position to process, not with how new this sensation is. How much he's wanted something like this, with someone. Just _someone_. Even with his eyes shut he knows Jon's enraptured, can feel it coming off him the same way he can feel him leave phantom touches behind every spot his fingers brush past. He wants to live here, in this moment, maybe forever. It's a frightening thought.

"Don't say that," Martin whines, trying to move his head in a way that obscures one of his eyes behind Jon's palm. As if that could possibly do anything to hide him from praise.

\---

"Why not?" Jon asks, and there's a smile in his voice. It's almost terrifyingly easy to fall into this, to indulge and allow himself to just... Experience this. Martin has given him a gift he doesn't know how to receive, but he will do everything he can to explore how to repay that.

And his hair is just so damn soft.

\---

His first response is a low hum, procrastinating a real answer until he can put one together. 

Martin braces his arms over Jon's knees to stabilize himself - the last thing he needs is to press so hard against Jon that he forgets how much he weighs and slips - and to lower his head so Jon can see less of his face. He's not sure how well he can control his expression, and like this he doesn't _really_ care, but it's not like reading one or two statements was going to fundamentally change how hard it was for him to accept _love_. 

He's close enough that he can bow his head without being _too_ close, and open his mouth to speak. He sort of forgets to, at first, with his lips parted and his eyes half-open as he tries to concentrate. 

"I'm not good, I don't know how I managed to trick you," and he doesn't mean it in the way people say while they're trying to warn someone. It's because he doesn't agree. He's had Jon compliment him on and off for weeks, but that doesn't undo years of walls he's built one brick at a time.

\---

"You haven't tricked me, Martin."

His fingers still as he thinks, and he acquiesces to the way Martin fidgets beneath his fingers.

"I just know you. And I-- I like you, as you are, knowing you. I do. You're good, and I like you, and nothing is going to change that."

\---

Martin breathes through the whole ordeal, quick, shallow motions he doesn't bother trying to control. He knows he'll fail.

So he lifts his head enough to try and nudge Jon into moving again. They'd just been joking around, working together... sleeping together... and then he had to go and get stupid statement drunk or whatever the hell it is that's made him _talk_ so much. Martin keeps trying to hate it.

He doesn't know how to juggle the vulnerability. He didn't know he could even _get_ this close. 

"Please don't make me cry."

\---

Jon runs his hands and palms down Martin's scalp, until he's all but cradling his head, some of his fingers at the back of his skull and his thumbs pushing back his hairline. He doesn't know where this boldness comes from, and part of him is terrified, a faraway little emotion that will probably consume him when he gets his head about him again.

For now, all he feels is heat and affection.

"I'm not trying to. But-- I mean. You're _allowed_ that, you know. It's-- You've already seen me cry, anyways." it's a terrible effort at a joke.

\---

Martin whines again, broken and pliant and coming down from the safe, beautiful place the statements had led him to. He's basically melting in Jon's lap and this is the best day of his life except Jon's trying to get him to cry, because he's _evil_ and a _monster_ , but Martin won't. 

His words are slow, and he's trying. He really is. "You've seen me cry, Jon, that - _ugh_ \- " He has to stop to just feel, for a second, to just have one guiltless moment of pleasure. 

Martin changes the subject. "I wish this didn't kill my back, I don't want to _move_."

\---

Jon reluctantly pulls his hands from Martin's hair and _laughs_ , genuine amusement falling from him like harmonies. "You're leaned all the way out. Sit back. I'll uh-- I'll come to you." His mouth is dry, but just reacting and quelling the panic in his throat is all he can do right now. To follow the heat.

\---

Martin's about to mouth off the second he's free, because that means he can regain his composure enough to talk back, but then Jon's talking about coming to _him_ and he's sitting back up and doing what Jon's told him to and—

He blinks and all at once he's looking to Jon for approval, hair a wreck, face flushed, eyes wide, fidgeting with the fingers on both of his hands by his lap like the thought of being snappy never crossed his mind at all.

\---

Jon sucks in a deep breath and stands, watching Martin for a long moment as he decides to tackle this. Turns out it's easiest to just not think, and one moment he's standing over Martin, and the next, he's sitting on his lap, his hands pulling back into his hair immediately, leaning forward to all but stare into Martin's eyes.

"Better," He says, and seems to approve how much Martin's back is now _supported_ by the chair.

\---

Operating on muscle memory alone, Martin's hands move to hold Jon stable by his hips. He hasn't done _that_ in a while, that's for sure. His thumbs are digging in a bit too hard out of pure shock, but that's far, far down on the list of important things he's paying attention to. 

It's so painfully easy to get caught up in Jon's eyes, forget to leave, forget to hide the love-confusion-fear melding into something like worship in Jon's shadow. Forget to hold back a soft noise coated in fondness. For stupid Jon and his stupid siren calls and his stupid hands. 

There's a thousand ways he can come out of this with dignity. "Wow." This is not one of them. "Hi."

\---

"I guess you've successfully managed to distract me from going to the tunnels today," Jon mutters, like an idiot, because his brain is operating on a level he is not used to, so clouded and foggy with something excited and daunted and wanting.

He sits up straighter where Martin touches him. Martin's fingertips threaten to make him melt into a pool of butter, and he's starting to think he'd let him do it. But for now, he just works his way through Martin's hair and continues to look at him. If he can commit every plane of Martin's face to memory, it will still not be enough detail for Jon. He wants to know him inside and out.

\---

"You got me, I-I planned it all out, even Elias, all from the start, a-and…" He shifts restlessly beneath Jon, holding him as still as he can manage with the overwhelming distraction of Jon, just— He's just _petting_ him, for Christ's sake, but his body's warming up to the idea of remembering what that's like faster than he can catch up to rein it in.

"How did you make this so difficult? I can't believe I asked you to do that." He wants nothing better than to bury his face against Jon's chest, but he can't, he's stuck, stuck showing Jon all his best kept secrets written plain as day on his face. He's in love and he doesn't even know it yet. All it would take was a few moves on his part and it wouldn't feel the same, he could reverse this, but - but he's not. Like he can't until Jon gives permission. That's... somehow, that's the tone. "You're not - you're not allowed to weaponize it."

\---

Jon leans back slightly, all but arching his back to pull away enough to take him in all at once, searching. "Weaponise _what_? Touching you? I'm not." The very idea that he is... It makes him scowl, but with color rising high in his cheeks and his pupils blown, it's far less frustrated and leaning more into the realm of mischief. 

He leans close again, nearly nose to nose once more. His eyes are wide and bright with a frantic energy. "I don't even know what I'm doing. Not really. You know that, right?"

He takes one hand from his hair to jab a long finger accusatory into the center of Martin's chest. "It's not my fault you're hard not to touch."

\---

Martin can't finish the thought because Jon's moving and _Jon stop moving_ and by the time he thinks he's situated them both Jon's moving again and Martin's trying very hard to focus on his last thread of coherency just in case he needs it. 

But then Jon surprises him, again. "Did— Iis this as far as you ever got with me? You don't - we never - _did we_? We didn't. No, you'd kn— " Martin snaps his mouth shut before he can shovel another inch out of the hole he's making, rubbing circles over one of Jon's hip bones with the pad of his thumb. "We didn't. You're doing fine. Jon."

\---

"This is as far as I ever _got_. Period." His voice threatens to crack in something approaching embarrassment, but he avoids it by focusing on the pleasing little movements Martin is making over his hip bones, surprised at how sensitive he feels right now. Like every nerve is ready to burst at the seams.

"I don't think you even liked me. It's all rather new." His voice has this dazed quality, enraptured and distracted and unfocused because he _is_ , and because his hand has drifted from Martin's hair to start training along Martin's face.

\---

"Oh," Martin breathes out, the implications of that new context dawning on him. His next smile is soft, and that's all he needed to figure out what he was doing. Check, once again. 

He moves his hands to a better angle at Jon's waist and pulls him as close as he can get in one motion, huffing out a defensive " _I better have_ ". He nuzzles up under Jon's chin, breathes for a second, takes him in without all the fanfare of being watched through it. Business out of the way, he doesn't waste any more of his time before he's leaving light, experimental kisses along Jon's jawline between words. "I'm - I'm out of practice, but there's not a manual or anything, it's just… whatever you want. Don't overthink it. That's not - not what it's for."

\---

Where he was faltering, Jon feels a switch in the situation, and melts beneath his touch, breathing out a shaky breath as Martin presses sweet fire into his jaw. "No thinking," Jon mumbles, and his voice is hoarse, "Got it."

He lifts his head, drawing his neck long and vulnerable to let Martin have an entire canvas with which to experiment with his arson kisses.

\---

Martin basks in it, the way Jon spontaneously lets go and eases into it, into trusting _Martin_ , and it makes him feel like he's doing something _good_. The way Jon tells him he is. 

"I didn't say that," and he rewards Jon's hospitality with a careful graze of his teeth at a spot between his neck and his shoulder, waiting for a reaction. Jon's about to find out he's a biter. Martin's about to find out if that's a good thing. "You can think with your hands, too."

\---

Jon sucks in a surprised, shocked breath and leans back just a fraction, far enough that he can look at Martin again and see what he's _doing_ . It's a lot. It's not enough. He doesn't know what it is, but it keeps him from floating too high, and he pulls himself back into Martin and all but nuzzles his way back into a position for Martin to _do it again._

He thinks that the Eye would probably hate this, and it makes him laugh, light and airy, shifting on Martin's lap so he can continue touching Martin, cataloging him.

\---

Martin takes the invitation and bites - a real one, this time - just under Jon's ear, following it up with a few apologetic kisses and a promise made to himself that he won't leave marks, he won't do that to Jon. As much as he's tempted. 

As he does that, he's sliding fingers under Jon's shirt with one hand, skating light touches over his stomach to just... learn. He doesn't want to push Jon into the realm of too-much, wants to pace himself, but he's still human and his other hand is squeezing Jon's thigh because he's an indecisive idiot who can't figure out what to focus on because there's so much of Jon to take _in_. And Jon's laughing, which is... probably a good sign?

\---

It's almost too much, and he sits up straight, almost arching his back, when he feels the fingers across his stomach, and he's never... Never been touched with such want before. Never been touched in a way he _wanted_ it. Martin is undoing him; undoing a veritable woolen parka to leave him bare and open in the cold. He loves it.

All higher brain power has come crashed to a jolted stop, the gears rusting over, and it's all Jon can do to _feel_ , to genuinely feel. It's a bit much, but he thinks it'd hurt more to ask him to stop. He doesn't want it to stop; he's just used to quitting way, way before this point, and the natural boundaries want to rear their unwelcome ways.

Jon is a hairy man, these days, and he thinks perhaps Martin is the only one who's seen him like this, ever. He was softer, in college, with Georgie, and he usually didn't let her touch him, besides.

Now, he takes Martin on either side of his jaw and pulls him forward, pulls him to his collarbone, and says, " _There_." He likes this, these bites and the kisses.

\---

Martin lets himself be manhandled, humming appreciation against Jon's skin. He's got no complaints about that, or about getting to work with what Jon wants from him. "You can boss me around," he mumbles, clearly distracted, and it's not until he pulls away from Jon's neck for air that he notices the thin string of drool at his bottom lip meeting Jon's skin and— Well, that's definitely a hickey he's looking at. 

Whoops. Failed step one. He decides not to tell Jon right this second. The hand he has under Jon's shirt moves to join his other at Jon's thighs, nudging them apart just a bit so Martin has more room. He's giving Jon the chance to respond coherently, keeping his touches light, no teeth, up along his jaw again. "Anything you've always wanted to try?"

\---

"No," He says, and one of his hands smooths down the back of his head, down the nape of his neck to rest there, holding him at his jaw. "Never, before." His voice is low again, but it's tinged in intrigue, this momentary reprieve from Martin's mouth letting him think again. 

"You're different, you're special, this is _new._ "

\---

Martin tilts into the touch, feeling so very loved. This is the weirdest day of a long string of weird days spanning several weeks. He takes a while to respond, looking up at Jon like he belongs right where he is. This all happened fast. This all happened way too fast for him to process it.

He's about to jump back into it when embarrassment floods into his face. He'd forgotten where they even were, before now. "Did - did we lock the door?"

\---

"If Tim wants to barge in here talking of Smirke, that's on him," Jon snorts, but he's flushed and slides off Martin's lap to go do that. It's not a _horrible_ idea.

The second he's pulled himself away from Martin, he feels his loss. Cold and shaky, and he has to blink rapidly to remember _oh yeah_ and strides across the room to lock the door. It's enough of a distance to shake him out of this a bit, and he looks at Martin from across the room with hooded eyes, a fluttering of panic blooming in his chest. "I can't believe we did that," He says, almost in a daze.

\---

Martin's laughing until Jon starts pulling away and nothing is funny anymore. It's just him, alone, cold, nearly panting in the Archivist's chair. 

"Are - are we not doing it, anymore?" It's pitiful, actually, the way he says it. He narrows his eyes at his own words, which he figures could be misconstrued in some sort of direction, but makes no effort to correct them. But he starts to get up, just in case, because - well, because Jon used the past tense, that's why, and now he's feeling inadequate.

\---

Jon blinks and comes back to him, standing in front of the chair once more. "I didn't say that," He says, and waits, because if Martin wants to get up, he won't stop him. If he _wants_ to stop, then they're done. "I just can't believe it. It-- it's a lot Martin. I _like_ it." He wants more.

\---

Martin's expression starts to brighten the closer Jon gets, the more he speaks, until Martin's smile can only be described as lopsided and doggish. 

He stands up anyway, stretching tension out of his lower back while he squares Jon up. That's all the answer he needed. Ah, so he likes it. No way. How shocking. He couldn't tell at all. 

"Can I try to pick you up? I think I can."

\---

"Pick me-- I-I mean, yes?" His voice is almost a squeak at the end, confusion at both the request and at the sudden wave of _oh, I'd quite like that_ rushing through him.

\---

Martin keeps a sharp _Yes_ to himself. "Right, right, okay - just - put your arms around me? And - your legs. You'll - you'll get it," and he wastes no time bending a bit to grip the back of Jon's thighs and hoist him up, heart swelling at how _easy_ it is. He likes when he's right. 

Luckily they're right there, and Martin sets him down on the desk, unbearably smug and an inch or two shorter than Jon at the new angle. He forgets to do anything else, wrapped up in how disgustingly good it is, here.

\---

It's a whirlwind of motion, and Jon gasps, clinging to Martin like he'll be dropped if he doesn't, even though Martin is stable, strong, no hesitation in his movements. It's incredibly attractive, and maybe that's what this is. _Attraction_ , pure and simple.

It's more than that, but he doesn't have time to think of a better word because he's being put onto the desk and he has to bite his tongue to stop himself from telling Martin to keep holding him. His arms move to take hold of Martin on either side of his face, thumbs brushing over the apple of his cheekbones.

Everything is so _present_ and the world feels so _small_ , and he says, "you make me feel safe like this."

\---

Martin's enamored with that thing Jon does, where he grabs his face and holds him there. It keeps him from turning away. Makes him feel like second-guessing isn't an option. It gives him a surge of confidence. The kind that makes him _stupid_. 

"Head Archivist Jonathan Sims, I think you've ruined my life." He's not serious, and he's kissing him before Jon gets a chance to analyze it too much, gentle and cautious and patient. He moves his hands to mirror Jon's touch on his face, and they're shaking, he can't hide that, but it doesn't matter.

\---

Martin Blackwood is perhaps the only man in all of the world who knows how to shut Jon up. His thoughts click off happily, and Martin is _kissing_ him, and that pleasant warmth spins around them like the gale of an Autumn breeze, and every description could only, in Jon's mind, be all too purple to describe.

Jon pulls him close, not giving him the chance to back off, and it's _he_ who pulls away to say, "You make me selfish," and then returns to what Martin started.

\---

Something stirs inside him, something possessive and proud and surprised, because Jon's not experienced with this but somehow that makes it better, more fun, more _interesting_. It throws coal into the fire of Martin's desire to care for someone.

"Be selfish," Martin says partway into Jon's mouth before nipping at his bottom lip. Everything he does is to gauge a reaction, to familiarize himself with Jon's tells, to figure out what _gets_ to him, like he's planning on doing this again, like he knows what's even happening, like it's easy. 

Martin slides his hands down to the back of Jon's knees and lifts, just a little, to press closer. To anchor them both.

\---

Jon hums against him, but he's not listening anymore. Too focused. Too intent on exploring the topography of Martin's lips, and he's categorizing and filing that information away in a locked Manila folder of his kind, and he feels _hungry._

His hands trail down his cheeks, along his jaw, neck, shoulders, down his chest, unhurried and frantic all at once. If this is what he's allowed to do with Martin, he needs to know every centimeter of him.

\---

Martin pulls back once the combination of their kiss and Jon's wandering hands becomes too much, chest expanding with how hard he's breathing. He's very out of practice, he needs more breathers than he thinks - and wishes - he does. Even his last one night stand didn't come close to this. 

It's like being hypnotized, actually. Watching Jon with eyes half-open like he's been drugged, lips swollen and wet and tingling from the contact. He wants to let Jon touch him all day. He wants to watch the way Jon's expression changes as he does. So he ends up doing that, watching. Just watching.

\---

Jon makes a low, displeased sound when Martin pulls away, but he doesn't chase him. Lord knows it's hard not to, but he won't lose that semblance of dignity quite so soon.

His hands still when they reach his hip bones, thumbs just beginning to crest the underside of Martin's shirt, brushing lightly against the skin there. If he allows himself to do this, he fears he won't be able to stop until his curiosity, this heat, is sated, so he forces himself to look up at Martin, mouth slightly open and lips kiss-swollen, and he says, "We'll be here all day." He almost sounds sad.

\---

Martin's sort of forgotten that they have jobs to do. In all fairness, though, they've... kind of took it upon themselves to make entirely new jobs. Martin thinks he might've even gotten a promotion. Unofficially, of course. 

He presses closer, encouraging Jon to continue. Wherever he's going. Martin's fine with wherever he's going. But he's still searching Jon's face. Tries not to lead him in any specific direction. Jon can come up with his own. His question isn't accusatory, but collaborative. "And?"

\---

" _And_ , I'm-- probably going to freak out about this in the bathroom later, so we might want to-- to take it slow. Slower. " He says it fast, jerky, neurotic, wanting to get the words out before he can either lose steam and return to kissing Martin madly, or else fall into self-conscious embarrassment.

He wrinkles his nose in light mocking humor and says,"You're _far_ too addicting for your own good." Nice. He can still semi-string a sentence together, still in this strange newfound space of flirting.

\---

"Jon," Martin says, to stop him, worry creasing lines into his forehead. "I'm not— We're— I wasn't planning on— I'm not bending you over your desk and— I'm not expecting us to—" Martin blunders his way through it, embarrassed. 

"I just figured I-I could take care of you, and leave it at that."

\---

"Take--" Jon blinks and pulls back slightly. "That's-- Not yet. Not," He laughs nervously, "It's okay, Martin. You don't-- that's unnecessary."

\---

"That doesn't mean— We don't have to do that, just taking - taking care of you how you want it. I don't mean it like, like." Martin makes a frustrated, childish noise at himself and squeezes Jon's knees. "You _know_. This is fine. I'm not asking for - for anything."

\---

"I think we need to," He bends down again to kiss Martin once more, short and small but still, skin to skin in a way that makes Jon thankful to be here, in this moment. "Leave it be for now. But-- I mean. As long as we don't m-make out like horny teenagers all day, I don't mind-- I quite like the uh. The kissing."

\---

Martin almost chases him after that kiss, but he bites his lip to hold back instead. Down, boy. "Ha - okay. Well, um. I need to... er - I do, too, but I need to... take a... shower, then." Martin holds his face neutral as he can, embarrassment coloring his cheeks.

\---

Jon nods, and then reaches out to thumb across Martin's cheek one more time. "I liked that. Thank you -- I. Thank you, Martin." It's dreadfully sincere in a way that makes Jon want to cringe away from him.

\---

Martin taps Jon's forehead with his own for one more spark of contact before he backs up, inching his way down from the near-feral hysterics. "I'll be - I'll be back. In a bit." He awkwardly pushes his shirt down a bit at the front and excuses himself. Exeunt.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jane Prentiss isn't finished with the servants of the Eye. What's a little blood-bonding to combat parasites?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The warnings are going to kick up a notch here. I know you guys listen to a horror podcast, but I want to give a quick warning, so you know what's coming up. 
> 
> TW for:  
> -Gore  
> -Parasitical Boring  
> -Heavy traumatic flashbacks and traumatic regression
> 
> We hope you enjoy! This scene was planned so far in advance, and now, reediting it is like a blast to the past! As usual, thank you so much for you kind comments and general activeness responding to our chapters. It means a lot that y'all enjoy our fic!
> 
> -Michael (Jon's POV)

The only nice thing about trying to stop the death of friends, coworkers, and inevitably, the end of the world twice over, is that it's a nice distraction from the way that he's utterly, completely in love. It was easier to pretend before... Well, frankly, before Martin had picked him up and kissed him silly on his own desk, igniting desires Jon didn't even know he was capable of having.

And with those desires, came a strange domesticity to their lives, one with a few less breakdowns on the regular, and a whole lot more checking in with one another, distracting one another, working with one another. Faraway parts of Jon's mind know that Martin belongs to the Eye now; most of him doesn't care. Better the Beholding than Peter Lukas. Better something that keeps them Knowing, in charge, in the loop, than... Lost and afraid and stuck in the Lonely. 

(As the weeks progress, Jon is certain that's where Martin would have landed, and after the way he'd looked at Jon, after their last conversation in Martin's office, he's not certain he could have ever, ever pulled him out). 

So some things are better to chain yourself to.

They sleep together, they eat together, and, most importantly, they read statements together, and the familiarity he gets with which they pass off and listen to the other record becomes a comfortable affair. It's better than when Jon did them the first time around; he would sweat, and push back tears, and barely get through one before migraines would bloom. The aftermath of sitting alone with his thoughts was horrendous, isolating, hopeless, and it was all he could do to keep himself invested, long before the Beholding took an interest in him and made him Its.

It's easier, when someone else secondhand falls into the thrall of it. When Jon reads, often the aftermath is somber, quiet; two cups of tea and the two of them sitting together, Jon curling on his lap and just breathing in the solidness of Martin's existence as they processed the words. When Martin reads, the aftermath is less melancholy, generally speaking. This is often when the office door gets locked and Jon loses a few layers. 

They progress. And they file, and by the end of a few weeks, their information on Jane Prentiss and the Hive is carefully recorded and prepared for. The worms began showing up a few days after Martin returned, and the few times Jon ventured beneath the tunnels confirms what had happened the first time; the Hive building itself up, readying itself on its attack. In hindsight, the attack seems so  _ petty, _ so... Inconsequential, and he spends several long, arduous meetings with Elias convincing him of setting up the CO2 suppression systems to make it  _ easier _ on himself. 

He'd love to get out of this with a few less ugly scars to mar his skin. 

So, it's eventually just a waiting game. Filing when they can, sleeping when they can, addressing the tapes about their physical and mental changes when they can, and playing sitting ducks in the belly of the Archives.

\---

Martin has... grown accustomed to cold showers, is all he'll say. 

He's also developed a new habit of wielding a corkscrew at his hip since the first worm showed up at the Institute. That wasn't a fun day for anyone, except maybe Prentiss. He'd like to pretend he isn't scared of them, like he isn't feeding them with that fear, but no amount of knowing what's coming changes anything, because none of it is set in stone, really. 

The corkscrew was still  _ his _ idea. 

There's definitely a rush, though, in trying to be ready for it when it comes. He wishes Jon would clue more people in, wishes Jon could extend the trust he has for Martin to Tim, to Sasha, because it's not  _ Martin's _ story to share, it's not  _ his _ statement to make, it's Jon's choice, it's up to him. But Martin still knows. Elias seems to know, too, but Martin tries to weasel out of conversations with him as much as he can. 

Elias just looks at him and somehow Martin leaves the room with a fever.

Despite the preparation, he’s yet to settle into the grandiose delusions of a higher purpose. He's roped himself to Jon in ways he can't currently explain, or even see, and by doing so he's sealed his fate, but he's too preoccupied with trying to be someone worth loving to notice. Sealed by the first statement, sealed by a supportive loop he and Jon feed into every day. Martin just likes being seen. And he likes Jon, in the oddest of ways. 

It's  _ good _ to feel appreciated. It's  _ good _ to come back with evidence for statements they hadn't needed the first time, a dog strolling in with the morning paper. It's good in a way his job never been, before. It's satisfying, it's important, even if he's just… helping with a project at work. 

It is work. He still knocks when the door is closed.

He likes not having to sleep alone when he wants that. He has his time, it's not like he's conjoined to Jon. The quiet comfort of sitting at the edge of a roof, where the people are too far down to see clearly and he can't hear the cars, or passing hours holed up on his own to jot down half-formed poems. The difference is, now, he's close to  _ someone _ . Something. He has a cause, a direction, a reason. A… a plan, sort of. And that makes all the difference. 

"So," Martin starts from his position on the floor beside a bookcase, post-it note between his teeth. 

They're not in the office, back in the Archives today. He'd asked Jon to come with him while he did the relatively normal side of his job. One, because it was quiet and a decent number of people were out of the office today. Two, it was  _ really _ a lot smarter to go in pairs. Three, a bit of normalcy and routine kept him sane. 

Martin likes labeling, and Jon's quite bad at it,  _ so _ . "I know I don't really - er -  _ like _ thinking about the future, but have you ever met anyone aligned to some entity who was… normal? Obviously not, like,  _ totally _ normal, but-- I don't know. A friend. People using it to do good. They can do that, can't they?"

\---

Jon looks up from his journal, the tip of his tongue held just out of his lips as he concentrates on writing. He'd been writing everything he knew, organizing it, reorganizing it, rethinking it all. Working through the unknowns, and realizing the biggest is still, and will be for some time, he imagines, the Watcher's Crown.

It takes him a moment to catch up to Martin's question, and then he thinks for a while, pursing his lips. "Gerard Keay, maybe," He says, and brings the end of his pen to his mouth, clicking it in so he doesn't get ink all over his lips. 

"Beholding aligned, but-- managed to stave off some of the... Well, Hunger, I think. Tracked down Leitners, eventually worked with Gertrude to research the Unknowing." He thinks some more. "We all fall to it, eventually. I think he didn't, because he died before it could get to him. He's--"

He blinks. "Well, in America, I reckon."

\---

Martin continues his busywork while Jon ruminates, curious about the implications. Somebody adding more weight to the theory that Jon’s just, well, sort of... weird. About reading statements. 

Oh, maybe he’s allergic. That’d be a good one. Martin doesn't feel like he's falling at all. 

“You make it sound like he’s still up and walking around,” Martin snorts. “What is he, a  _ ghost _ ?”

\---

"Hm." Jon taps the pen against his lips. "No, he's a book, though. A ghost insofar as every book is a  _ ghost _ ."

He glances down at the page and quickly reclicks the pen to finish off the punctuation of his sentence. "I don't think he ever read  _ statements _ though. Not an Archivist. I think-- I think the Archivists are  _ special _ , for the Eye."

\---

"So he looked for books, and got stuck in one?"  _ That's sad _ , he doesn't add. "You know, if you can somehow  _ talk _ to him through the book, and he can talk back, that's a ghost, Jon. That's what ghosts are, you know,  _ tethered _ to something. It-- How does that work, exactly?"

\---

"I've got his statements packed away-- filed away somewhere." He squints at Martin. "Fine. He's a ghost. He, uh-- it's a skin book. His mother, Mary Keay had it. His story is written there, and it summons him if you read it. Or any of the other people on the other pages."

Jon shrugs. "Technically, by all rights, dead. Dead of a tumor or cancer or something. Gertrude, she-- she bound him to it when he died."

\---

"A  _ skin _ book." Martin pauses to show his distaste for the phrase. "What-- Did he want to go in there? Did any of them?" There's sympathy in his voice, and he's - well, he doesn't know, he's projecting, but... mothers, you know. Mothers with  _ skin _ books, no less.

\---

"His mother, I guess." He purses his lips and tries to dredge up the memory of Gerard's statements. He finds, the longer he progresses through  _ this _ timeline, that statements taken in after his coma are fresher, easier to remember; those from before are a little harder.

"Guess he found her trying to do the, erm, ritual skin flaying to bind herself to it. Thought she could control it. Couldn't, of course, these books don't  _ get _ controlled, they're too pure a form of the entities to do  _ that _ , but-- Guess she succeeded in a certain way. Poor Gerard had a  _ very _ vindictive mother-ghost to contend with for a few years." He looks up at Martin. "She makes my skin crawl."

\----

"Oh." Martin casts his gaze downward the second Jon looks over, packing all of that away. It's still something he hasn't talked about, with Jon. He hasn't wanted to ask what he knows. That's not a piece of his future that could bring him any comfort, and... the thought of his mother haunting him from the grave is one he's sort of already had, before. In nightmares, mostly. "So he's still stuck there, right now. Have you ever been to America?"

\---

Jon nods. "While I was researching the Unknowing. Following Gertrude's breadcrumbs. Probably worried you all. Or not. " He frowns, remembering how sick he'd felt, on that journey, weak and spacey and  _ hungry _ , so goddamn hungry, until he had taken statements. "I never understood why she bound him. Just sitting in Pittsburgh until he can be used as a goddamn-- Dictionary.”

\---

"I'd guess she wasn't much of a fan of him having some kind of leverage. Much less problematic shelved," Martin says plainly. He's quiet for a minute. 

"Well, maybe someone should get him."

\---

"...When we have a free weekend, perhaps." There's a pang within him; saving Gerard's page means burning it. An act of kindness that nonetheless fills him with a deep, deep sadness whenever he thinks about it. "There's quite a lot of leads we need to follow, once everything settles back down again."

\---

"Maybe we'll find some  _ werewolves _ ," Martin teases, trying to pull himself out of his funk. "Planning on getting the gang back together, are you?"

\---

"Quite the opposite." Jon says, and returns his gaze back to his notebook. "Speaking to the entities I need to, and other than that, keeping as many people out of the way as possible. I'm not letting people condemn themselves to this place this time."

\---

Martin almost wants to know. There's something deeply, disconcertingly powerful about Jon's knowledge. His ability to change this reality. "Oh, alright. Which ones are you thinking? I haven't seen Michael since the - the library."

\---

Jon hums, displeased with the reminder of Michael. "Yes, well, I doubt he'll want to miss the excitement. I suspect we'll see him when Prentiss attacks."

He's quiet a moment. "I don't know the right moves. So much of what I know was because of who I met. But I  _ know _ it now; so much or what needed to happen was because I was -- nudged, in that direction." For what feels like the millionth time, he says, "I just wish Elias would tell us what his  _ plans _ are. Long-term. Not just-- the squabblings of idiotic fear entities."

\---

"Well, it's not like you're  _ stupid _ . Now you just have more pieces, right? You can nudge everyone else around first. And-- " Martin shrugs, fixing up the stack in front of him. "Maybe he just thinks it's fun to watch us all run around. He obviously  _ likes _ doing that."

\---

"Of course he does. The Eye watches, it doesn't interfere." He waggles his fingers and says with mocked importance, "The Great Ever Present Voyeur. At least he listened to me about the suppression systems."

\---

"I don't think he wants the Institute to be damaged, at least, so. Rats in a maze, right?" 

Martin finds a smile in him and hoists the files up off the ground in a stack between both his hands. He's parroting Jon's tone with "The Eye  _ watches _ , oooh-- " 

He's barely through the terrible ghost noise when it turns into a startled yelp, stepping back a foot away from a break in the bookcases and dropping the stack. A spider skitters across the floor and it's - it's almost  _ comedic _ . Timing, that is.

\----

Jon's gentle amusement turns to sudden, horrified fear and he scooches backwards as far as he can, his shoulders pressing heavily against the bookshelf to his back, trying to make himself smaller. The notebook is raised and poised to squish it before he thinks, a shiver running through him at the sight of its grotesque skittering motions, and he screeches out, "Get  _ rid _ of it, Martin!"

\----

"Wait - wait wait wait!" Martin rushes to the side of the bookcase it disappeared behind and peeks his head around. "I think that was-- Charlotte?" He says it a bit guiltily, like someone who's successfully pulled off some carefully constructed scheme ages ago only to have it slip out weeks after the fact.

\----

"Oh, you can recognize them now? I don't care what it's name is, just make sure it's not  _ here _ !" Jon would feel bad about being quite so rude about the spider, but he's a little too busy freaking out from gut-reaction  _ fear _ , so he doesn't mind how, well, bitchy he sounds.

\----

Martin exhales loudly, rolling his eyes. "Of course I can't  _ recognize _ her, it's the - it's the  _ type _ of spider, there's not exactly a million wolf spiders around the Archives, Jon." Unless Charlotte got busy, but... well. That was unlikely. "She's gone - Uh."

Martin freezes, his face out of view where he's peering behind the bookcase. Freezes in the fear way, the locked-jaw wonder that can get you killed. His voice is just as still. "Oh."

“I think we should go."

\----

Jon sits up slowly. He almost bitches back again, but there's a  _ feeling _ in the air, and he knows better than to ignore it. It would almost be a smug feeling-- ha! On the path to Knowing at last!-- but it's marred with the way Martin is stock-still.

"What is it? Martin?"

\----

"Th-th-there's-- there's--" Martin manages to flinch his way out of being mentally trapped there, and a muffled, wet cacophony-- eugh-- of what Martin can only describe as violent maggots starts to travel far enough for Jon to hear. Boards in the wall are creaking with the pressure of holding them in, but they're just  _ seeping out _ and - Martin,  _ don't _ panic. " _ Worms _ \-- oh, Christ--" 

As he steps back toward Jon for some semblance of safety a few of the quicker ones start to catch up, and the sound of popping one under his shoe makes him want to puke. "We had-- we had a p-plan, right?  _ Jon _ ?"

\----

"Oh," Jon breathes, and all at once, he goes to a very, very different place in his mind. He knows what comes next. And if he thinks about it, he won't be able to think through it with the clogging muddy  _ fear _ wrapping around him like a cloak.

He stands, and pulls Martin by the wrist, snapping the book in his hand shut. "We need-- we need to f-find the fire extinguishers and-- Ah, the safe room, Martin." His voice is as collected as he can make it, but it's hard, seeing those wriggling, bloated creatures make their way towards him. A few of the quicker ones pop beneath his feet, and his skin itches. 

It's hard to stay present, and his grip on Martin goes lax for a moment before fighting his way to stay present again.

\----

Martin is painfully aware of Jon's grip on him, the way it ebbs and flows back to reality. "Jon," he says seriously, "You-you're not  _ allowed _ to - to leave me. Okay?" 

He pulls at Jon's grip and holds his hand instead, because that's easier, probably safer, less tangled up, and tugs him along. He's so not qualified for this. But he's qualified enough to know where  _ that _ is, so he promptly starts moving, quick enough to outpace the worms behind them, slow enough to give Jon a moment of recovery.

\----

His heart pounds thrice as fast as the pounding of their feet, and his mind ticks off boxes over and over and over that they've got their supplies, that they've got what they need, that--

That Tim and Sasha won't be back today.

He mumbles it to himself, his voice trailing only when there's a worm to crush beneath his shoe, the hard casing of its body somehow more grotesque than any soft maggot. He'd love nothing more than to fall away and reawaken in Martin's arms, but even that sends chills in waves through his brain, because he knows that Martin's hands bring spiraling, painful twists of his flesh. He can only hope it doesn't happen this time.

They reach the office and Jon slams it open with shaking fingers, tossing his notebook wherever it pleases to land. He just needs his phone; he's not about to  _ email _ Elias about the invasion.

\----

Martin inhales sharply the second they manage to shut themselves in, and he hadn't caught whatever Jon said under his breath with his own heart sounding off deafening drumbeats on either side of his head. 

He does have it in him to reach for one of the canisters they'd kept in a corner of the office and lifts it off the floor in preparation. He feels like Jon's bodyguard, turned to the door and waiting while Jon moves.

He likes that. 

"So we're-- we're cornered, and-- and how long does it take them to get in?" Martin's out of breath, unbelievably tense, and suddenly he's out of his own head. "Oh--Ti-Tim and Sasha and everyone down in the Library and-- and-- and they don't  _ know _ , are-- are they here? Have you s-seen them?"

\----

"They're--" Each word is like pulling teeth from his head, and he feels rather gummy and light-headed and his vision is blurred, and oh, what he wouldn't give to be inhuman in this moment. He doubts he'd be so light-headed and foolish if he was still the Archivist. He tries to focus. "We need-- Need to spray as many of them w-with the CO2. And-- The saferoom, it's, well, it's safe." 

He fumbles about the desk for a long moment, desperately trying to find a few clean tapes he can shove into his pockets, just in case. Just in case. He's not sure the Eye will spawn them yet, whatever it does that for. A level of calm, just miniscule, falls over him when he gets the tape recorder all ready, just enough to let him feel like his feet are back on the ground and he doesn't want to skitter and run away. 

"It... Sasha and Tim are out. I sent them out. I didn't want them here. Felt something, this morning, I guess-- I guess subconsciously, you know. Some frivolous-- ah, research mission."

\----

"You - you sent them  _ out _ ? You-- you could've, you could've armed them and explained later! I - I - I don't know how to do this!" 

They're alone. They're alone and Martin is scared and he has to protect Jon, now, because if he slips up Jon might die. They both might. It's different than the way Jon explained it. There's new variables, now. New ways he could screw this up. 

Well, at least he has his screw. 

"Okay, okay, okay. I'll complain about it later. When we're safe, so I - I don't feel guilty, if it goes wrong. I'm ready. Are you ready? I'm ready. I need you." 

The last part slips out. He didn't mean for that.

\----

Jon's jaw ticks and there's a million things he wants to let pour from his mouth, but he doesn't. He doesn't want to distract Martin, and he doesn't want to distract himself, and he can't think about Tim or-- Or Sasha right now. If he does, he might just collapse. Feed himself to the worms. Guilt threatens to choke him, and he has to push it down, steadying himself on the edge of the desk for a moment before rocking off his heels and putting his phone to his ear. 

"Watch the door. I need to call Elias. The rest of the staff are worse than dead if they stay here." 

There's certain factors that went  _ well _ last time; the CO2 Compressors being one of them. It minimized the danger. Minimized the spread of the Hive. Gave Jon at least a  _ semblance _ of trust that Elias didn't want to just watch everyone crash and burn.

The phone rings, and rings, and rings an agonizingly long moment, and when Elias answers, it's with a short, Knowing, and almost mocking, "It's rather unprofessional to merely  _ call _ your bo--"

"Prentiss is here. Manually turn the suppression systems on." Elias tries to get a word in edgewise, and Jon licks his lips, whatever bravado he has left pouring into this one semblance of a sentence, and the words flow easy, and he Knows that it's true. "Unless you want to find two more Archivists who will come along  _ far _ slower than you want, I suggest we take care of the worms." He hangs up and stands there, shaky.

\----

Martin has no issue doing what Jon's telling him to do, carefully keeping his eyes glued to the door while Jon does his side of the work. Appointed assistant.

He only turns his head slightly once Jon hangs up, and despite himself he's grinning. "There you are," he says appreciatively, strikingly calm in the whirlwind of fear closing in on them both. They're both afraid of the worms. That's what makes it so hard. 

It's short-lived, though, because he's startled out of fondness by a dull noise from the door. It's  _ creaking _ . He prays it's his imagination making it look like it's almost bending, but rationally, he knows it couldn't be. He's not looking back at Jon, anymore. And without Jon in his vision, it's all too easy to feel like he's completely alone.

\----

Jon wastes a few seconds just breathing; He must, must stay level-headed. Must--

Shit.

He fumbles for the tape recorder and presses it on with a sharp click, and says, "We should-- Should probably lock ourselves in the room, now, Martin." His voice is deathly quiet.

\----

Martin takes a step toward him, like there's a radius to Jon’s comfort. "You're recording this? What if-- what if something hap--"

Oh, that's the point. 

The door groans and-- and it's revolting, viscerally, the invertebrate and impossible way they start to squeeze between splinters in the wood, warping and reforming through it, like a living pus, the way they're tracking, predatory animals, and Martin can't help but... watch. For a second. For two seconds.

\----

"Martin! We need to--" He reaches forward and wraps his fingers around Martin's, entwines them, and pulls. "Unless you want to-- To look like her, we need to  _ go _ ." He starts to drag Martin with his weight to the open and waiting safe room.

\----

Martin snaps out of it at the pull, following Jon and dragging the canister of CO2 behind him. Every time he blinks, the worms are still there, until-- until they get in here, where it smells familiar, where he's slept comfortably, where he's lived. 

He clears his head with one last blink, and unlaces their fingers. "Okay, we're - we're trapped. What's next on the checklist, Jon?"

\----

Jon slams the door behind them and locks it, and all at once sits on the floor, pulling his knees up to his chin. It doesn’t look settled, or sane, or well-adjusted, but it helps him  _ think _ and it helps him relax, and it keeps him from breaking down and fading away. "We wait. We wait, and wait, and hope Elias d-does what I need him to, and--"

Something unhinges a little in his brain as he runs through everything again, again, again, and he laughs, mumbling, "At least you won't find the body this time. Small miracles."

\----

"Your plan is. Is--is to hope Elias keeps his end of a bargain? Jon," Martin whines it out, fear overflowing his brain. It's one thing to know it's coming. It's another thing entirely to sit in the middle of it. 

"The body. If we live, It'll be your body someone stumbles on. B-because I'll kill you, for not sending me on vacation."

\----

Jon breathes out slowly and lets his knees drop, his legs slowly lowering down to the floor. He jerks, some, when the creaking pounding on the office's front door becomes louder, the straining wood not fit to last for much longer. He pulls himself immediately off the floor and groans from the tension pain already building itself up in his shoulders and makes his way towards their-- his-- bags. 

"Yes, well, maybe a trip to America. See if Elias' eyes can travel that far." Despite himself, he snorts, and there's almost a strange bubble in this room. It smells like them, and it reminds him of safety, and in this eye of the battle, it's almost easy to pretend nothing more will happen to them. Still, his fingers shake as he unzips his bag, a strange sense of apprehension filling him. 

He knows he threw a pack of cigarettes in here earlier, and my, he really must get back to rolling his own. Perhaps once everything dies down and he can breathe again. 

No sooner has that thought entered his mind, when he feels a pinprick of pain latch onto his lower forearm, and a buzzing, humming sound tries to worm itself into his brain, and when he looks down, there's one of those-- one of the-- 

There’s a--

"Martin," He whispers, and all sense of security flies away from him in a moment. The bag rustles. It moves. And embedded into Jon's arm is one of the worms, a fat, bloated, fast one. He drops the cigarettes to the ground with a cry, and all at once, a mass of them begin to move, undulating and wiggling and falling over one another in their haste to get at the two men.

\----

Martin watches the spectacle play out, motionless, as an unwilling audience. It’s not that he doesn’t want to help, he does, he’s burning with it, but there’s something about the way the thing latches onto Jon and starts to writhe that makes it paralyzingly captivating. 

The illusion of safety shatters around them both, once he sees the others. More than anything, it just makes his blood boil. It took so much to get here. So much crying, and self-analyzing, and self-loathing, and fear, and fear, and fear. Martin kicks the bag to one corner of the room-- it lands like a corpse. He pulls the pin on the extinguisher, and in the moment he’s not really thinking about the practicality of that because it’s working, they’re slowing down, but-- well, then his eyes start burning, it gets hard to see, they’re in a small locked room and this isn’t ideal in any way. 

He drops the canister once he’s sure the consequences of hotboxing the technically still-safest room on the floor outweigh the benefits of destroying the worms and falls to his knees beside Jon. “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he repeats as a mantra, softer and softer as he tries to figure out the damage. The anatomy of it. Oh, God, he’s going to do it, isn’t he? 

Too hopped up on adrenaline to register a few vague masses crawling up over the fabric of his own shirt, he’s already grabbing Jon’s arm. The dull jab of pain as the first one tries to sink into his own skin he’s almost numb to, vibrating with how difficult it is to find it in him to hold the corkscrew he kept on his hip with intent. 

“Don’t move,” he says softly, too soft, begging and not demanding. And he's-- well, he'll be surprised later how little he hesitates. The noise it makes when he sinks it in after will haunt his dreams.

\----

The pain of the corkscrew digging into his flesh is a familiar pain. The kind he's dreamt about, the lingering after effects of nightmares producing phantom pain in his scars. The scars themselves throbbing, especially when it was too humid or too hot, and scar tissue did its work to remind him just how lucky he was to be alive.

He has lived with this pain for three fucking years, and it still doesn't stop him from crying out when Martin digs the tip of the metal screw into his flesh and digs out the first of the worms.

It'll be strange, he thinks, numbly, to have scars where once scars were shifted elsewhere on his body. At least he'll have physical reminders of this world upon his skin. Finally. In some perverted way, this at least tells him he's staying. That he won't return. That what he experienced will sit only within his memories from now on.

He's content with that, and he deliriously lifts his head, no doubt to say something awful along those effects, but his voice is choked off because Martin-- Martin is being infected too.

"Hurry, hurry," He pants, and it's not because of his own skin, now, but because he knows he needs to get up, move around the pain, and help Martin, free Martin, save Martin.

\----

Martin's embedded his focus on Jon's arm. The way blood trickles down to his elbow, the way that the corkscrew catches on something he can only hope is the worm, the way he works to twist it back out. When it comes through, squelching and tinged with gore, Martin stares distantly. 

"I can't hear you," Martin says flatly, because he really can't. Comprehending words is not the part of his brain that's operating right now. When he looks down at his own arms and sees the bodies of worms, at first he... he feels content to let them do their work, content in the space between death where he knows it's about to happen and is powerless to stop it. But then another thought hits him. 

He can't trust Jon to do this. 

Without a word Martin closes in on himself, and the pain isn't his. The pain is someone else's, it's a statement, he's living through a statement and it's a temporary suffering for a greater reward by the end. He can't frame it as him screwing worms out of his own body, because if he does, he'll mess up. He'll hesitate. And then he won't have a statement to make, when it's his story to tell.

\----

Jon's arms roar in agony; Martin was swift with pulling them out, but that does nothing for the gaping wounds now creating grotesque holes in the meat of his flesh. When Martin pulls away, Jon almost wants to let him, to lay back and rest and ride the pain until it abates.

But. There's something about it, and he can't just let Martin do this. He sits up and scrabbles to come closer, his hands lurching to Martin's wrists and wrapping around them, his voice frantic. "Martin, Martin. Martin, let me. Martin, it won't be precise, Martin." almost feels like a mantra; Martin's name grounds him more than anything else in this plane of existence.

Blood drips openly down his arms and to the floor, ruining whatever clothes he has on, but he doesn't care. He'll bandage them both if he needs when it's done, when it's over but for now he has to, has to fight through the pain.

\----

Martin's already too far in to pulling the first one out to stop, even with Jon's hands willing him to stop. It's easy, the first time, using his dominant hand to dig into flesh that is and isn't his own. To watch with a near-medical curiosity, as if overseeing an operating table, as if he can't see his own wounds gushing out back at him. 

Jon's voice is breaking through to him, but that makes it harder to distance the white-hot, gnarled pain ripping through his nerves. "First aid kit," Martin says quietly, and it's his only response, because if he focuses on what Jon's telling him, what he's offering him, on how he says his name, he'll cry. 

He'll cry and go soft and lose his grip and he'll die. He'll become a body to be found in the Archives. 

But he won't be a mystery. The recorder's still going. 

Martin can only hope Jon stashed one in here, because he didn't.

\---

This isn't what was supposed to happen, and his limbs shake and shudder more and more with each passing second. This is why he doesn't plan; when plans go awry, his brain shuts down and he just wants to cry, wants to sob, because the first time around, Martin was safe. He was safe and didn't get hurt, and sure, he found Gertrude's body and had to dig worms from Jon's flesh, but his own skin was fine, he wasn't infected, he wasn't-- Wasn't-- This. 

He almost wants to yell. To get angry and livid-white-hot and point fingers and make everything worse, but it's energy he doesn't have, and his skin feels too cold to get angry. And Martin's voice, despite being flat, and wrong, and horrid, at least tells him what to do, and he scrambles back, letting go of Martin's wrists and fumbling for the stash of supplies they'd put here once Jon had figured Prentiss couldn't be too far away from her attack. 

Extra extinguishers, cannisters, and yes, first aid, and he pulls the box from its carefully placed position on the floor and brings it over, willing himself to stop shaking like a goddamned infant. He opens it and finds disinfectant and, figuring there's nothing else to do, he begins to dress the wounds Martin moves on from, alcohol poured onto cotton pressed deep into his wounds, ignoring his own for the moment, his focus narrowing in on the grotesque holes in Martin's body.

\----

Martin cries out, then, dropping the corkscrew to the ground while Jon paralyzes him with a penetrating liquid pain he's not prepared for.  _ Don't pass out,  _ he pleads internally, vision blurred at the edges and threatening to darken.

"Stop, stop _ , stop, _ " Martin says like Jon's torturing him, and it's shaky, emotion threatening to spill over. Jon's overwhelming him, crowding him with care and love and severing the thread of distance he's trying to weave. "You first." 

And then he tries to lift the corkscrew with his non-dominant hand, burying the horror trying to dawn on him that he can't flex his fingers well. There's just one more, one he can sense the weight of. He doesn't know how, or why, but he's still trying. On the verge of a torrential breakdown. He doesn't know what's wrong with him. This has never happened before.

\----

Jon listens, at first, pulling back like he's been slapped, but when Martin tries to dig the remaining worm from his other hand, his bleeding arm clearly sluggish, Jon pushes himself forward, wrapping his hand around Martin's weak fist. "Let me. Please. Let me. Don't do this alone." 

Tears are stinging the corners of his eyes at this point, just from the effort of staying upright, even if upright is just swaying harshly on his knees, kneecaps digging roughly into the old wood floors of the room.

Their blood mixes, and part of Jon is fascinated by that, watching the way their skin mars scarlet, the end of one platelet beginning the other. Bonding to one another, rushing together, flowing together. One.

"Just let me do this," And it's almost a cry, almost begging, and he feels the need to take care of Martin, like Martin's cared for him despite every, single,  _ fucking, _ thing that Jon has ever done to him, made him do, forced him to witness, like some sense of retribution that he knows, knows, will never be enough. 

He's pulling Martin into a hell of his own making, and the least he can do is try to make it better.

\----

Martin drops the corkscrew again as Jon reaches out, but it’s mostly that he can’t actually grip it hard enough for what he needs. His fingers aren’t working. 

He distantly wonders how useless that might make him. 

He hesitates the same way an animal caught in a beartrap shies away from help, and the only way he can find to physically express to Jon that he’s allowed to intervene again is by staying still. He’s not sure how he got here. He can’t remember anything but this moment, blood loss wrapping everything he knows in a sheet of thick cloth.

“Making it about me,” he murmurs, tired and far away. “I wanted to go to Yellowstone.”

\----

"We can go to Yellowstone. We can. We can do that. Later, maybe. We can-- I'll. I'll talk to Elias. He-- He'll let us," Jon babbles as he fumbles to pick up the corkscrew, and it's, at this point, so slick with blood, that he has to wipe it, over and over and over again onto his filthy shirt, and he'd keep doing it, caught up in the action of cleaning it, if Martin wasn't right there, bleeding out, arguably making the room dirtier by him being infested with worms, and he grips the corkscrew tighter. 

He hasn't done this. Only Martin has. 

It's not like he was looking, when Martin did it, his eyes rolled back or pressed shut in pain. So he looks to his own arms, the tension around his muscles still sporadically spasming bursts of blood in time with the beating of his heart, and he mumbles, "Stay still. Don't move. Don't move, Martin. It'll be over soon, Martin." 

One breath, two, and Jon realizes he'll be here all day if he doesn't just do it, and so he does. And every statement about the Flesh, the Corruption, springs fully to his mind, words dripping in the back of his tongue like acrid hemlock, and it's all he can do to keep his mouth sewn tight, so he doesn't start spilling words out, making it worse, making it oh-so-very-worse. 

Maybe Jared Hopworth would enjoy this. But it feels grotesque even for that monster.

The digging of the flesh is easier than he would have thought. What he assumed would be taut, thick, require muscle, turns out to be soft; it's a mind over matter aspect, he supposes, and one moment the tip of the screw is just barely digging into Martin, and the next it's  _ in _ , and he's extracting, the bulbous, wrecked body of the worm mangled and gutsy on the curl of the metal corkscrew. He repeats it for the other worms in this arm until he's tired and shaking and the dead bodies of worms litter the ground below both of them and his head is nothing more than a woozy blood-loss barely conscious mess. 

He holds the screw aloft and starts blindly passing his fingers over Martin's arms, trying to find anymore intrusions, any more worms, along both arms, his chest, his legs, his face, and only when he's checked twice, three times, does he let the corkscrew clatter to the ground with a few clanging sounds and let his arms drop to their sides, and he lets himself fade out for a moment. Just a moment. He just needs a moment. His cheeks are wet.

\----

Martin presses his forehead to Jon’s shoulder, leaning nearly too much weight on him until the breather allows him to slip to the floor on his side so he’s level with the first aid bag. It doesn’t hurt to land on his shoulder compared to everything else, and he doesn’t care that he’s drenching everything over the box with blood as he reaches in with his better hand. 

He finds what he wants and tries to pull the edge of the roll of gauze wrap loose with his teeth. His face is covered in fingerprints, his hair’s sticky with sweat and blood and worm fluids, and he’s squishing a couple of dead, corkscrewed parasites where his weight rests, and he's sure if he tried he'd notice that all the above was getting into his mouth, too. But trying is something he has in limited amounts, and gets too tired halfway through from having to lift his head to unwrap the thing, so he rolls to his back instead.

Moving the gauze from his mouth with a few good fingers, he nudges it toward Jon along with his arms. He doesn’t care that they haven’t been cleaned properly. That’s not his most pressing concern. “Please.”

\----

Jon is slow to respond, still sitting dazed and unfocused. His gaze eventually pinpricks onto the gauze sitting outstretched in Martin's hand, and he snail-like takes hold of it, confusion in his chest. What is he doing? Why is he here?

Those questions snap him back into place. He thinks of the Stranger and her tantalizing confusion. His jaw flexes and he forces himself to feel the full pain of his body, tensing his muscles to send another Shockwave of the here and now and bloody along his being.

"I N-need to clean... Clean t-the rest of t-them," He says, and his teeth are chattering from the effort to speak, even as he let's the roll of gauze fall over his knuckles and round his wrist, as he picks up the bottle of alcohol disinfectant once more. "Can't leave a-anything alive in there."

His own touches are soft (weak, his brain supplies), and tentative (weak) and cautious (weak, weak, weak), but he nonetheless grits his teeth and presses more disinfectant-covered cotton to the new holes he's made in Martin and presses down, tensing for the reaction he's sure to receive.

\----

“No,” Martin whimpers, but it’s so quiet even he can barely hear it from his own mouth. Jon’s right, he needs to, he can’t just cover the bleeding and let it fester, but that pain is worse. That pain seeps deep into his cells and sets him on fire and makes the gnawing ache of absence where there should not seem like superficial scrapes. On his back he can’t do much to fight back, so instead he’s shrinking away from what he needs to live, what Jon’s doing for him to keep him alive. 

He tries to plant his shoes to the ground and dig in with his heels to avoid kicking back, as much as his body is screaming at him to defend himself. After trying to handle the misery and failing for maybe half a whole second, he manages a desperate, pained “Wait” with one drawn out breath. Pointedly, he tilts his head to a portable flashlight that had fallen out of the kit. “L-l-let me, th-the side, I can - bite.” It’s not the most eloquent of explanations, but it’s better than biting into his own tongue from the tension in his jaw.

\----

"No," Jon hisses, because it seems Martin is fighting him, fighting being cleaned, fighting being taken care of, fighting Jon from being useful for once in his goddamn life, and with a level of strength that is probably not wise to extend, he straddles Martin’s middle and leans over him, pouring antiseptic in the last of the wounds and pressing it in, pressing it deep. His fingers burn from the way the antiseptic has seeped into his own fingertips, but he doesn't shy away from it anymore. 

It's keeping him here. It's reminding him he's still human.

"Sit still, Martin." His voice is a deadly growl, and he takes hold of one of his arms, letting the roll of gauze fall from his wrist. He examines how many of the wounds there are and lets Martin's arm drop, and begins to unwind the gauze, pressing it to the underside of one of Martin's holes and winding it tight. 

He knows, from experience, that Elias will call the paramedics. He knows, from experience, that they'll be quarantined for hours and checked over. But if he stops and lets them sit here, he might lose his mind, and in the thrum of-- of this strange, horrid, all-consuming mind-fog, the thought of not bandaging Martin isn't even an option.

\----

Animal fear takes over the second he's trapped on either side, and Martin forgets the second there's compression over his chest that it's Jon. He doesn't get another chance to clarify, to point out what he'd wanted, because he devolves into pure reaction. Just his legs scrabbling for purchase behind Jon and finding nothing left on the slicked up floor. Just him pushing his own weight down to the wood as if a centimeter of space would save him, would do him any good. 

Just pained, wordless screams until his throat goes hoarse-- he forgot how to beg. A few failed defensive knee kicks to Jon's back that aren't hard enough to matter, because he's losing stamina. A few attempts to move his arms away that don't count, because he didn't have enough strength to even tug. 

For all the fanfare, it devolves into quiet sobs in the end. He stops trying to move away or fight back, and he can't curl up into himself, it's pliant and terrified and tired and numb. He's never made half these noises before.

\----

Jon ignores it all. He ignores it, because he has to. Because if he pays attention to anything but the task at hand, he'll collapse and sob and fall into himself, and be the tiny, weak little thing that he's supposed to be. The corralled, ignored presence that shouldn't take action, should just react and listen and be quiet. 

Martin's screams fall on deaf ears. He's learned to tune out screams over the years. Instead, he wraps gauze tight around his wounds until no blood will drip onto the floor, and he thinks about the statement this will make. It's potent; he can feel the fear in the air, and focusing on it makes everything so, so much easier. Even if his god wants him to sit back, to not interfere, to watch and listen, he won't. He'll contribute. He'll contribute if it means Martin is safe and the Institute is safe and the tapes are safe. 

He moves on to the other arm, and when he's finally, painfully done, and has nothing else to do, he drops the gauze to the ground and drops his arms away, wordlessly pulling himself from off of Martin's body and letting himself collapse to the floor. The blood is starting to clot, enough so that each movement is painful and reopens wounds that are trying to close themselves; he doesn't care. His task is done. A swipe of a hand down his face leaves his jaw a blood-stained mess, and it's all he can do before he goes still; the thought of moving anymore makes him want to shrivel like the dead worms.

\----

Martin’s entire body is wracked with tremors, residual involuntary movements despite being past the point of genuine reaction. At the second arm he accepts it for lack of an option. Everything is dull, winding down, cleaning up. By the end it’s all just a process to sit through - it’s his new normal. But Jon lifts the pressure away and he thinks-- on that basic level of understanding-- that he’s safe, he turns away. Curled up and shaking, facing away. 

On his side, eyes to both arms tightly wrapped in suffocating bandages, fingertips pulsing with a more even bloodflow, tear-stained and snotty, he finds a memory. Dark and twisted and painful and guilty. “I won’t do it again,” he whines pathetically to the floor, vulnerable and childish and slurred, “s-stupid, ’m s-s-sorry, I won’t. W-won’t.”

\----

In this in-between space, Jon drifts. The pain isn't enough to keep him present anymore, and besides that, it's not even the pain that has him so out of his mind. It's everything else. It's the clawing, violent thing in his head that pushes him to the point of sobbing, snotty panic. Now, he just feels like he's in the Buried. Is it worth it to move? To extend the energy to even try to address his wounds? Jury's out. 

It feels as though mud pours down his throat and into his eyes, dirt pressed tight into his nostrils. All around him is weight, and the depths of the earth, and the knowledge that he’ll stay here, pressed here, his mind slowly washing and rotting away as things do. Mud and dirt and clay are made from dead things, you know. They’re just broken down. Jon can feel himself breaking down, and the blood in his arms leaking slowly out is just making that process easier.

So he lays there and lets the thick clouded thoughts pass over him, inflicting their own sort of damage as deep and ever-lasting as the worms that had buried within his flesh. Lets them hammer down on his brain and slowly, slowly, by increments, they thin up, and it gets easier to think. Not by much, but enough to take stock in what's going on. 

Martin is safe. Martin is safe, but he's crying and saying something that Jon can't quite latch onto, and in this aftermath, as he turns to his side and rustles clotting wounds enough to bleed again, he almost reaches out. And then stops. Not for the pain, but for a different kind. A cloying, thick layer of guilt that he caused these tears. Look at you, Sims, you try to intervene, to be active, to be autonomous, and you cause this. 

"Martin," He slurs, and keeps his hands to himself. "You're okay. You're clean. No more blood."

\----

“M-my fault, m’fault, w-wasn’t thinking...” Martin trails off, blindly reaching for the pad of gauze and the antiseptic Jon dropped with his good hand as he babbles. It’s not the words he’s focused on, from Jon, it’s the need. Someone needs him. Once he’s pulled them close to his chest, he searches the floor again, fingers tacky with drying blood, and lets the flashlight he found fall from his hand over his back so it rolls near Jon. His mouth’s still somewhere else. “Not lying, l-love you, I’ll do it, sorry, sorry, sorry--”

While the words drip out of his mouth he’s picking up the gauze, the antiseptic, his hand working on a different plane than his mind and his eyes. He rolls over to face him. Martin hoists up his near-dead weight, sways a bit while he orients himself, sees the flashlight again. He picks it up, and it’s not heavy but to him it’s a thousand pounds, and tries to hand it to Jon near his face. Martin’s not meeting his eyes or indicating that he’s even talking to him. This is a bad place. It’s a bad place he’s never been. “Don’t deserve you, d-don’t do enough, I will, I’ll try, I’ll start trying. I can show you.”

\----

"I don't know what you're saying," Jon whines, and it's a pitiful, pathetic sound, and he just wants to curl away at this point, to hide beneath his hair and pretend he doesn't exist, to fade into the floor and stop producing-- Producing whatever this is. These emotions. These emotions on Martin's face that hurt as hard as staring into the sun would be. A shudder wracks through his body that blanks out his mind for a moment. It feels like dirt is in his throat.

Something's in his face, but he doesn't have the strength to take it, and a million apologies are on his throat, and a million curses drip down his tongue, and in the end he says nothing, but whines again, and he wonders if he'll ever be clean again. The thought makes him shudder again, and the whole process repeats itself. He must be in the Buried. He must. A wet, cloying Buried where he can hardly think and hardly move and trying to do so is like wading through quicksand. Why would Martin be here? Did he drag Martin to the Buried too? He whines again, the sound high in his throat.

"I can't understand you, I love you too, I love you. I do.”

\----

Martin stops trying to hand him the flashlight, dropping it to the floor by Jon’s skull. They’re both in different worlds, passing alien messages to one another in ways that just don’t stick. Jon is suffocating in the deep pits of the Earth, and Martin is away, alone, alone in a room with two people. A room that isn’t in the Institute, a room that belongs to someone else, now. Someone who could never be what Jon is. 

He lifts his hand to move Jon’s arm to settle flat, tilts the bottle so it pours down Jon’s arm. Puts the bottle down and lifts his wrist so gravity lets liquid creep into the nearest wounds. It’s a stupid way to go about it, but he’s not all here, so. It’s better than nothing. He knows Jon had to have missed a spot, somewhere. “It wasn’t that deep, I - I couldn’t tell, ‘s’why - can’t see, I - I - I c-can’t, do - did you care?”

\----

The antiseptic hitting his wounds causes his whines to turn to screams, and as much as he tries to stifle them--  _ don't be loud, don't be loud, be quiet, don't make a fuss- _ \- it's no use, and he screams nonetheless and shakes and tries to hold himself still for Martin but it's hard, it's so hard, and in between screams and breathing and anguish, he shivers and pants, "I care! I care. I care. I always care. I care." 

It doesn't help the pain go away. It makes it worse, because he cares, and the white bandages in front of his face are his own shoddy medical work, and he cares, and the tear-tracks running down Martin's face are his fault, and he cares and everything that's happened is his fault and he's just the monster he hasn't yet turned into. It's just a matter of time. It's just a matter of time. He'll lose himself, and he'll take Martin with him, and these worms should have just been left to do their duty.

\----

The surge of fresh pain-sounds forces a flinch out of Martin, and he sucks in another thread of incoherent conversation like a string of spit back into his mouth. Grounding, that’s what it is. Out of the wallplug-lit childhood bedroom too colorful to be anything but evil, and somewhere safer-- with blood, and worms, and throbbing pain. 

“Jon, Jon -  _ Jon, Jon,Jon, _ ” He whispers each word with a bit more clarity, a bit more comfort, starting at strangers and ending with love. “I can’t wrap this with one hand,” he starts after a pause to find the wraps. “I need… I need you to help me. Over yours.”

\----

"Help... Yes... Yes, Martin, of course," He mumbles, and tries to focus his eyes on Martin. His voice is firmer now, easier to latch onto, and Jon does so like an eros-stricken leech, and his eyes are swimming with a pain and an intensity that should-- and has-- scared off more than one person before. He tries to sit up and fails, his head swimming, but it's not thick, foggy clouds anymore, but just the rising and lazy thrum of pain that he's lived with before. 

Moving his arms is another story, and when he moves one to grab hold of gauze, the pain that shoots up him causes him to make another wounded half-scream, and he has to pant through the waves of pain and grit his teeth hard to try again. Being prepared for how bad it will hurt helps. "Guide me," He says, as the electricity up his arms blurs his vision again, "Be my eyes."

\----

“Sit up later,” Martin says evenly, now that he has a job, a direction, a purpose. The frantic emotions of the past have started to put him in a state of shock, where things are calm, like a boat on lifeless water. That’s not a good thing, medically, but for now it serves a purpose. 

He scans in front of him, trying to comprehend the shapes. It's a valiant effort on Jon's part, but those noises are tearing him apart, and... Martin lifts his bad hand, definitely can't flex his fingers, but he can hold Jon's hand up slightly by lacing them loosely together. It gives him a better vantage point. “Let me see…” Screw it, he’ll use his teeth. “I - I think I can do it. Do you have service - can you - can you call someone? I don’t, um, oh, Jane. It’s - ugh. No, you know what, nevermind.” He’s too tired to fret, so he gets the edge of the gauze in his teeth and pulls enough that he can start crudely wrapping it around Jon’s wounds with one hand. It's messy, but hopefully very, very temporary.

\----

Jon brings his other hand up once Martin starts, pressing it to his wrist in a wordless do I need to help? He'd love not to. He'd love anything to just lie there and let this happen and deal with whatever consequences might result. He'd love to sleep, really, even though sleeping has generally not been a wise decision for him to make in these situations. 

"C'ld call Elias," He mumbles, because the pressing of gauze tight against him agitates the wounds and makes talking a chore, again, and it's getting hard to stay focused. "Wouldn't do much. Pro'lly wants this. P--probably. P-probably likes this."

\---

Martin stares vacantly into a dark corner of the room to prevent himself from glaring down into his face. "The police, Jon."

He's not so sure he hid the shortness out of his tone, so he tries to reconcile by gently brushing his hand off and continuing. "I can do this. You helped. M-my turn."

\----

"Your hand," He protests weakly, but it is just that, and he lets his hand be pushed away, letting it rest on his stomach. He's too tired to resist, and he rather, honestly, likes that Martin is taking care of him. He focuses on the former of Martin's words and wrinkles his nose, shakes his head somewhat and says, "Guess we could. Need to g-get the.... employees to--" 

A blaring alarm sounds through the halls.

If he wasn't as exhausted, out of his mind, spacey as he is right now, he would roll his eyes and spurn on the migraine to end all migraines. The fire alarms go off. The prick must have been listening. Part of him is furious, but most of him is just relieved, and he lets his eyes close for a moment, satisfied that at least the building will be empty soon.

\----

Martin finishes the wrap and-- well, it's passable, for what he's capable of at the moment. The alarm scares him into dropping the rest of the gauze, but not enough that he's any more awake. "I can't-- I don't think I can walk out, Jon."

\----

"'s not an actual fire," He mumbles, and lays there for another few seconds before propping his head up. "Oh. The-- the gas. We should--" He lurches himself up to a sitting position painfully, grunting with the effort. "Probably best to stay here? Here or the tunnels."

\----

Martin decides he's had enough of sitting up once Jon reminds him how much of a task it is to do, and he rests his head in Jon's lap as he goes down. "I need a hospital. No tunnels."

\----

"The CO2 suppression systems are gonna-- not gonna be good for us," Jon says, remembering the giggly way Tim had been, the first time around. But maybe that won't be too bad. A little oxygen deprivation might not actually be awful for their pain. Not great, however, for him staying present. 

His hands, now finally not at a constant risk of being coated in blood washing down his arms, make their way to Martin's head, his fingers fisting into his hair like he's his anchor. He is. He's always been his anchor. He's not going to make Martin move. 

"We can wait here."

  
  



	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our own little traumatized hospital reprieve.

The hospital bed is blessedly familiar, if only because Jon has gotten used to sleeping on a thin cot for the past few weeks. Not that it's objective uncomfortability would have mattered, by the time they arrived. 

After being jolted from their strange, post-shock by a knock on the safe room and the vision of hazmat suited paramedics greeting them, they had been whirled away to quarantine, thoroughly dressed down and gauze removed to verify, verify verify, and been led to ambulances once the extent of their wounds were fully realized. Jon had been tutted at by a few nurses for the makeshift  _ corkscrew wounds, are you absolutely mad, boy _ , though quite a few had looked... At least half-way impressed. 

None of it mattered. The blaring red lights of the ambulances washed out his vision and he looked for Elias, but never saw him, except to feel a pinprick feeling of being watched, the kind he had come to register as Elias' direct gaze on them. 

All through it, even half-delirious, he refused to let Martin out of his sight, and by the time they're sitting in hospital beds, half-high on pain meds and drifting in and out, the high-octane delirium of the day had finally settled thick and deep in his bones, becoming marrow that will remain forever. 

Now, he blinks his eyes open and realizes it must be morning; they'd wanted them overnight just to ensure the wounds wouldn't begin to infect. Morning light filters through the sheer curtains, and for a terrifying minute, he wonders if he's back, if he's just awoken from his coma, and he sits up abruptly, his heart pounding in utter panic. What if. What if. What  _ if _ , and it's two years later again, and he's inhuman and beyond saving? What if--

But taking stock of his arms, he knows. The worms. He begins the slow process of calming himself down, his body aching from sitting up so roughly. But, hey, at least the worms didn't get his face, this time around.

\---

"There you are," Martin sighs with genuine relief from where he's sitting on his own bed, arms draped over his lap. It stretches them out less than having them flat at his sides."Jon. Jon--  _ Please _ turn off the-- This. This thing." 

He gestures to the TV up in the corner of the room with his head. "They left the remote next to you. I-- If I have to see The Doctor cry one more time I might jump out the window."

\---

Jon carefully locks away the panic in his bones. Another time, perhaps. And it's so easy, when Martin... Martin. Martin is right there, and he busies himself just staring at the man for a long, long moment, his expression open in unabashed affection and devotion, before he reaches for the remote on his bedside table and lifts it up, his arms stiff but numb from whatever painkillers they have pumping through his veins.

He wrinkles his nose once before turning the television off. "Not a fan of the Doctor, eh?" he asks, and sets the remote back down.

\---

Martin scrunches up his face, looking back at Jon as he thinks up a response. He can't see Jon that well, but he feels watched in a good way. Maybe he should invest in glasses. 

"Depends. The - the hospital's fine, er-- I like the Doctor. That's the problem. They keep showing-- There's a marathon. The Christmas episodes always make me cry - I've done enough of that, thank you - and they trapped me in it. I didn't want to get up."

\---

"... Have I been sleeping long enough for you to get through a  _ marathon _ ?" He asks and can't quite hold the momentary flash of fear that jolts across his voice.

\---

"No, no-- The channel. Chronological episodes, I just know the next one makes me cry." Martin leans back with a dramatic huff. "I've only been up for - for an hour or two, maybe? Time... time works, for sure."

\---

Jon takes stock of himself fully. He looks away from Martin to track down his arms, huffing at the much nicer bandaging situation the hospital staff has given him. If he tenses, he can just barely feel the give of deep-set wounds, but just barely. Best not to push it, if his body is numbed.

The room is small, sterile, and bright, and he's glad he's not working through one of his migraines right now, or this would be hell.

Everything seems fine, though, and the quiet is odd. He looks back at Martin, tracking the way his arms mirror Jon's and the way he looks sitting in his hospital bed. "And you're doing-- okay?" He asks.

\---

"Yesss." Martin says, but he's thinking about it as it comes out. "I'll likely need, er - what are they called - a few on my right arm went deep, and I-- My fingers need time. Something to squeeze, eventually. Get them working again. Nothing permanent. Lucky I'm left-handed." 

He smiles, bright and warm and so,  _ so _ proud. "I left Charlotte in the Archives, a-a few weeks ago. If we hadn't-- I wonder how that would've gone, if she didn't-- You  _ can't _ hate spiders after that, right?"

\---

Jon's expression goes from fond to worried to nearly pissed, the fluttering of emotions passing over him like shadows. "The-- Martin, are you-- The fucking spider? You're giving credit to the spider?"

\---

"Not for all of it," Martin says, sheepish. "Just-- It was a coincidence. Warning us, not - not on purpose. Um." He decides to change the subject. 

"I don't remember much of yesterday."

\---

Jon remembers too much, and at the reminder, he closes his eyes, taking a steadying breath as bile threatens to rise up in his throat. His mind is still a bit foggy, cloudy, but he imagines that's the pain meds; cutting through the fog isn't worth it.

"It was... It wasn't great."

\---

"Of course it was. It'll come back." Martin shrugs. "I wish I could come over there. My hands-- I don't-- Oh, I bet you could fit in front of me. Is that smart? I can't tell if that's a-a terrible idea. I'm very far away from you."

\---

Jon takes stock of his position in the bed. He wiggles his legs, just to see if he can, and, despite some lingering disjointed, slow response in the movement-- from pain meds, no doubt-- he's not in any pain down there. So, stupidly, he pulls the thin hospital sheets down and drapes himself over the side of the bed before he can think too hard about it, and nearly falls forward onto the floor. He catches himself by grabbing hold of the railing to the bed, which just produces a far-away burning pain in his arm.

His head swims. But he's this far already, so he pushes himself up off the bed and waits for his vision to return and slowly makes his way over to Martin. By the time he reaches his bed, he's exhausted, and all but falls over on him, mumbling a stupid, "Hi," that's laced with pain. Martin is very warm.

\---

The display of Jon painstakingly making his way over, normally, would probably just be gut-wrenching to watch. As-is, it's the funniest fucking thing in the world. Martin would've laughed, but he doesn't have much time before Jon's weight is on him, and his "Oh, God," is part joy at the contact but genuinely, mostly the sparks of pain in his arms at the movement. Martin lifts his hands out of the way and takes a deep, hissing inhale. 

"Hi," he returns on the next exhale, in that dumb, vaguely drugged haze. "You -  _ ugh _ \- looked like a cat on ice."

\---

"Oh, shit--sorry," Jon mumbles, but he doesn't sound very sorry. Quite the opposite, really. He looks rather content with himself, pulling his head under Martin's chin and breathing in as he squeezes into a comfortable nook at Martin's side. The pleased expression refuses to change, even as he says, almost whining, "I don't do well on pain meds."

\---

Martin hums, content with the set-up Jon's created with zero work or effort on his own part. All the benefits of warmth and closeness without any of the hassle of getting up himself. "Well, are they working? Mine are working. Mine are very very much working." 

He doesn't mean for it to prove his point, but he tilts his head down to sigh into Jon's hair, breathes him in. Lacking all the blood and gore of yesterday, it's a fantastic place to be.

\---

"I imagine so. Can barely feel anything," He mumbles into Martin's neck. The dull, disassociated pain is nothing compared to Martin's warm presence. "Least it's just our arms."

\---

"Just our arms," Martin parrots back in a half-baked impression. "I need those, Jon." 

He lets his good hand run along Jon's back, between his shoulder blades, up to the base of his neck. His tone is incongruently light. "I don't know what got into me."

\---

"What do you mean?" Jon asks, and carefully pulls himself back enough to look at Martin questioningly. "Way I see it, everything went as well as it could."

\---

Martin avoids looking at him. Jon has a way of giving him this  _ look _ with his  _ eyes _ that makes him feel like he's supposed to be honest. Supposed to tell him everything. He should've kept the TV on. "I didn't know I could, you know, s-screw worms out of my arm. And then I was doing it. It's not-- I didn't know I had that... in me? I think? I did do that, right?"

\---

Jon's expression shutters somewhat, and he nods, his jaw tight. "You did." It's hard to go back to that place, to that panicked, clawing mindset, without losing himself to it. 

He sucks in a deep breath and mumbles, returning to his safe spot beneath Martin's jaw. "We're capable of strange things, when entities are involved. It's hard to get used to."

\---

"I don't know how much that had to do with it," Martin sighs, caught between wanting to own the inherent insanity of doing that to himself and pawning off credit to something beyond his understanding. 

Neither option says any good things about him, really. He runs his knuckles over the fabric of Jon's shirt to ground himself. "Maybe this isn't the  _ best _ place for analyzing all this. Brain-goes. I'll-- Don't want to spill everything." He gets the sense that he's a complete idiot.

\---

Misery washes over Jon as he listens, penetrating the pliant haze that's smoothed over his mind. He squeezes his eyes shut for a beat, and then pulls back, reopening them to look at Martin once more. They're bloodshot, and the after effects of crying yesterday still mar his cheeks, sinuses swollen somewhat.

At least he's not covered in blood anymore.

"I didn't want all of that to happen," He says, and it threatens to overtake him like a storm. "At least-- at least no one died." Unlike last time. Unlike when he failed before. It's the small silver lining.

\---

"Right," Martin says awkwardly, like he's on the verge of saying something but can't make his mouth form the words. He'll hopefully feel better to talk about all of it once he doesn't need a healthy dose of painkillers and time has passed and he won't say anything he'll regret.

His haze is making him sloppy, though. Making his effort to hold it back and keep it buried so painfully rushed. "What - what do you do in a hospital, to pass the time? I-I tried to read earlier and - and a nurse waited a bit too long to tell me it was - was upside-down. Jon--  _ I am so bored _ ." He rests his chin at the top of Jon's head, putting his face out of Jon's sight.

\---

Jon blinks, and says sleepily, "I don't know. I was in a coma last time I was here. Doesn't exactly foster 'activity'." He catches up with what Martin says, and snorts, blinking. "Upside down? What were you, just making up the story at that point? Quite an imagination, Blackwood."

It's almost easy. Easy to pretend none of it happened, in this hazy in-between.

\---

Martin shivers. "Obviously I was going  _ slowly _ , I can read upside-down, but I didn't notice. I thought I was just... processing badly."

He processes badly right now to come up with this, the juxtaposition of asking about what's likely traumatic and what's not lost on him. "Two - two things." His shivers give way to an easy laugh. "First-- Coma?  _ Why _ ? Second-- Why do you call me that, sometimes?"

\---

"Hm." Jon thinks, slow to pick apart two questions all at once. Two very different answers. He tackles the easier one first; "I was in a coma for six months. Didn't even... Even breathe the whole time. Did I not tell you? I chose to be the Archivist." He laughs into Martin's neck. "Lost my humanity for that one."

He hums again, and shrugs against him, ignoring the dull pain in his arms for his efforts. "I think it's funny. I like your name. It's funny to be formal with you."

\---

Martin knows, deep down, that Jon's not kidding. But here - safe, quiet, warm - it's hard to imagine anything going so wrong. "Hmm, I can't recall. Must've misfiled that between Gertrude's murder cover-up and being held hostage by worms. You sure like to go unconscious for long periods of time, don't you, Archivist?"

The last word is painfully cocky, like they're in a war where 'Blackwood' is a pea shooter and 'Archivist' is a barrage. That's a good one.

\---

"Mm. Who would have thought that powers of voyeurism were so tiring?" He pauses, and then snorts. "You laugh, but I got used to that title more than my own name, half the time. And then he tacks it on, remembering they're meant to be joking belatedly. "Blackwood."

\---

Martin shivers again, and he flicks Jon’s shoulder despite the protest from his arm at the motion. “Stop that. And it’s - it’s  _ really _ weird, calling it that, Jon.”

\---

"I know." He sounds vaguely triumphant, then turns his voice low, and amused, and gently mocking. "Do you not like it when I waaaaatch you?"

\---

Martin hides his face in Jon’s hair to hide the flush in his cheeks. “Stooop,” he says like Jon’s killing him by forcing him to smile, and it’s then that he notices how scratchy his own voice is. 

He tries to move past that detail as quickly as possible. “If your plan was to come over here and put all of your weight on me so I can’t press the button to call for help while you kill me, it worked. I'm at the mercy of your bad  _ jokes _ ."

\---

"It's not my fault no one has sophisticated enough sensibilities to find me funny," Jon laments, and any pretension is betrayed by the utter smile in his voice. Just a month ago, he'd find being in such close quarters to be humiliating, an affair that would take much of, if not all, of his energy just to keep his heart from pounding. Now, it's the most natural position in the world, to be shielded in Martin's arms. 

He lifts his face to give Martin a deceptively serious, somber look. "We haven't had the time nor atmosphere to discuss, this, you know. I have a horrible sense of humor. I don't know if you can move past that." Thank the Eye for drugs that loosen his tongue and destroy any semblance of anxiety.

\---

"I  _ know _ you have a horrible sense of humor, Jon. I'm subjected to it every day of my life." He chances a glance down at him once he's recovered enough, and promptly rolls his eyes.

"You're tensing the edges of your mouth trying not to smile, it's giving you away. And for the record, I can't move at all, so I'm stuck with you."

\---

"Mm," Jon hums, and quiets for a moment, letting himself bask in the sensation of the morning room. His words are loose, and he almost ruins his mood by thinking about how this smile is only possible with pain meds. He doesn't let it. Instead, he thinks about Martin, and Martin, and Martin, and how he's his only solace in this Now, and he says, "I like this. Almost worth it, to lay with you."

\---

"You don't have to get hospitalized to do that," Martin says quietly, and it's not that he doesn't agree at all, it's just... no amount of medication makes him completely at peace with Jon's doting. 

So he ruins it. Somehow that thought loops back to his desperate attempts to handle himself, to handle Jon, to save them both, to - to everything else. Something hits him, splintering his focus like a rock into a windshield. He follows one of the uneven cracks. 

"Jon. where's the tape."

\---

"I--" The air in the room shifts. Jon can almost feel it like a physical wind, and it takes his brain a moment to catch up with it, still buffering a few seconds behind everything else. He pulls back a little, searching Martin's face. "The safe room, I-I imagine. I wasn't exactly-- Keeping track of it."

\---

"You - you didn't-- " Martin doesn't bother hiding his fear, it would make more sense to show it plainly to Jon right now. "What if someone finds it? I don't want anyone to  _ see _ that right now. I-I can't."

\---

"Martin, it--" He frowns, finally, confusion washing over him. Jon can feel that fear wafting off him, and it's as sweet as it is acrid, and  _ that _ sort of keen awareness of what fear feels like is... Well, it's kind of new. And it puts him on edge in a way he is not going to examine right now, not with Martin this scared. "What does it matter? Now it's on file; Now it's  _ real _ . What happened was  _ real. _ "

\---

"I know - I know - I know it's  _ real _ , Jon, I was  _ there _ , I don't - I don't know what I said, I was-- I don't want anyone to find it before we do and - and do something with it, I-- " He has no idea how to explain. "It's-- If-- " 

Who would care enough to blackmail you, Martin? Who could care enough to even listen? "It matters. It  _ matters _ ."

\---

"Well," Jon says stiffly,"I'll just get it when I leave today. I doubt the paramedics care about a tape, Martin. And Prentiss-- Hm. Did she even destroy anything? I can't remember, it-- Some of the--" He blinks. "Some of the order of things is getting, all... Crossed. In my head. Hm." 

"We'll find it. I want to listen to it, anyway."

\---

"Not the - the paramedics, Jon. In the  _ Archives _ , in the Institute, p-people who know me, other - other  _ things _ , I don't-- " He groans, because there's no way for him to cloak this with anything that keeps what he really needs to say out of it. "Some-- I think - I think if someone gets it, and they - they shouldn't have it, and they-- That thing is just loaded with - with - with--  _ Jon _ , please don't make me explain this."

His voice gets so terribly, terribly small. "I don't think you should."

\---

"I can barely remember what  _ happened _ , Martin, of course I'm going to listen to it." He says it like it's a non-starter, no argument in sight; what is committed to tape will be Known. He starts to sit up, and bites back the groan that wants to escape his lips. 

It's hard, with the position he's in, but he eventually leverages himself into a swaying, upright position and frowns at Martin, squinting at him. "Don't you want to  _ know _ ?"

\---

Martin knows, despite the blank spaces, that some things happened. Some things happened that weren't  _ good _ . Otherwise his brain wouldn't be working so hard to keep him away from it. 

"I don't know if I want  _ you _ to know, Jon." 

He thinks about how harsh that sounds, so he tries to add a cushion. "We can-- You can listen. I just... I don't know. I don't know if I want to."

\---

Jon makes a short sound of frustration, and picks angrily at the edges of his bandages, needing some physical stim to keep him from glaring, or snapping, or just not talking all together. "It's not like I'm going to  _ judge _ you, Martin. I was in a bad place, too. That much I remember. It's not like we aren't always being watched, anyways. I doubt  _ Elias _ suddenly forgot."

\---

"I-it's not about judging, Jon. It's just about - about knowing. It's-- You'll probably come out with more questions, and-- " Martin, you're just making it more obvious. Stop. Stop. Stop. 

He sighs. "I think I'm just nervous about hearing it all over again. It's still, you know, fresh. We can-- You said you're leaving today? I don't know if - if-- My hand. I don't want to push too hard."

\---

Jon watches him for a long, hard moment, his expression shuttered into something unreadable. But, truth be told, it's hard to focus on his train of thought, and it's probably not the time for it. Which, Jon hopes Martin can quite appreciate the restraint. He's not one to abandon a line of questioning on pure politeness alone.

"Fine. You'll need to trust me eventually, though." And then he drops it. "I doubt the nurses will  _ want _ me to leave, but I'm not wasting a day of work to lay around like a 19th century morphine addict."

\---

"But isn't it nice, to indulge in the fantasy of being a 19th century morphine addict, just once?" Martin tilts his head, giving him a white flag of a smile. 

He's trusted Jon with more than he's ever trusted anyone else. It hurts that it's so difficult, and Jon sees so little of it, and Jon can't see the effort it takes. It's not fair of Martin to keep from him, but he's not ready. He can't be. 

"Nurses never want you to leave." There's a comedic, thoughtful pause. "Unless you cause a scene. Or a heist."

\---

"I'm not causing a heist." Jon pauses. "I'll cause a scene, if need be. Can always unleash my inner uni-white-girl-on-holiday tantrum." Despite his apparent plans, he makes no move to get out of Martin's bed yet. Still too comfortable, even sitting up.

His expression goes soft, and he takes hold of Martin's good hand. "Jane Prentiss is dead. Hurrah." He hasn't been told this, but he Knows it, with the same surety as any other fact.

\---

"That's... creepy, that you sound so sure about it, Jon." He squeezes Jon's hand, does it three times in succession. "I can't take credit for that. I-I didn't do anything. Did she trip on some stairs in the Archives and die on her own?"

He thinks about adding this, but figures it won't hurt. "I'll have to trust you on that other one. What would I know about university girls on holiday?"

\---

"I do know, Martin." And he squeezes right back. Can't even hide the thrum of excitement that runs through him when he realizes that's what it is. "The fire suppression system burned her alive."

\---

"Yay." Martin says with purposely bland cheer. He's happy about that, he is, but he's trying not to focus on Jon whipping that out as fact. Maybe he'd learned it after Martin passed out first. 

But he didn't, and Martin knows that the same way Jon does. Martin chooses to focus on the way his heart flutters at Jon mirroring what he'd just done. Brings back memories, in a good way. "That thing I did, where you squeeze-- It's a - it's a thing I used to do with... someone. I do three." He repeats it with Jon's hand. "I-love-you. And you do four. For the - for the 'too'. It-- It's self-explanatory."

\---

The question is carefully light. Carefully, so he doesn't compel an answer. His eyes light up bright, brighter than just the pain meds, but something deep and curious and tentatively  _ happy _ . "Do you? L-love me?" His attention jumps from Martin's face down to his hands, focus narrowed so profoundly deep he's not sure he can look away until he gets an answer.

\---

Oh, you could really screw this up, Martin. You could push him away, you could stop all of this. You might even want to. The world is your oyster. Jonathan Sims is your person. You don't have to be his, though.

Just depends on if you want to find out what hurts deeper and uglier than twisting metal hell through your nerves. 

Martin squeezes around Jon's hand three times and leaves it at that. It's a romantic gesture, it's relevant, it's applied, it's personal. There's no way Jon could think that was anything but admission. He smiles down to where Jon is, where Jon's looking down at their hands. 

And he keeps his mouth shut.

\---

Jon is ecstatic. Happiness flutters through him, and something altogether bigger than that pumps through his veins. And in the same moment, there's a strange static of fear, of sorrow, of hurt, and he Knows, somehow, that this makes things difficult. This makes things harder. Something like ice worms its way into half-healed worms, and for a second, just a scant second, he's cold. 

And then it's gone. It's gone, and all that's there is utter, profound relief, and the singular hope that for once, for once, for  _ once _ , he isn't alone in a room. He  _ can't _ be alone in a room, as long as Martin is waiting on the other side of the doorway.

Maybe the Eye will guide them both through, this time around. He doesn't let the thought return chilled icicles to his flesh. 

Jonathan Sims is not one to shy away from selfishness. He's learned that much about himself. And deep down, he knows he could never stop himself from this. Even if Martin didn't reciprocate, even if he  _ loathed _ him, Jon's been in love for quite a long time. He's just finally let himself feel it, this past month. 

He squeezes his hand back four times, enraptured by the way their fingers slot together, flex together, exist together, and he looks up at Martin and he smiles.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aw, man, my doctor _just_ told me I couldn't mix Spiral-usage with my pain medications. Drat.

They lay together for some time. Processing it all takes a good hour, and by the time he's accepted it all, accepted this - this  _ existence _ with Martin, he's tuckered himself out, and dozes curled into his shoulder for a while, feeling warm. Martin exudes a warmth not unlike a sunspot and it's addicting in the ways only cats following the light from an afternoon window really understand. 

But eventually he awakens, and the prospect of sitting in a hospital room doing  _ nothing _ when there's so much else to do is too much, and he forces himself to stand, and collect his things, and has quite the engaging row with a nurse that results in a... dubiously ethical compelling sequence where Jon forces her to be so embarrassed she leaves, and he has time to throw on the light cloth pants that he finds in the drawers. 

He assumes his own clothes have been thoroughly burned by now. 

Jon leaves suddenly, rather than slowly, because if he lingers too long, he knows he'll stay in bed with Martin until they're  _ actually _ discharged. He doesn't know how to explain to Martin the peculiar way in which hospital rooms make his skin crawl, the memory of being watched for six months still lurking on the underside of his consciousness like a reflective stone.

He  _ does _ give Martin a quick kiss on the cheek before he leaves, though, his face flushed while he does so. Perhaps leaving their, ahem, bouts of kissing for mostly post-statement highs hasn't exactly indoctrinated Jon to the casual sort of intimacy that he now desperately craves. 

And then he leaves, and the hospital room is bathed in preternatural silence in the pre-afternoon hours.

A silence that lasts for a good three and a half minutes, and then seemingly from nowhere, a door opens from where no door stood to Martin's right before, and Michael says, voice dripping mockery, "That was quite a sweet display, Assistant."

\---

Martin stews in his own guilt at the lack of explicit  _ I love you _ on his part, but it seemed to be good enough for Jon. That's what matters, isn't it? That Jon feels loved? It's not that he doesn't reciprocate, it's the--

Oh, of course he doesn't get time to process. Of  _ course _ . 

With the energy it took to get through the events of yesterday sapped out of him, with the short roller coaster of emotion he'd rode on today with Jon at his side, this might as well happen. 

"Says the one who just made a new door to come into the room even though there's a perfectly  _ fine _ one right there," Martin says, neutral, more peeved than anything else, despite the pinpricks of learned fear at the familiar unfamiliarity of that voice.

\---

"Hm," Michael hums, and steps fully into the room, and there's a shimmer as he does so, as reality bends to make him make  _ sense _ , fixes the air around him to give him something approaching a physicality that won't make their poor, poor little Assistant go mad at the sight. It's quite kind of them to do so. It is. They could just let the battered little man unravel at the seams, and it'd be so, so easy. 

But he doesn't. Because he's kind. 

"One shouldn't go leaping through doors they don't know the origins of," Michael purrs, and steps into view, hovering just far enough away from the foot of his bed so as not to be accused of  _ leering _ .

\---

“I was wondering when you’d come back to haunt me,” Martin says, vaguely surprised at how easy it is to form words without fumbling blindly through them. With people - regular, ordinary people - it’s become a natural response. To become smaller, to shrink away, to seem unimposing, less intimidating. Not to say it’s a conscious thing, or one he even controls as often as he wishes he could, but it feels… purposeless.

It wouldn’t save him from someone like this if he put on that sort of show. In fact, it might make it even worse for him. Beings of fear and all that. “Usually they keep some kind of label on the underside, you know. Shows you where the door was made and everything.”

\---

"I don't particularly think  _ that's _ true," Michael says, but his attention momentarily shifts to the hospital door, angling his eyes low near the floor, before bringing them back to Martin, still smiling wide. 

The Assistant is interesting; not scared. Or, the appropriate amount of scared, but no more. No more than necessary. He still  _ reeks _ of humanity, so it couldn't possibly be that he sees what Michael is, yet. Not quite. "Was Jane Prentiss...  _ fun _ ? I would have joined, but--" He twists his face up into an over-exaggerated grimace. "She's rather  _ gross. _ "

\---

“Too bad,” Martin sighs, “We had spirals and everything.” 

It’s actually… a relief, to talk to someone outside of Jon. To have some space away, to tackle a different challenge, to not feed the loop of anxiety and fear that’s been running loose in his mind. Jon is murky, right now. Michael is bright. Bit… too bright, but, well. 

“And you still looked,” he teases, voice a little sated. It’s easy, easy to forget what Michael is when something far more outwardly sinister and violent comes along. “Some doors do, I’m - I’m not lying. Might have to take it off the hinges to see, there. Very least-- Usually a brand, if it’s in a business. Not much of a mystery, most doors. If you look right.”

\---

"You'd mark easy, I think, with how much nonsense you spew," Michael bites out, and steps closer, letting his fingers wrap around the end of the bed frame, leaning forward. It makes his coat fall open, a pleasing heaviness to the fabric that somehow does the equivalent of  _ grounding _ him. Quite funny. The thought of spiraling deep, deep, deep into the Earth, greeting the Buried, nearly makes a laugh bubble from him, but he keeps it down. Wouldn't do to give the Assistant a migraine so early in his visit. 

Not when he's here on business. 

So he painstakingly sombers his voice, and it's not hard to do. Michael Shelley was so very, very angry when he needed to be. The smile falls from his lips all at once, and his features deaden. "He's going to hurt you, Assistant."

\---

Martin shrugs, indifferent, tired. “I think he already has.” 

And then he keeps talking, because he’s curious to see if it works, to see if he can get Michael off track, too. Because he doesn’t like where Michael’s going, how flat he suddenly is. “It’s not nonsense, they’re facts everyone knows. Doors are made by companies, Unicorns are real but they only live in Scotland, sort of like Narwhals up in Greenland, and birds are reptiles.”

\---

" _ My _ door is not made by any company. You know this. I know this." He leans closer across the bed, and his eyes are wide, almost spinning with intensity, cracks in the physical shell that he wound up so specially for his visit today. "And I don't think I studied biology. You know-- You know not  _ everyone _ knows these things. Rather quaint, really. All these silly  _ facts _ , made untrue by the ignorance of those around them. It's delightful. It's-- Unicorns? They can't be. I'd know." 

His eyelids flutter, and he spits, "He'll  _ betray _ you."

\---

“You could start a company,” Martin doubles down as he looks down at his arms instead of Michael. Spiraling, spiraling Michael. “Unicorns aren’t real, technically. When you list off things you want someone to think are true, you sort of-- You can sandwich it between truths they understand so they feel bad about questioning your expertise.” 

He ignores the last comment, because he has to.

\---

"I am not here for unicorns, Assistant." Michael hisses, and then leans back, and laughs finally, deciding to play his game, play this little farce, because, truly, it seems fun, and truly, it seems cruel, and Michael doesn't want to be kind anymore. He's been so kind to Martin Blackwood. Coming to warn him, coming to save him, coming to be  _ nice _ , and even though he mocks and mocks, it's still  _ kindness _ , and the Assistant does nothing but push him off track. 

It's rude. 

"A sandwich; Jonathan Sims will ruin you. You will be happy. You will go through my door."

\---

Oh, he's childish. 

Martin can work with that. 

"Even better; I  _ loved _ ripping worms out of bloody holes in my arms with a screw. You have a fantastic fashion sense. I've never read a book, and I'm not about to start."

\---

O, that is  _ fun _ . Michael straightens, and his hands come together in something approaching a clap, his eyes wide in glee as he curtsies, thankful for this  _ gift _ of a game. O, Martin Blackwood is  _ entertaining _ , entertaining in a way that no one else has been. What a delicious source of fear, and madness, and something Michael cannot pin the name to. What a spiraling, twisting man unto himself. It's addicting. No wonder the Archivist loves him. What a lovely thing to feed from. 

"How grotesque; is that why you never called? I could have spun them out, you know. I would have, too, if I knew you were this entertaining. Did the blood sing to you? Did it whisper? Did  _ you _ whisper to it?"

\---

"You never gave me your number, Michael. Hm." He looks up and to the side like he's genuinely thinking the questions over. "It tried, but-- It's blood, and unless you're A Positive you don't really bring much to the table for karaoke night. It did  _ sort _ of dance, though, if you're being creative with it. Gravity and - and v-veins pumping, all that mess."

This is weirdly nice. He doesn't get to joke this way.

\---

"Dancing blood." Michael's smile is slow-drawn and genuine. He likes these metaphors. Not the answers he was looking for, but answers nonetheless, and he spends a good minute envisioning the logical conclusion to this reality that Martin has drafted up, pulling out his own approximated arm and watching the veins below the skin bounce and jitter and move with his artificial heartbeat. He laughs, and doesn't bother hiding it under a human mask, because it's  _ real _ and he forgets that it might hurt the Assistant's ears. 

"I am..." He has to think for the word, for the emotion, for what he feels. It's hard. It's easy to be swept beneath the river stone and left to drown under swirling eddies and pernicious currents. Easy to fall under the riptide swell and plummet to the bottom of the ocean depths. "Satisfied. That Jane Prentiss did not infect you. You would make for an ugly Hive."

\---

Martin shuts his eyes tight at the sound, and it's easier to handle when his visuals aren't being similarly accosted. Easier to pretend, maybe, that he's just in a tunnel. He's in a tunnel, and inside there's someone laughing. But the tunnel doesn't stretch on forever. 

"That makes two of us," he eventually starts. Somehow the painkillers dumbing down his perception of stimuli is giving him an advantage here that wasn't present last time. "It was worth a shot. Not all of us can make thousands of flesh holes look good, right? They'll heal up eventually." Slightest of pauses. "I could show you more games, if you want. Ever played Mouse Trap, Michael?"

\---

A far-away, long forgotten part of Michael feels a strange slow-creep of suspicion rise up in what used to be a throat. Anger clouds them, and they lean over the bed once more, the vision of their human shell shaking, distorting from the question. Whispers of  _ he mocks you _ swirl among his head, and a cacophony of Memory he doesn't know how to process mingles like unmixed paint. "You shouldn't patronize monsters, Martin Blackwood."

\---

Before, this would frighten him. Deeply. Madly.

Now, this is a trickle of rain after Jon's emotional storms. Martin looks slightly off Michael's shoulder to avoid trying head-on.

"Michael," He says softly, "It's a board game. I used to like it when I was a kid, you build traps to get everyone else so you can get the cheese. Then you find out apparently board games are  _ stupid _ and i-immature. They're not, not really, but you stop finding people who aren't ashamed to say they think it's fun. It's not patronizing. I'm sharing. I think you'd like it."

\---

Michael squints at him, and for a moment, rage inside him wants to pull dagger-like fingers out. For daring to make fun. For daring to underestimate him. But he isn't lying. They can feel it as easily as they can feel the edges of his fear. 

"And why would you want to  _ share _ this with me, Assistant? What manipulations do you weave to  _ share _ this for  _ fun _ ?" There must be a game afoot; not the fun kind. Not the kind where Michael wins. The kind where Shelley sits crying and lonely and bruised from older children.

\---

"Because I think you'd like it," Martin repeats. "You could probably find it online, still. To buy. I don't think they make it anymore. And-- I'm not  _ manipulating _ you. I'll bet you know the Archivist well enough to know playing board games with him isn't always a - er - a thing. I think he'd probably cheat. So."

Martin's not aligned to the Eye the way Jon is, but he can see there's something else beyond what Michael's showing him explicitly. But it's... Martin doesn't think it's the  _ Eye _ telling him that. It brings a compulsion, but Martin has some of his own. Sometimes, sharing facts about your childhood is a way to get something from someone. Sometimes, it's just sharing. 

"Did you never get to do that? Monopoly, or, or the game where you put your hand in the crocodile and push down a tooth, and it's random but it could snap on you, and everyone's laughing? Because it - it's fun?"

\---

Michael shivers, and they hiss, "We were not a  _ child _ . We are the Great Twisting, something far beyond your comprehension, something far too great to dwell in the paltry realm of children's  _ board games _ . You are a fascinating fool, to speak to me as though I am  _ human _ ." 

But something nags at him. Something that doesn't often get dredged up, except under layers, and layers, and layers of misery, pulling apart their identity at the seams. Ripping what they are and what they were, and  _ oh _ , Michael Shelley was once a child, long ago. In a linear sort of fashion. In the boring, mortal way that children become adults. 

He isn't certain Shelley ever fully became an adult. 

Michael shivers once more, and says so very quietly, "I think one needs friends to play these games."

\---

"You don't have to have been a kid to like board games, that's just the age everyone says it's fine to play them. They don't have a label on the side that says the Great Twisting can't play Twister. You'd like that one too."

Martin smiles, and it's genuine, if purposeful. All of it is, in some way, that's sort of what communication is. They wouldn't come up with smiles if they didn't mean something.

"Usually when someone tells you about something they think you'd like that they've played before, they're inviting you to do it with them. Ooh, those magician kits. I liked those. Used to find things like that in toy shops. Like, mm. Those plastic ones that look like something gross." He laughs, thinking about it. "One time I called my - my mom in, and told her the dog went to the bathroom in the house. And I said, oh, don't worry, I'll pick it up. So I'd bend down and grab it with my bare hand and she'd scream. It was just plastic."

\---

He listens, and as he does, the tension in his physical form lessens. The static that had begun to blur at the edges falls back upon his body, not unlike distorted feathers of a bird laying flat and slimming their form out once more. There's something  _ grounding _ about this man. And isn't that just ironically hilarious. Some mortal-turning-monster being claimed left and right and up and down and all over, managing to give the failed spiral some semblance of clarity for the first time in-- 

Well. Quite a long time.

"I wasn't allowed dogs," He says, and he knows this, and it's quite nice to know things. He's not sure that he ever knew many things even before he was thrown into the maws of the Spiral. "I suppose I could have convinced my mum that we did have one, and drive her mad when she realized we didn't, that would be lovely, to watch her shrewd eyes turn unfocused. It would. It would be quite lovely."

\---

Martin snorts, and  _ that's _ genuine, too. 

"Oh, mine didn't let me have one, either. I brought them in. I'd tell her it was - it was temporary, found it lost and running around and I was trying to find who owned it." 

So conspiratory. Martin's satisfied, until he gets the idea to weigh something in his head. He's not compelling Michael into this. Not forcing it out of him. He's pretty sure he's not, anyway. Michael would probably know and would've told him if he was. It feels  _ better _ getting it out his way.

" _ That's _ a good one. You could get a dog bowl, too, put it in the kitchen overnight and act like it's been there forever. Be better if it had a name printed on it, too."

\---

Michael laughs, and there's less static to cloud it, this time around. "'Dogs are filthy, and unholy,'" He says, and it sounds like he's quoting someone, the edges of his smile curling upwards. " _ Mongrels _ . What a delightful trick. I would certainly feast on that madness for an eon." 

Ah. It reminds him. It reminds him of his task. "Have you  _ feasted _ , Assistant?"

\---

"Dogs are alright," Martin says without any specific tone in his voice, because he's not about to start a fight with an entity that thrives off chaos about dogs. 

"Depends," comes out of his mouth, and it's a healthy amount of wariness. "I've been to a few buffets."

\---

"Don't try to play coy." Ah. It's easy to shed off such horrid little memories. To wrap around the Assistant du jour and taunt, and taunt, and taunt. "You've been feasting upon fear."

\---

"Well, I wouldn't play  _ coy _ if you asked in a way I could answer you." Not knowing where this is going doesn't strike fear in him, exactly, but it's not the most comfortable of positions. "I guess. In the same way reading a murder mystery is...  _ feasting _ on fear. Not that I'd know. Since I've never read a book."

\---

He's good at making Michael want to fall away and twist himself elsewhere; it's tantalizingly easy. He has to physically twitch to stop himself from falling down that rabbit hole. O, it would be fun. O, it would be so utterly fruitless. 

"Not all of us can spin questions into reality. Your fears are making you stronger. It's such a sight to behold."

\---

"Did yours make you stronger?" 

It's not compelled, and that's the point. He won't give Michael the satisfaction of knowing for sure-- Though, he's sure Michael already knows, in some way. Many ways. Knows a lot of things. Martin wonders how that intuition differs from the way the Eye sees.

\---

"Ah," Michael says, and grins again. "You're subtler than most Beholders. I commend that. But--" He twirls a few fingers through his hair, thinking for a long, long moment. It's a strange thing, to be a being of Lies and want to tell the truth. But so be it. 

"No. I find the whole manner.... grotesque. Sometimes."

\---

"Mm. I don't - I don't think I care much about it, one way or another. It's-- I just like helping with things, it's not… It doesn't make me  _ sick _ . I don't know if my fears have anything to do with it."

Martin finds himself staring down at his arms again. The kindly woven hospital bandages, where neat stitches lie underneath. Masking the ragged origins of his wounds. 

"I think it's nicer when people aren't afraid. I don't think I'm some kind of - some kind of  _ Beholder _ ."

\---

Michael regards him for a moment, almost pouting as he thinks it through. It  _ is _ such a strange little quandary. They haven't seen something like this in a long time. Or perhaps they just didn't pay attention. Hard to keep track of these things. Not in their nature. Never in their nature. "You are intimately marked by It. But you don't act like one." 

"You'll make a worthy Avatar. I am... unsure for  _ what _ , though. I'd take you, if I could. O, how Michael's bones creak."

\---

"I... I think you need to work on your compliments?" 

As much time as he's spent with Jon, he still feels so out of his depth. Jon's perspective is one of many thousands. Maybe Martin should work on finding his own, too. 

"You could give me a tour, some time, what you - what you do. One that I'm allowed to come  _ back _ from. I'm sure you have  _ some _ control over what you do, right? I-- At least, I'm serious. About board games."

\---

"You could always come into my Hallway. I probably won't eat you." He grins. And doesn't talk about how most of his existence is anguish. And doesn't talk about how he couldn't actually take Martin unless he tried. And doesn't talk about how so much of his time is spent trying to pull himself together, to be something, to exist, to be something more than a shattered mirror struggling to move. 

It's hard, not to have a purpose. 

"Your Archivist will hate it." He laughs. "I will play your board games."

\---

Martin has the strangest impulse. 

"Pinky promise?" 

Despite memory screaming at him to pull back, reminding him very clearly what it feels like, he extends the last finger on his good hand to Michael.

\---

"You are quite the fool." Michael says, but before Martin can pull back, he reaches forward and entwines their pinkies, a childish glee filling him whole. The gesture means nothing; it's the intent. The intent is a binding. Less binding than blood, but binding nonetheless, and Michael curls his other hand around their entwined fingers, and seals the Mark by digging his nails into Martin's wrist. "You'll call for me."

\---

Whoops. Making fae deals might not be the smartest choice, all things considering. Martin hadn't considered that something like this might be charged, somehow, but it could be worse, for sure. 

"Yeah." His voice is far away, and this might hurt if he weren't lucky enough to be on just enough drugs to matter, so he's able to watch with detached interest... and, and it's nice, somehow. 

Oh, Jon's going to kill him.

\---

The door closes behind Michael's retreating hands, all but verbally giving a  _ toodles _ as he leaves.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fresh out of the hospital? Let's have normal people breakfast.

A cleaning crew has been through the institute. It's obvious. Things are out of place, but clean. The blood stains that  _ should _ dot their room are mostly gone, just faded impressions that will probably never leave fully, the wood forever containing pieces of Jon and Martin. Tied to this place physically, now. But nothing has been stolen, and the tape, where it was put upon the cot to record, sits like an idol, a golden cow upon which to worship. 

Jon cradles it like an infant and takes it to the office. For a long while-- an hour, two-- he does nothing. Rolls a few cigarettes from the tobacco he picked up on his way home, fingers too jittery to make a beeline for the institute that houses his most recent trauma, tries to logically think through everything, but-- 

Eventually his curiosity gets to him. 

Once that kind of hunger starts, it’s hard to ignore it. Always has; call him hedonistic, but the Eye gets to him, these days. That kind of hunger is deep, penetrating, marrow-deep, and the tape before him is as bright and promising as a diamond to a Fantine. 

Cigarette lit, he presses the tape into the player, and he clicks play, his limbs tense and tired and still riding the aftereffects of morphine-induced pain relief.

He listens. He doesn’t even hesitate, not really. He’d pretend, but-- What’s the use? Jon is what he is.

And what he is, is something so pathetic and weak on these tapes, that even under the thrall of second-hand hunger, he squirms away from his voice. Martin-- 

He’s done so much to Martin. The way he cries, the way Jon ignores him, the way Martin mumbles and babbles and speaks to a room that doesn’t exist-- Jon can do nothing but sit, in the aftermath, with the awareness that he’s a monster. A true and fast monster. No wonder Martin didn’t want him to listen; the weak, human cries in Martin’s voice speak of a trauma that Jon ignored. His pleading, his begging, his everything fell on the deaf ears of a Jon too weak to protect, to weak to help, too-- 

The tape ends, and Jon covers his face with hands still bandaged. He wants to tear them off. Tear into the wounds and uncover the stitches and let himself just bleed. It would ground him, maybe. At the very least, it would be some form of punishment. But he does nothing. He just sits and feels wet tears on his cheeks and does nothing. As the Beholder wishes, he sits, and he listens, and he processes, and he doesn’t act.

Look what happens when he does. 

No wonder Martin doesn’t want to remember. Not when he was stuck in such a clearly bad place (nevermind where Jon was, where Jon was doesn’t matter. It doesn’t. It doesn’t), and Jon did nothing more than to make it worse. And to think, Martin loves him. Loves him in his unique, gentle, doting way, loves him in ways Jon will never, ever begin to deserve. 

In a fit of something approaching madness, he gets an idea. An idea that is less of an idea and more of an impulse, because evidently Jon is made of nothing more than impulses these days. A half-burned cigarette hangs off his lips, and centimeters of ash fall onto the table at once, and it’s with that movement that Jon throws the tape player at the wall. It crashes into a splay of ribbon and plastic. Maybe Martin will thank him. 

He doesn’t want Martin to hear this part of him, the babbling lovestruck fool that does more harm than good. He’s fed pomegranate seeds to the man he loves.

\---

Martin is still wearing his hospital band when he makes it back to the Institute. It's a walk of shame, almost, his head to the floor and his senses vaguely trying to warn him of danger scrubbed clean throughout the night. 

It feels like he's been gone for days. Jon only left a few hours ago, a whole lifetime in Martin's mind, and if he were smarter he would've stayed longer. Would've let them keep dosing him up with painkillers, fix his arm. They said it shouldn't be permanent. Shouldn't wasn't wouldn't. As invigorating as his conversation had been with Michael, he's not in much of a state to fully process it. 

All he wants is to curl back up into a familiar room and sleep for a million years. He wonders if he'll even feel safe there. Maybe he and Jon should get an apartment. Maybe they'll die in it. When Jon had left, Martin felt alright. Somehow, between then and now, something is shifting. 

The office is near-silent, for... well, obvious reasons, of course, but as he follows a circuit of familiar carpet and wood he has a feeling deep in his chest that J--

Martin stops dead at the impact with a soft cry. As the sound echoes through the hallway a phrase pops into his head - the  _ bits _ \- and he can't move a muscle, can't make himself move closer. Not an inch, an invisible line in the sand he won't cross. 

It takes him nearly a full minute of standing there in the hallway, trying and failing to come up with a solution, before he manages to barely squeak out Jon's name. He hates to describe it that way, but that's all it could possibly be, pitiful as that.

\---

The second he throws it, there's a deep anguish and a near pain that fills his head, and Jon drops his face to the desk, covering his skull with his bandaged arms and splaying his fingers over the back of it, fisted into his hair.

Too much has happened. And now he's destroyed something of Importance, a record that proves they existed, proves they were here, proves--

Proves that he's broken regardless of what he tries to fix.

He doesn't hear Martin, because he's too engrossed in his own head. He doesn't hear Martin, because he can't think about encountering him right now. He  _ can't _ .

\---

Time stretches on and Martin thinks it must be hours before he tries again. Before his compulsion to knock on the door and fix the problems of whoever sits behind it with a couple of favors sets in.

The sand is blown away and Martin slips into motion, braving the feet between him and the door to grip the handle. He twists it, eyes tightly shut as if Jon might've turned into something else, and it's rude to look.

\---

The door twists, and Jon feels a wave across him, and he groans out, "Oh,  _ Martin _ ," the sound distinctly pained and pitiful and  _ exhausted _ . He didn't want him here yet. He didn't-- He forces himself to sit up, and tries to hurriedly wipe the back of bandages across his eyes, but it's no use. His face is sinus puffy and red.

\---

"Sorry, I-I had-- " He's about to mention Michael, about to justify his presence here, but he looks at Jon despite trying so, so hard not to. 

Martin deliberately avoids turning toward the recorder. He already knows what it is, and it hurts, somehow, that it's gone. That something so deeply important was  _ lost _ . But that's coming from a part of his brain that feels implanted, not natural. 

"I can come back later."

\---

"It's your room too," Jon says, and his voice is wrecked, vowels a little loose from the aftereffects of the pain meds still. He can't bring himself to look Martin in the eyes.

He feels too bad. This morning seems like a faraway dream, now. The cruel reminder of what he is, what they're both becoming now hits too hard; nothing like a good statement to get him back on track.

\---

Well, there's not much he can do to argue with that. Maybe he should bring up the tape. Maybe trying to pretend it's not confetti isn't helping. 

"Is that - is that from yesterday? You-- Was it - w-was it that bad?”

\---

"It--" how to even approach the clawing, dark thing in Jon's chest? He wishes he could turn the lights off, so he didn't have to see Martin's features. It'd be easier. 

"I  _ hurt _ you, Martin. You-- I don't even think you were  _ there _ . And I hurt you." His voice is so very still.

\---

His tone matches that same deadpan crawl, because mirroring is all he knows how to do right now. He's sort of extended all his conversational ability. He wants to-- He wants the comfort of proximity before he wants an answer to what Jon's just said. Though the question is right there, threatening to fall from his throat. 

"Can I sit next to you?"

\---

"If you want," Jon replies, but he makes no move to shift over. It's all he can do to not completely check out right now.  _ Logically _ , he knows it's just been a rough few days and his nerves are frayed and he's... Well. Melting down. Doesn't make what he's feeling any less suffocating.

\---

Martin tentatively moves to sit at the opposite side of Jon's desk, to the chair he doesn't like but they still haven't replaced. He's trying to collaborate, to understand, despite his exhaustion. There's something very, very wrong here. 

"What do you mean I wasn't  _ there _ , Jon?"

\---

"You just weren't. Somewhere else... In... In your head. I mean, I can't-- It's hard to  _ remember _ , I was a bit, you know. Preoccupied, wasn't looking at your eyes, so I've just got-- Just had your voice to go off." 

He takes in a breath and looks at Martin, gives him a proper watery look. "Has that happened? Before? It's just-- the way you were apologizing-- and I just wasn't  _ listening _ to you."

\---

"Oh." Martin keeps his own face downcast, because, well, he's not sure he won't immediately give himself away. Especially with the way he's sure Jon's  _ looking _ . "Has what happened-- You not listening to me? Not - not really. It's-- I'm sorry."

\---

“ _ You're _ sorry? Martin. Whatever it was  _ clearly _ wasn't your fault." His expression sharpens somewhat, like he's found a crack in the nut; there's something  _ here _ that worries him. And he doesn't know what it is, but he Knows better than to ignore that feeling.

\---

Jon's baiting him, he thinks, in some intentional way that Martin's not sure is malicious. He's too tired to fight it much, anyway. 

"N-no, it... it was. I'm  _ sorry _ ." He internally kicks himself for the apologies, the frequency that he's using them, the parasitic way they attach to the ends of his sentences. But he is sorry. 

This is different from navigating normal social interaction. Different from all the ways the tools he has are shaped to handle. No one gets far enough to talk to Martin about his  _ past _ . Not unless it relates to his work, or if - if it's funny, really. This one is neither.

\---

"Oh, yes, I'm certain the worms were your fault too, then. All of it's just  _ your _ fault." He can't help the heat from his voice; after losing it in the office alone, nothing could have prepared him for  _ this _ . For Martin apologizing for having a  _ reaction _ to being gutted by the man he... Evidently loves.

"Don't  _ apologize _ to me for that."

\---

"I'm not apologizing for that. I don't think the worms were my fault. Weren't they in  _ your _ bag? I-- " He's not blaming Jon for that. This is all new for him. 

"I-I'm  _ apologizing _ for what I said, because - because it  _ was _ my fault. B-because you don't know what - what happened and you can't - y-you can't say it clearly wasn't when you--" He's  _ afraid _ again. He hasn't had a  _ reason _ to remember things. A lot of things. Until now, until they're creeping back into his life in new ways that he's not prepared to examine. You can't examine, or analyze, when your entire stability is based around burying them. "When you - you don't know."

\---

Jon is quiet as he takes Martin in, as he  _ smells _ his fear and. Something else that he files away for later because it's unimportant right now, compared to this. "It's still not something to be sorry about. I'm not-- you can. It's not your  _ fault _ you were hurting. It's-- why would I want you to apologize about that? I just -- I don't know what it  _ means _ , Martin. I don't-- I didn't help. I didn't. I didn't help, I made it  _ worse. _ "

\---

"Stop. Stop, stop - stop trying to - to - Jon. The first time, before I ever even  _ met _ you. The first time-- It was  _ my fault _ . I can't-- I didn't  _ go there _ because you sat on me and f-fixed the problem when you were - you were scared, too. I  _ went _ there b-because I saw - I saw blood soaking through the gauze on my arms." 

It tumbles out, and he can feel tears welling up in his eyes. "I didn't go there because of  _ you _ . It was  _ me _ ."

\---

The questions are like thick drops of dew on his tongue, ready to be asked. He wants to ask, so desperately. The effort it takes  _ not _ to, to not demand an answer, to get more information about Martin than he's certain he's ever got before, causes him to press his nails into the palm of his hands as he leans back in his chair, wide eyed and pupils flicking all around the features of Martin's face. 

"So you do remember what happened yesterday," He says, and the words are clipped. Not from any anger with Martin, but rather the effort it takes to speak normally, to not weave intention behind each and every word like a fae's curse.

\---

"I don't want to." Martin glances up, just to Jon's hands. That's as high as he'll go. "But I do. Enough of it. I-- There's a point where I don't. I-I don't, but I do, because - because what i remember is... it happened, already, um, I-- And then my head was in your lap. And I was back again. I'm sorry."

\---

"Martin, that--" Jon knows he's being unfair. But it all is. "You can't just  _ choose _ to not know things. That's not-- that's not how it  _ works _ ."

\---

"Sometimes forgetting is - it's - it's the only way you can get out of it sane, Jon." Martin sighs, shaky and uncontrolled. "I don't-- There's things I forget, where you - someone - someone says a word, and it comes back, like a p-password. And then I remember. But I-I don't want anyone to know. Because they're - they're  _ bad _ , Jon. I'm - it's not a - it's not just a choice. Please."

\---

"But then-- I have to know, so I can-- avoid that. I have to-- Martin I don't want to  _ do _ that to you, because I-- because I didn't know any better." He closes his mouth and swallows, tries to speak and fails. Tries a few more times. And eventually manages, in a rush, "I don't just want to feel safe with you. I want you to feel safe with me."

\---

"I'm trying, I'm  _ trying _ ," Martin pulls from himself, just as rushed. "Jon, I-I'm trying to explain, right - right now, there's things I don't tell people, because if I do it's... they can  _ use _ that. They can use  _ me _ . I feel safe. I feel safe with - with you, but if - if I tell you things, some things, I don't--"

His good hand tenses around the wrist of his right, wrings it a little. As if it would help with the tension. "You'll see me differently. I-I like how you see me now. I don't want that to change."

\---

"I don't want a  _ performance _ from you, I want  _ you _ , Martin."

And he knows it's hypocritical. Knows there's things that will need to be  _ pulled _ from him to ever put them to words. He never wants Martin to know about the last conversation he had with a Martin who was losing himself to the Lonely. He doesn't want him to know of the deep seated hunger pains that followed him on the streets and resulted in predatory statements. 

He doesn't want him to know about how  _ angry _ his thoughts go sometimes, and how deep down, Jon is certain he'll be dead by the new decade. There's things he's said, things he's done, that he would prefer to forget too.

But sometimes it's easier to judge, to see the truth, when it's being acted by someone else.

\---

"I don't know how to tell the difference." 

Martin lets the words hang in the air, lifeless. He doesn't know what else to do. What else to say. How to make it any better.

\---

"Neither do I." He passes a hand over his face, and chooses to break the tension; if he keeps going, he fears he'll yell, get obstinate, spiral into something wholly unfair and unproductive.

"I'm tired. And you smell like ozone."

\---

"I took a pit stop up into the atmosphere on my way here," Martin mumbles, something else on his tongue. He scratches at his wrist to keep from saying it, imagining that this is phase one of an interrogation.

\---

Jon squints at him for a long, long moment, his expression flat. Eventually, he sighs, and starts to stand. "I'm going to bed. We can talk about whatever  _ that _ means, tomorrow. I'm done." He pauses, and adds on, like the words are pulling glass, nearly a growl, "do  _ not _ clean up the tape. I'll clean it tomorrow."

\---

Martin absorbs the harshness in tone over the words, frozen in his seat. The finality of  _ I'm done _ sinks deep and twists, though, because Martin's not clear on what it really means. Done with him? With trying? With this, whatever it is? 

Most likely, just done with being awake. Martin can understand that much. 

"Okay," is all he gives back, but it's not overly fearful. Accepting but not by force, by understanding. Exhaustion seems to be the only thing they have in supply right now.

\--- --- ---

The instant that door shuts, Martin knows he’s not opening it from this side. Not until Jon comes back out. That space is his domain right now, and Martin isn’t sure he wants to be in it. A little time apart might do wonders for both their heads, in all honesty. 

After a good half-hour of paralyzed, blind staring into the circular window of the room, a thought crosses his mind. What if he called Michael? What if the world fell away and he could get lost in something else, something less frightening than opening up about his deepest regrets? Maybe even permanently. Wouldn’t that be nice? A voice in his head warns him, curiously, in Jon’s voice - a simple  _ Martin _ . 

He doesn’t. Doesn’t dare bring that thought to spoken words. He never did ask what it meant, to make some kind of deal he doesn’t understand the terms of, what rules there are. The only one he can ask right now is Jon, and, well. Part of him wants to tell Jon  _ everything _ . To open up to him about his mother, what’s been done to him, what he’s done to himself, and everything in-between. About his fears, his dreams, his desires - but Martin, Martin - 

It’s not that he’s used to being unloved, like he doesn’t know what it feels like, like no one’s ever tried to extend him a kindness, openness, care. He’s just never let himself take it back. It’s easier to say that he is unlovable, than that he shies away from the very idea of evidence to the contrary.

So he ventures to the kitchen, eats  _ something _ to fill his stomach, revels in the silence of walls vacated in the mingled panic of employees and, he guesses, dying worms. Parasites have feelings too, in some way. And that’s as far as he ventures, because it’s as far as he can make it, to the kitchen and back. 

Martin falls unconscious at the desk by accident. He’d meant to lean his head down for a second, just to rest, to close his eyes with his face buried against a coat Jon left behind on the back of his chair to ground him. And then it’s morning and he’s still there, drooling onto the same coat and technically dead to the world, for lack of noise or motion. He’s in the bad chair, too, all-around a complete fucking mess who punished himself without trying to.

\---

Jon surprises himself by actually sleeping. Lo and behold, it seems that he actually needed sleep. Probably more of it, too, but at the encroaching arrival of dawn, his arms begin to hurt, because, utter idiot that he is, he forgot to take any pain medication before he fell asleep in a mummified husk of blankets and sheets on their cot.

Whatever. He probably deserves it.

He sits up slowly and misses Martin's presence already. Did he already get up? Unlikely; Jon usually wakes before him and Martin's 'early rising' tends to correlate with either a blaring alarm or waking up to the sensation of being watched by his... Whatever word he'd use to describe Jon now. Did he just never come to bed? 

The safe room has no windows, but he checks his phone and, yes, it's just edging upon 6 and he's  _ starving _ . A normal starving, this time. His stomach feels empty because, well, it is. He'd hardly eaten during the day of the attack and didn't at the hospital either.

He swings off the bed and pulls a sweater close, and ignores the stinging ache deep in his arms. He'll have to change the gauze today; he can see how the white is beginning to stain somewhat underneath.

He's got a plan formed to make today  _ good _ \-- pick up breakfast for the both of them, take it easy on everything else but keep busy enough so that he doesn't go absolutely insane-- but that thought goes a little sideways when he steps into the office and Martin is  _ sleeping in the chair _ . Not fallen asleep with work beneath him, just-- sleeping. No excuse.

" _ Martin _ , wake up." He wants to yell, but he says it loudly, hoping it'll be enough to wake him without utterly scaring him.

\---

Martin hears him, and to him it sounds like a whisper. Breathing a tired, borderline grumpy sound into Jon's coat helps him climb out of the stupor, and by the time he turns his head he's aware of his surroundings enough to know that Jon's voice  _ wasn't _ quiet. 

There's a small, wet stain on the coat where his mouth had been, and it's not... attractive, really. He'd feel guilty for it if he noticed, but he doesn't. Instead he's blinking his eyes in Jon's direction, dazed and distantly aware of a pain starting to throb in his arms - mostly the right. 

His first word of the day is hardly a word at all. "Wh... what?"

\---

" _ Why _ would you sleep out here?" He's too uncaffeinated for this. He's in too much pain for this. He went to bed on too nasty of a note to not be affected by this. 

The fact that Martin chose his coat to sleep on is a... cute detail to an otherwise horrendous situation, and Jon files it away for later, because that is  _ not _ the point right now. It isn't. And his voice  _ absolutely _ isn't shrill whatsoever, when he says, "Your back must be  _ killing _ you Martin!"

\---

His head turns back down to the coat with a soft, extended, " _ Jon _ ," because it's too early for this. "Not on purpose."

Jon's right, though. The second he moves anything but his head he knows he's in deep shit, so he keeps himself still. "Jus'closed my eyes."

\---

" _ Dumb _ ," He says, and means it to be rude, but it comes off more as a chide, and he steps back into the safe room to find where he put the limited amount of pain meds they were prescribed and comes back out, putting them none-too-kindly next to his head at the desk. 

"I'll take you to breakfast, but only if you're not in utterly preventable pain."

\---

Martin turns once the bottle hits the wood, and he tilts an eyebrow at Jon. He's waking up proper now. "Oh. I... stole some more tablets," he admits quietly, "on my way out. I-- They would've known I was trying to leave, I didn't know if you-- Should I throw them out?" 

He lifts his head and as his body wakes up, it  _ hates _ him. Martin closes his eyes to try and will it away, reaching out despite pain to find a glass on the desk. There's something not completely empty, and he drags it over. The bottle's a whole different story. "Can you - can you open it? Ch-child locks."

\---

Jon struggles with the bottle, because each flex of his fingertips shoots rancid hot pain up his arms, stretching the stitching taut. It takes him a few tries. "Would your.... Tablets be stronger?" He pulls a couple of the pills out from the bottle and knocks his knuckles against Martin's hand, willing him to open up his palm. 

"Should see about breaking into my old flat and taking some of the furniture. I doubt they've gotten rid of  _ everything _ yet. At the very least, a couch would do us some good in here." It's idle conversation; he needs to speak, but it's either mundanity or the questions lingering like a bad taste in the back of his mouth, and he is  _ not _ prepared to begin those conversations yet. That can wait until breakfast.

He knocks out a couple pills for himself and swallows them dry.

\---

Martin takes it and overturns a few pills on the desk. "I'd have to check later, don't wan'read," And he tries valiantly to get the pills into his mouth with a sip of - oh God that's old coffee. Disgust plain on his face, he swallows.

"I'd like a couch," he returns amicably, but he's not ready to hold a real conversation about decor. "You - you said breakfast?"

\---

"Yeah. If-- I mean, if you want. I've got to, uhm, change my bandages, but hopefully by then the meds will kick in." A short pause. "Don't really want to go outside before it's all numbed."

\---

"Mm," Martin agrees, nuzzling into the coat one last time before he sits up to face the day. It sucks. It's terrible. He's in so much pain. "Where?" 

He adds one anecdote. "Wish you could carry me."

\---

"Down the road, maybe. I  _ do _ get stronger." He doesn't mean for it to come out so flirtatious, but here we are. Jonathan Sims. Learned how to flirt at the tender age of 32 years old and only for the love of his life who he accidentally condemned and sacrificed to a fear entity. Hurrah.

"We'll take an Uber. Less walking for you."

\---

Martin squints. "I don't know what that means. Better - better leave it a surprise?" 

He tries to stand up, and he's not quite able to hide the high noise of pain that falls from his mouth as he does. "Oh, Christ. I aged a hundred years."

\---

Jon wrinkles his nose and can't help the way his hands hover near him, like he can somehow stop the pain with touch alone. "At least-- At least go lay down in bed while I shower. That was  _ stupid _ . You're not  _ twenty _ ."

\---

"Fiiine," Martin groans like an inconvenienced teenager, and stumbles toward the cot. 

He doesn't make it any farther than the doorway, though. He's fixed his eyes to the wooden floor ahead of him, concrete evidence cleared away but  _ stained _ . Like it never happened, but it did. "The tape's still on the floor out there," he mutters, and tries to sort of step around where he can see, or imagines he can see, blood soaked deep into the wood.

\---

"I'll clean it later," Jon says breezily as he pushes past Martin to rifle through some of his clothes. He looks almost comical, bustling about in his normal hurried morning fashion, but stiff and tense from the pain shooting down from his body. Like he's stepping on ice cubes with every inch and the cold is jolting him. 

He glances behind him while lifting an airy button down to his nose to smell if it's still clean, eyeing Martin's expression. He'd been too tired to really appreciate the clear stain on the floor, but now that he looks at it, it's impossible not to notice. "We can get a rug. I'll just-- Give you my card this week or something so you can order what we need. I'm not good at decorating."

\---

"I'll take it as a compliment that you think I have any sense for decorating," Martin replies to poke holes in tension as he moves to the cot despite Jon buzzing around like a hummingbird. 

He'll ignore the blood for now. He has to. Today has to be good. Today has to be better than yesterday, and the day before. Martin finds the cot and somehow, it's more comfortable than the hospital bed. He'd gotten used to how terrible it was. And hospitals have a smell to them, clean and chemical. This just reminds him of something safe. There's no weight behind his threat. "Trusting me with your card'll be your greatest mistake, Jonathan Sims."

\---

"All I pay for is my phone bill these days," Jon replies, and pulls out a few more articles of clothing before landing on something loose that won't constrict his arms too much, but neither will show off the bandages. A baggy jumper from uni; not likely to give him any points in the 'dressing nicely' department, but he really can't be arsed to care. He'll be clean. That's more than he can say about most days. "I  _ really _ don't care what you do with my money. Within reason." He pauses. "No buying animals."

\---

"I don't buy animals," Martin says with some delay, closing his eyes. "They pick me and I have to bring them home. There's a difference."

He's getting better at not feeling weird for making himself comfortable somewhere, which usually happens to be shoving his face into the nearest soft object. "Get me when you've showered."

\---

Jon  _ very nicely _ chooses not to reply to Martin's comment about animals. He's in a  _ very nice _ mood, and isn't going to have an utter meltdown at everything Martin just said, because he's  _ nice _ . So he just hums, and steps out of the room. 

He's trying. It's hard. It's so fucking hard, but they need something close to a baseline for  _ normal _ if every night isn't going to result in a breakdown from either one of them, or both of them. So Jon's going to  _ try _ , and buy him breakfast, and they're going to take the day off from anything Archive related, no matter how itchy Jon gets and it's going to be  _ good _ . 

Showering takes longer than he anticipates. Unwrapping the bandages and carefully showering with the stitching open is a process unto itself, and it takes him a while to rewrap once he's out. The tightness of the bandages feels nice, though; like he's containing himself, pressing himself in. And the oversized uni jumper is a good idea, even if it makes him look smaller than he actually is. He thinks, distantly, that he must have stolen it from Georgie back in the day; he'd worn it once or twice because it was unisex and it made him feel rather nice, and then lo and behold, it ended up in his laundry basket and Georgie never asked for it back. It's soft, from years of washing. 

By the time he comes back to the safe room-- more and more just becoming  _ their _ room--, he has his hair pulled back and is as ready as he's ever going to be when it comes to dressing like it's a lazy sunday and they've no plans.

\---

Martin's not looking his best, either, but he's not trying to. Living is the important part. Some time after Jon left the painkillers hit enough for him to roll off the cot - he was taking  _ so _ long and Martin wanted so badly to sink into it forever but Jon promised breakfast. 

And Martin might as well be dead if he didn't take free breakfast and the chance to have something normal. Forget about whatever happened in the office last night. They were both... they were both high-strung and exhausted. 

He's nearly done with the ordeal of clothing himself - it's fine, he's got sneakers easy enough to slip into so he doesn't have to ask Jon for help with laces and he might or might not be wearing sweatpants that aren't exactly work standard, but it's  _ fine _ \- when Jon comes through.

He startles anyway. "Need to put a bell on you, opening doors," he mutters as he tries and fails to pull the sleeve of his sweater down to his good hand. Stupid fingers. He offers his arm to Jon. "Can you - can you pull this down?"

\---

"No need to crash about and announce my presence in every room, Martin," Jon snorts. He knows he's light on his feet, but it has its advantages. He comes close and helps to pull the sweater over Martin's arm, careful not to jostle anywhere he knows are actual wounds. 

"Feeling better?" He asks.  _ He _ certainly is. Still needs caffeine, but there's a low-burning energy in him from a good night's rest, and the pain meds have finally dulled the more extreme of the pain.

\---

"A bit," he says as he watches Jon's hands move over the edge of his sleeve, and he's relieved that it's true. 

"Hungry," he adds pointedly. Maybe he has a right to be needy. But there's a part of him that feels like he's not allowed to. Not until he's given Jon  _ something _ , some information about his... his issue, from two days ago. He'll try later. He will. "Are you ready?"

\---

Jon nods and slowly, stiffly pulls on his coat, making sure his wallet's secured inside the pocket. He pulls out his phone to order their Uber; this way, they can go to a slightly fancier restaurant a ways away without having to walk or deal with the buses. Not that a lot of people will be out and about; it's early. Criminally early. Restaurants are probably just barely starting to open their doors. 

Ordered, Jon looks to Martin and pauses for a moment, and his hesitation is clear. But-- Good day. He wants a good day. A good day where they don't hide, and don't deprive themselves of things. So he slots his fingers in between Martin's good hand, and tugs gently. "C'mon. We have five minutes to get upstairs."

\---

"You're on a constant quest to torture me, aren't you?" There's joy in his voice, though, cloaking the terrors of the past, and he trails along after Jon as quickly as he can without going  _ too _ fast. "Did you - did you already pick somewhere?"

\---

"A cafe I like. They open early; not too many options this early, but I've been here before. It's good." He takes them to the lifts, and frowns at him once they open and they step inside. "You're okay with that, right?"

\---

"My rule is I don't complain about breakfast unless you poison me," Martin replies matter-of-factly.

His stomach growls, as if furthering his point. "I'm-- I just like that you want to go anywhere, with me. Right now." Oh, this is making him feel like total shit for the two places he's taken Jon.

\---

Jon gives him a look of confusion that softens the moment he sees him, and he squeezes their hands, once, twice, three times. It's almost  _ easy _ to leave everything behind, for just a moment. To just look at Martin without the complications. "We need to get out more, anyways."

\---

Martin's heart thrums with... something, something that brings to mind the vivid image of their blood pooling together beneath them, around them, inside them. He wonders if that bound them, somehow. One, two, three, four, and he's out of breath by the time they're at the entry to the Institute. "Trip to America not off the table, yet?"

\---

"So long as you don't wipe my bank account clean before then," Jon says, and there's a smile at the edge of his voice. He peers out the entry windows and spies what he assumes is their Uber, if the model and make is any indication (not that he's  _ good _ at gauging car models, but sometimes, sometimes Knowing things comes in handy), and pulls Martin along, shivering the moment the morning air hits his skin.

\---

"I might, I might not, we'll see where the wind bl- _ oh God _ ." He holds Jon tighter in response to the sudden stream of air, trying  _ not _ to let it turn him totally miserable. "You - you'll have to get the door, you're h-holding my good hand."

\---

"Well, I can let  _ go _ for two seconds while we get into the car, Martin," Jon snips, and does just that; he opens the door and lets go of Martin's hand, urging him to climb in before him.

\---

"Sorry, I forgot we weren't  _ connected _ by the palm," Martin says huffily, sure he's gone and assigned himself the archetype of bitchy wife to the poor driver already. When he settles in his seat he winces, because Jon was right. His spine is crying. It's crying for real. Martin holds his breath.

\---

"I want to give you sympathy, but I  _ have _ already told you off about sleeping in the office," Jon tells him airily as he climbs in. He's not  _ quite _ pointing a judgemental pointer finger at him, but it's a very near thing. It's implied.

\---

"Don't you start," Martin growls, but it's useless. It's also a bad approach, if he wants any help working knots out of his shoulders any time in the future. "I told you, I-I just closed my eyes, and then I woke up. It's been a big week, okay? I'm not perfect, a-a man forgets good advice, sometimes."

\---

"Mm," Jon hums, and the driver starts to pull away from the curb. Jon takes hold of Martin's hand again, and says to his knuckles, "I've never-- I missed you, when I woke up without you there. That's never-- I've never really felt that before. Y'know? Usually, the second I've had time to be-- Well, alone, I've thought 'oh, thank christ, I can relax'. Like-- Take off the performance." It's terrifyingly honest. But it's the kind of honesty he  _ wants _ . Needs. Needs Martin to know. "The bed's cold without you."

\---

Martin's whole face floods with color, and his eyes follow Jon's mouth briefly before flicking to the driver's seat. Back again, one more time. "J--" He starts, flustered. "Jon we're in an Uber."

\---

"I know where we're at," He snaps, and all at once, he glares at Martin, and then pointedly glares up through the windshield to look through at the streets. Sue him for trying. He pulls his hand back and crosses his arms.

\---

"No, w-wait," Martin whines, caught between making a fool of himself to Jon or to some stranger trying very hard to ignore their dialogue. His own voice is low, controlled despite how obvious his reaction is. "I-I-- I like sharing with you. I like that you get to actually  _ sleep _ . I'm--  _ Jon _ ."

\---

The look he fields to Martin can only be described as  _ full of shit _ . He tries to maintain the annoyed atmosphere, but there's a smile tugging at his lips. See, Martin? He can play silly little games of  _ lies _ , too. He lifts his chin, an aloof air of snottiness in his voice as he says, "Good."

\---

Martin's wide-eyed stare is vacant, and it stays that way for a long, terrible moment. Until it all oozes out of him at once, eyelids lowered, replaced by something possessed. Something on the verge of tears. "I love you. I do. I just don't want you to get the idea that - that any of this makes up for your... _ affair _ , Jonathan."

\---

The lie runs across his skin like a spider, and Jon feels his flesh break out into goosebumps. That's a new symptom; he's starting to think that perhaps feeding the Eye  _ with _ someone is proving to change the pattern of abilities he receives. Jon glances to the driver, who is clearly trying so very hard not to seem obvious as they listen in, and then Jon looks back to Martin, fury in his face for a moment that he would  _ dare _ escalate this game. 

Well. He supposes he started it. Some half-formed thought wonders if he could compel a lie from someone. How perverse. It makes the goosebumps chill him more, like what he's doing isn't  _ allowed _ . 

His voice isn't as well practiced as Martin's; this is all rather new, but there's a fun little excitement in these  _ lies _ Martin weaves that makes him want to try to go along in these spaces. There's something  _ fun _ about making someone complicit in watching a train-wreck unfold in front of them. He maintains the air of the snotty debutante. "I won't apologize for being a free spirit."

\---

Suddenly, Martin only has eyes for Jon. There's a veil where anyone, anything, any place is, and he's  _ determined _ . It sets his blood on fire. Like he's actually upset, actually hurt, actually trapped in the grip of what he's saying. The absurdity of it. It's so dramatic, the energy he's bottling up in unspoken pain flooding out into a  _ joke _ , of all things. He can sense his stutter melting away. 

"Would you apologize if I got a  _ disease _ , Jon? From you not  _ telling _ me, and then - you  _ know _ the full moon just came up, and that's when we do the blood ritual, and if you put me in danger with your  _ free spiritedness _ \- and - and the whole  _ family _ your blood got all mixed up with, because you, what, can't help  _ whoring out _ ?" He says the last bit like it's never come out before, like it's scandalous. Like he's some poor, frustrated housewife.

\---

Jon is almost taken aback by how  _ serious _ Martin is. He wonders if he's ever done theater; the paltry two semesters Jon attempted it with don't hold a flame to whatever voice is possessing Martin, and part of him is entranced. Even as the goosebumps trail along his skin and make him nearly clatter his teeth with the shivers that run down his spine with each successive lie, there's something so utterly-- addicting. It's the only word. Jon is addicted to Martin. 

His own voice is spinning before he knows it. "Calling me a whore's rich coming from you," He starts with the same pompousness, and then it keeps coming, and he doesn't know he knows, but he knows, and by the end his voice is no longer joking, "Considering that  _ hickey _ on your... hand." It's half entrenched in the lie, but it's not, and there's a honey-layer to his mouth that makes him look down immediately, down at Martin's hand and  _ squint _ , and all at once the joke falls away, and the goosebumps make him shiver once more.

\---

The only play Martin's been a part of is home. 

He's shivering with something else entire, something pulsing from the front seat of the car. Mingled interest, sympathy, pity, even a little  _ fear _ at points, from a stranger. Someone's being subjected to this, and while Jon has his undivided attention, it's still  _ coming _ from somewhere else. 

The spell breaks when the car stops and Martin's tugged out of it by Jon's fuel to the fire fading. And when it does, when that snaps, Martin breaks out into a fit of giggles. He's not whoever he just made up, he's someone who just got caught spiral-handed for something he hadn't even meant to do. He's never done a blood ritual. 

" _ Jon _ ," he sighs happily as he opens the door and tries to bring Jon out with him, his pain far away, "it's not a  _ hickey _ . A ferret bit me yesterday."

\---

Jon feels a wave of embarrassment as they leave the car, and he stammers out a wholly unsatisfying thank you to the spellbound and astounded driver. But even that doesn't stop him from laughing with Martin, closing the door of the small sedan on the tail end of a huff. "A ferret." He grabs hold of Martin's hand and inspects it for a moment, and his vision statics as he takes in whatever supernatural mark is there. 

He's not dealing with it right now, despite how badly he wants to. His bones yearn to shake and rattle in response to whatever this is, to get to the bottom of it, to  _ know _ . 

"So long as it's not got rabies, I suppose I can let you into my favorite cafe," He sighs, and gives Martin a look that he hopes conveys how  _ hard _ it is to keep up this pleasant facade. It's fun, but it's hard, and he's never-- He's never been one to do it. Martin makes it easier, but it's still  _ hard _ .

\---

Martin's not paying attention to the look, the way Jon's searching for reason, the embarrassment, the  _ inspection _ \- none of it matters right now, not to him. 

Not when Jon's face is so  _ close _ to him. Not when that bit had lasted exactly as long as it should have. He couldn't have kept it up much longer. It's just enough. The perfect amount of insanity to start the day. 

So Martin kisses him. No face-touching, no keeping him there, just quick and impulsive and... gentle, actually.

\---

To say Jon is shocked is an understatement. Not that it's unwelcome. If he was covered in goosebumps and chills just moments ago from the shimmer of lies in the air, the kiss melts him, warmth spreading through his body at the surprise. He makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, and all too soon, Martin is pulling away, and Jon almost chases him, almost demands more, almost--

But they're in public. And it's the first time they've kissed in public. And his eyes are wide and his mouth is agape, and he finally jabs a finger right in Martin's face and says, "You are  _ lucky _ I liked that," with all the heat of a wife about to start a row.

\---

It's Martin's turn for a shit-eating grin. "Funny how  _ lucky _ I am when I'm around you. Wonder why that is." 

He's suddenly very, very hungry. He'd put that need away for a minute, just long enough for a perfectly normal car ride, and now it's back. "Food?"

\---

He feigns like he's thinking. "I suppose since we made it all the way out here..." He steps to the door and opens it for Martin, his smile fond and washing away years from his face.

\---

Martin steps through and waits for Jon on the other side, all of his problems light years away. He likes that it's reflected in Jon, too. Like light from the sun. 

"You know this place, Jon. Talking it up all morning, so you pick. I'll eat anything you put in front of me. No - no coffee, or anything like that, though. I don't... think I need any, right now." 

He lightly grips the back of Jon's shirt with his good hand, tethering himself there.

\---

He gets them both seated at a booth; better for Martin's back, that way, not to mention Jon enjoys the privacy it affords them, compared to the regular arrangement of tables and chairs. Settling in with menus, he waits to speak until he can open it up, squinting. "You want me to choose  _ for _ you?"

\---

Martin is starting to warm up to booths, honestly. Very cozy. 

He glances down at the menu, and decides he doesn't feel like doing too much reading. Not exactly meshing with where his brain is right now. So he turns back to Jon while he's perusing, nods. "Mhm."

\---

"Martin, that's not-- I don't even know--" He squints, and decides to test the waters. "What kind of food do you like?" The words shimmer.

\---

"It's impossible to screw up a potato for me if I've got something to put on it. Meat's fine but I usually save fish for later, not earlier, you know - it just tastes better at night. Don't ask me why." He thinks on it for a second, dredging it up from wherever his brain stores food preferences. 

It's so natural of a question he just rides it along without thinking much of it. "I like making pancakes more than I like eating them. But -  _ honestly _ , if I'm hungry enough I don't care. I'm serious. Eggs are good, but if they're too runny I-I sort of freak out. And you know I put mustard on popcorn, so."

\---

"I assumed the mustard thing was a lie," Jon muses, and looks at him from just over the edge of the menu, before dropping his gaze back down to read through the choices. They've been running on fumes for days, and could probably do with an assortment of, well, everything. "English Breakfast, then?"

\---

"Why would I lie about mustard and popcorn." Martin's reply is nearly a whine, because what psychopath would lie about mustard on popcorn. 

"That's fine. Bit of it all, can't go wrong with that." He leans forward on the table to replicate the way he'd been sitting all night, because the pain is creeping back and he's not sure what else to do about it except complain. And Jon's too much of a smug and dispassionate individual to give him sympathy.

\---

So he orders them two platters of English Breakfasts, and, after a moment's deliberation, two mimosas to go along with it, thanking the waitress with a level of self-serious importance that she's clearly unnerved as she takes both of their menus away to put in the order. The second she's gone, Jon says, leaning forward to glare at him, "Because it's disgusting. I'll accept it, I guess, because I have no choice, but I disapprove. Wholeheartedly."

\---

Martin's curious about the mimosas, but says nothing for the thrill of keeping a comment to himself. He just pouts from the table where his head's at back at Jon. 

"It's not, if you had my mouth you'd know. And I'm sure you've never tried. You're just proud about it and don't even want to  _ imagine _ what might happen if you found out you liked it." 

He grins despite himself. "And who said I need you to approve of my eating habits?"

\---

"I suppose you don't," Jon says, and purses his lips. "But it's good to lay it all on the table now." He pauses. "I went a month in university without ever drinking a drop of water. Oh; I put hot sauce in my oatmeal sometimes. I can't eat ribs, like, at all anymore. See? I'm no one to judge others' food habits."

\---

"Jonathan Sims once had barbecue so bad he abstained from ribs forever," Martin says with a cheesy announcer voice, and says nothing about the oatmeal because somehow in the scariest way possible that sounds like an interesting idea. "What was so bad about college that you stopped drinking water about it?"

\---

Jon decides not to change Martin's idea on the rib thing. Not today. Not when they're pretending to be normal, and actually having a normal breakfast like a normal couple. "Oh, I, well-- I just forgot. I think I was just drinking energy drinks? And wine. It was, um. Unhealthy."

\---

"Oh. I didn't need college for that. I had a phase where all I did was drink boxed wine out of the carton. It - it was a very short phase." 

He imagines university is like that for everyone, though. Energy drinks and alcohol of some kind. But he wouldn't know, really. Aside from a few parties he went to. Not really his thing.

\---

"Crazy as it is now, I'm rather glad we know each other  _ now _ , and not... Then." He pauses. "I am  _ very _ glad uni is over."

\---

"Oh, me too. Worst time of my life, getting a master's degree. Tiring stuff," Martin sighs, as serious as you can make a sigh. He reluctantly lifts his head off the table. Makes a request that's technically to Jon, but he's fidgeting nervously with a napkin holder to not look at him so sadly. 

"You think I could owe you a favor if you fix my back when we get back h- to the Archives? I think I'll die if someone doesn't. I-I'm not... ready to die just yet."

\---

Jon blinks. "You want me to-- Massage you? You'll have to-- To teach me. I haven't really-- I'm not exactly  _ known _ for my strength." For some reason the request makes him color. Not in a bad way, just in a Way. There's an intimacy to the request, like unlocking a new level of domesticity that didn't exist there before. Jon's starving for it.

"Probably be a bit uncoordinated, while the stitches are in, too. But I can try. Maybe walking on you will help?"

\---

"I... forgot about our hands." Martin looks down at one of the bandages, grimaces. Comes back up from it quick enough. "It's not - it's not that hard. You don't need to teach someone, I can just show you where - where the knots are, and you'll feel them. Um. It's not strength."

He sits back, sucking in a breath with the effort. "Maybe. I think I can get it to pop on my own. Just - we-we'll figure it out."

\---

"I'll try. Just-- No promises. Who knows. Maybe I have secret magic hands from the Eye itself." He waggles his fingers conspiratorially.

\---

Martin watches his fingers, then locks back onto Jon's eyes. He's determined to stop trying to find other things to look at. 

"I wish you weren't kidding so bad right now." 

Ah. Perfect time for mimosas to get to the table.

\---

He snorts. "It's the Spiral that's got magic hands, not the Eyes." But then he hides the comment with a drink from the mimosa. He's being  _ good _ today. No insane deities. No spiraling. None of it. He has to  _ try _ . To see if he even can.

\---

"Not the good kind of magic hands." Martin lifts one eyebrow at him, searching for something else. Giving him an in, if he wants it so bad. "Makes sense if they're all built on fear. This is - this is what I mean about coming up with a  _ nice _ entity. We should all get magic hands for fun, not for fear."

\---

"You think gods should give us-- magic hands for fun." Jon blinks, one eye then the other, like he's trying to catch up. "I don't-- I don't even know what that means, Martin."

\---

"I-It means I think there's an untapped market for things that all the - the  _ bad _ guys are hoarding but making them good. You know who might be  _ really _ good with the Eye? Therapists. You know who might be  _ really _ good with magic hands? Me. That's who. I don't think it's fair."

He starts drinking. Godspeed, Martin.

\---

Jon opens his mouth, but he knows what words will pour out like a cup if he speaks, so he slams it shut and scoots down in his seat until he can press his chin on the table. He rakes his fingers through his hair to get the strands that had fallen on the way here collected back up on top of his head, and the look on his face is-- Well. Kicked puppy adjacent. He's trying so  _ hard _ .

\---

Martin watches the ordeal, almost mortified. Not mortified enough to stop drinking. He's so used to things without any fun fruits in them. Why does he never get cool drinks?

"Jon, are - are you okay?"

\---

He chokes the question down and coughs, then shakes his head. "I want-- I wanted to... Have a  _ normal  _ breakfast. And you're making it hard."

\---

"What... am I doing, Jon? We  _ are _ at a normal breakfast." He's confused, a little on edge now. How was he making it hard? He was having fun. Oh, he should tell Jon that. "I'm having fun."

\---

"I'm having a blast, I'm having more fun than I've probably had in years, but it's just a little hard to concentrate with that-- with that  _ fucking _ thing on your hand  _ reeking _ ." Okay. So maybe he didn't need to snap it and sit up all at once, his pointer finger a deadly, accusatory weapon.

\---

"Stop  _ pointing _ at me!" Martin whines it out, defensive against the pressure he's completely confused exists between them right now. 

"What's on my  _ hand _ ? Please. Words. Use them."

\---

"I don't know. I don't. You smell like ozone, and your hand has this-- like it's blurry, and--" He blinks and looks from Martin's hand to his face, but he begrudgingly drops his own point hand. "Did Michael hurt you and you didn't tell me?"

\---

Martin looks down at his hand, turning it over a few times to check. He's not sure what Jon's seeing, but he knows  _ why _ he's seeing it. They're having a good day. Martin's not about to lie about this. 

"No, he didn't. He showed up in the hospital to try and gloat about the whole mess. Didn't work, really, I was too tired to care. I-I asked him if he wanted to play any board games, and I don't think he ever got to play any, so. He was being nice, mostly. In a... weird way. I don't think he likes dogs? Um. Before he left, he said he would - would play something with me. Normal things. Like Monopoly. And then I asked him to promise? It was - it was a pinky promise. Did I, um, did I do something wrong?"

\---

"You... Pinky promised a fear entity?" Jon asks, his voice hollow. In another lifetime, he thinks of being burned by Jude Perry. Of the foolishness of shaking her hand when he  _ knew _ better. It's not that lifetime, though, and when he nervously flexes a hand that never has been burnt, his fingers aren't stiff and scar tissue that isn't there doesn't hurt.

"He was  _ nice? _ I--" And this is why he was trying so damn hard to stray away. How is he supposed to just  _ eat _ now, when Michael has visited Martin  _ twice _ ?

\---

"...Yes." 

He's only embarrassed because he hasn't had the impulse to pull a stunt like that since he was, like, ten. 

"He - he tried to scare me, at first. I just talked to him. Jon. Please. We can - we can still have breakfast." He reaches out under the table and brushes fingers over Jon's knee. Martin's trying. He really is.

\---

Jon presses his hands to his face and keeps them there for a long, long moment, breathing slowly in and out so he doesn't-- what? Absolutely melt down in this public restaurant? Evidently. Evidently that's where he's at.

It's startling, sometimes, to remember how much of a semblance of normal society he's lost until he tries to pretend to be part of it, again.

He breathes out once more and slowly drags his fingers away, muttering, "Okay. Okay. I'm done. I promise."

\---

"You can ask me questions back at the Archives." Martin tries to compromise, but part of him hums with worry at that kind of promise. "That can be your favor. If - if you want that. If you need to. If we don't eat we'll just be killing each other by noon, right?"

\---

"Okay." Jon mumbles, and winces some, knowing he's definitely killed the mood somewhat. "Sorry." He takes a drink from the mimosa and relishes the slight bubbly burn from the Champaign.

\---

"It's fine. I-- " Oh, there's food coming. "Don't be sorry. You bought me breakfast. At - at least it looks good. Better than pub chips and vomit, yeah?" 

God Damnit, Martin, you don't have to reassure Jon that he hasn't killed the mood by killing it again.

\---

"Right." God, that feels like an eon ago. At least the food smells good. Covers up the ozone coalescing around Martin like fog. He pulls one of the plates to him and grabs the hot sauce from the rack against the wall and starts to pour it over most of the food items, busying himself in spicing everything properly.

\---

Jon's got a weird hot sauce thing that goes way, way past oatmeal. Noted for later. Martin doesn't bother doing a thing to change what's in front of him, he's hungry and needs something to do with his hand and he's going to eat away all the anxieties he's had and then they'll go away. 

He keeps his thoughts to himself, only because he thinks it's Jon's choice if they should talk at all. Martin's making it hard. Martin's causing problems. He can wait until it's convenient.

\---

Once the first bite hits, it's hard to stop eating; so he devours his plate. Maybe hardly eating for a couple days is 'unwise' and 'stupid' and 'Jonathan you're a 32 year old man, you should know better', but it's so hard to sit down and have a  _ meal _ when his stomach is tied up in anxious knots, and that's exactly what he's felt like for... Well, a while.

He only speaks when he downs the rest of his mimosa, washing the food down. "Glad we came here." It's not often he's left alone enough or undistracted enough to actually finish a meal while it's hot. So this  _ is _ a pleasant breakfast.

\---

Martin happens to be in the middle of biting a chunk of sausage off the end of a fork, and he winks, deeply relieved the moment Jon breaks the surface of the ice. 

He's got some manners, though, and he waits to finish before he speaks again. "Any other plans for the "off" day, Jon? I'm - I'm not sure if I know exactly what your definition of  _ break _ is."

\---

"I... I don't either, honestly. I haven't exactly taken a day off, willingly, in--" He shrugs, to avoid an actual answer and look sliiiiightly less pathetic.

\---

Martin nearly slips out a 'we could always play board games with Michael' but thinks better of it just in time. Oh, now's a chance for him to be petty over Jon compelling him into the harsh admission of food preferences. 

There's a light tug in the air, but it's playful, nonthreatening. "What helps you relax, Jon?"

\---

Jon shivers, and realizes he could resist it, but... He doesn't. It feels good, in a strange way, to let the flow overtake him and ride it through. "Mint tea. Books, though Lord knows I haven't had time to read a fiction book in ages. Baths-- oh, my girlfriend in college bought me a bath bomb once. Do you know how nice those are? They smell delicious. I quite like when cats sleep with you, too. Their purring is enchanting."

\---

"I'd say let's get a cat, but you seem to have a hard no animals policy," Martin smiles, twitching with satisfaction. "Tea I can do, books - books we can do, plenty of those. I've never used one, you had a girlfriend in college?" 

The last part slips out. Not jealous by any means, but... surprised.

\---

Jon blinks, and slowly nods, a tongue of embarrassment flooding to his cheeks. "Yeah, uh, she's great. Uh, Georgie Barker? Does  _ What the Ghost _ ? We uh, about a year back when I was uh-- yeah."

\---

"When you were yeah." Martin echoes back with a puff of laughter. "I... actually haven't dated much. I-I don't, er, I-- There's usually  _ a _ date of - of a sort, and then I go... home. So. You know. Lots to figure out here. Thank you for breakfast."

\---

He almost wants to let his awful explanation just hang there, just sit there, just-- never explain it until he brings up the nerve to  _ not _ slap Martin's hand away from him in the middle of a makeout sesh, but he supposes.

Well, he supposes a love confession is a little too late for Martin to back out of now.

"Yeah, well, George's nice and all, but turns out I'm not a lesbian. And you're welcome for breakfast. It's good here, I quite like it, and sometimes I used to come here for lunch to get a coffee and a wrap and not be in the Archives for a bloody minute. Rather good. Used to be on the way to or from. My flat, so." He speaks fast.

\---

"Oh, me neither. Might make me feel a bit  _ weird _ about how much you kiss me in the office if you were, though." Martin plays oblivious, if only because there's something there that Jon doesn't want to talk about and it's not something he's about to ruin breakfast for. 

"Still pay for that flat? You mentioned earlier you - you still have furniture, still have keys? We could... It's an option? If you don't feel  _ up _ for going to the Archives, I-I'm just...  _ brainstorming _ ."

\---

"Well, I mean.. No autopayments but-- I did just abandon it. I could-- I know how to break in." He's almost thankful Martin breezed right past it. But now they're on dangerous territory again.

"Not safe to stay anywhere but the archives. Not protected. We can take some of the furniture, though." He hikes an eyebrow. "Know anyone with a moving truck?"

\---

"So do I, Jon. I get paid for it. Um," Martin thinks, suddenly embarrassed. "M... M-Michael?"

\---

"Michael?" Jon blinks. "We're not-- You want to summon a deity of utter chaos who has good reason to hate the Institute with every fiber of its being so it can help us  _ move _ ?"

\---

"I-Isn't that the same thing as getting a cat? F-forget I mentioned it. I just thought, I don't know anyone with a moving truck. But I-I know someone who can teleport... d...doors..." Martin sinks back into the booth, deflated.

\---

"Yes, well, forgive me if I don't want to be  _ eaten _ today. You know he eats people, right? You know he's tried to kill me, right?" Jon huffs and crosses his arms.

\---

"Well-- I-I'm not going to argue with you, because I'll end up saying something stupid, like - like if cows thought the same thing about people they'd go on a murderous rampage, and - and he promised he wouldn't eat me, I think." Martin looks down at his plate. "I'm sorry. I mean, you can also, if you don't want - ugh. I'm sorry for bringing up Michael."

\---

"No, it's--" Jon sighs and drags a hand down his face. "It's fine. I just-- I don't know what to do with him. He's--" He pauses, thinking. "He's friendly. Like -- like you asked the other day. But he also plays by his own rules. I'm just...worried."

\---

"He's easy to get off track," Martin says quietly, as if Michael might be listening."I just-- I just say something ridiculous whenever he tries to tell me something  _ ominous _ and  _ vague _ . I think I convinced him unicorns are real, just for a second." It makes him laugh despite his shame, despite Jon's very real worry. 

"We can play by our own rules, too, you know."

\---

"It's hard to have our own rules when we don't know what the endgame is." But he has to concede that Martin is... Strangely adept at all of this so far. Better than he was, maybe. 

"You should take his statement, when you see him next. Least you deserve after he did--  _ that _ to your hand."

\---

"I don't think any of us know what the endgame is. Jon. It wasn't that bad," Martin says shortly. "I can - I can see if he wants to, but-- What does it mean? It's not like - like he doesn't  _ own _ me, I feel like - like there would've been a  _ bit _ more negotiation? Right?"

\---

"It's more.... It's like. Making yourself susceptible to it. The Spiral. I don't--" He laughs, nervously. "I don't really know how it works. I've never been able to see... Marks. Before. This is new."

He sucks in a breath, and shoves the remainder of a piece of toast in his mouth to shut himself up.

\---

"Guess we'll find out. I'm not on his side anyway. Michael's. He can come to ours." Martin drums his fingers on the table, enjoying the sound it makes. "Maybe - maybe you'd like playing Clue. This is making me realize how many board games I know. I haven't played any in  _ years _ . Um. M-maybe, I don't know, we could..."

He sighs. "I don't know what's safe and what isn't. If we go back to the Archives we, um, we should come up with what we want to do today. That isn't work, if you still - still want that. Does 20 Questions count as work?" He's making a valiant effort, trying to open up today.

\---

"We  _ can _ work, I just assumed-- You could use a break. Me too, probably, but." He's quiet for a moment. "Didn't matter as much, before, putting all my time and energy into the Archives."

He squints. "You  _ really _ want to play board games. Do you even own any?"

\---

"No. I don't. I keep assuming that monsters can just find some and bring them to me." Martin says it deadly serious, because this was quite the oversight on his part. 

"I just - I just want to have  _ fun _ . I-It's been a rough... it's been a rough while. I want to - to get... better, at talking. I think. I think that's important, for us to... to do any good. With this."

\---

"What do you, um, propose, then? To get--better at talking." He agrees with Martin, but there's a playfulness creeping back into his tone. Two fully grown men, having a discussion about how to  _ talk _ .

\---

"Um. Well, there's the obvious. You ask me, a certain way, and I can tell you. It's-- There's a lot I don't... I don't know. I really don't. This is a start, I think. I'm not good at... at opening up without a-a direction. I need a direction. And-- " Martin scans the cafe, and now that it's getting a bit later, there's more people. 

"Privacy."

\---

"You want to compel truths from each other," Jon says hollowly, and blinks for a long, long moment. His brain likes that. His tongue likes that. Whatever part of him that craves Martin's everything likes that. "Okay."

\---

"Is - is that messed up?" Martin whispers, somehow making himself smaller in the booth. "L-like ripping off a b-band-aid? Or - or is that bad."

\---

"I-I don't know. I mean-- if we both. If we both say it's  _ okay _ and it's not....  _ forced _ out. It can't-- it can't hurt, right?"

\---

"Right." Martin's face is somehow overwhelmingly hot and cold at the same time. "Let's - let's do that."


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time to play good, platonic, chaste 20 questions... Unless?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all! Quick warning for this chapter; the fic has officially earned its Explicit tag. After the segment with the 20 questions, Jon and Martin officially get intimate ("third base" according to Martin). So mind that tag! From here on out, there will be a couple more chapters that contain explicit content, and we will make sure to give a little head's up before they occur each time, just in case! 
> 
> In regards to that, the tags will update as the chapter that contains said content comes out, including content warnings, character appearances, etc. 
> 
> Anyways, I hope you enjoy, and I hope you're having an excellent start to May! 
> 
> -Michael (Jon's POV)

The Uber back to the institute is nowhere near as.... Whatever you'd call what they'd done on the way there. It's quiet, contemplative and full and, most importantly perhaps, thrumming with a strange, vibrant energy.

Jon's nervous. This isn't just '20 Questions', or whatever inane name Martin had given it. This is compelling, compelling each other to see what will happen, how far they can go, what they can  _ glean _ from one another. Any man would be nervous.

There's a light drizzle crying from the sky by the time they reach the haunting steps of the Institute, and Jon isn't ashamed to run ahead of Martin, not wanting to get his hair wet and plastered to his forehead. He does wait beneath the awning of the entrance with the door open for him, though, and says, "I don't think we should leave again today. We can, uh, cozy up, turn the office into a slumber party."

It's childish and vulnerable, but then again, Martin had spoken of  _ board games _ . He's starting to get a kick out of a certain sense of childishness with him.

\---

Martin’s not too preoccupied with the rain. His arms are covered, and the suffocation of heat and blood and tears of the past few days has made his body forget to appreciate cold drips of rain over his skin. His hair’s a bit damp from the walk by the time he catches up to Jon, but it’s not  _ pouring _ , and he’s got other things to worry about.

Or, not worry about. He’s sealed his fate and what’s done is done. It hasn’t  _ been _ done, exactly, not yet, but he’s resigned to his choice. Justified it as being for the best, for him and for Jon. Martin doesn’t want to tear him apart, tear whatever they’re building apart because he just can’t  _ talk _ . Can’t say what he’s feeling. If he’s going to ruin something, might as well be with something that’s  _ not _ a lie. 

“Up in one of the taller cabinets in the kitchen, someone, er, hid a box of instant hot cocoa. I found it, and I don’t think they’ve noticed I took some yet, so it should still… still be there. If you want some.” He still feels sheepish for his…  _ mischief _ , for lack of a better word, for sharing his secrets of the trade with Jon. Like he’s conniving, and showing that off for free. It still makes him feel guilty. When he doesn’t tell anyone, it’s easier to justify.

\---

Jon snorts, and nods. "If anyone comes knocking, I can just buy them a new box. Easy as that." He ushers Martin inside and lets the door close behind them. The lobby is quiet; Jon's actually not sure what day of the week it is, truth be told, with everything that's gone on. It's easy to forget about something as paltry as time when the choking hold the Archives puts upon you suffocates every last drop of normalcy from your pulpy body.

He's nervous. Nervous he won't know where to begin, nervous he'll go too intense, too fast. Like he always does. But at least with the prospect of drinks, snacks,  _ holing up _ , it'll give them a chance to settle in and settle down.

At the lifts, he says, "it's been-- two? Two days. I think. And Elias already has everyone working again. It's a bit extreme."

\---

"It - it was probably less scary for everyone else. Maybe some of them didn't even see any. Worms. Fire alarm, mysterious a-ambulances." Martin shuffles impatiently as the lift moves. "Bit easier to cover it up than explain all the... mess, right? Maybe it was... less bad, this time. I don't know."

\---

"Suppose so." He says, and waits a beat, then says. "It was. Less bad this time. It was-- other than us, it was. A lot better." He doesn't look at Martin.

\---

"I wouldn't know," Martin says brightly, though inside that worries him a bit. Implications of shifting timelines bringing morality back to the forefront of his thoughts and all that. If this went better, what could go worse? Maybe nothing. Maybe Jon knowing a few things play-by-play evened it out. 

The lift opens, and Martin walks backwards to face him. "Let's hope it stays that way, right? You must be doing  _ something _ to - to make it better."

\---

"I hope so. I'm trying. Really am." And at least Sasha is still  _ Sasha _ . Though he supposes he still needs to go through the notes he has on her to verify, double-down,  _ ensure _ it's still her.

It can wait until tomorrow.

\---

"Mm, well. I'm still alive, aren't I? Teamwork. I'm - I'm warming up to it, more. Helping me get..." Martin lifts both hands and makes a vague motion around either side of his head with his fingers. "...Out of my head. I don't - I don't think I'm worried about slipping into the Lonely. I think I'm-- I like - I like spending time with people more, now. Um. Than I did a few weeks ago." 

He's not sure if that's a bad thing to bring up. It's a  _ sore _ spot, at the very least.

\---

"That's good," Jon says warmly, because it is, and he was worried, and he worries every day, and his worry has only increased since he allowed himself to understand how deeply he cares for Martin. "I'll kill Peter Lukas myself if he even tries to take you." He smiles; it's a joke, but a piss poor one.

\---

"Ooh," Martin says contemplatively as they round the hallway. "Maybe not the best sign from me, but I'd - I'd like to see that happen, I think. Not that - not that I know who that is. Am I  _ really _ t-taken hostage that much?"

\---

"You? Not really. I get kidnapped far more often than you. Lukas didn't... Kidnap you. You worked with him." He sniffs.

\---

"Ah. Well. You said  _ take _ , I assumed - er - nevermind. We'll put a-a pin in it. Can you get the door?" Martin tries to recover, his smile a little lopsided with the effort.

\---

Maybe that's his fault; ascribing a loss of autonomy that never existed. Trying to pin everything on Lukas, instead of-- the why's of Martin's isolation. His influence. His guilt. A pin indeed.

He nods and pulls the door, mumbling "Of course, your highness," like he doesn't absolutely love ushering Martin into places.

\---

Wow. Martin likes that. He absolutely does not say it out loud and tries very, very hard not to change anything about the way he carries himself. At least Jon can't read his thoughts. That would make his entire sense of self a bit difficult to manage, wouldn't it? 

Martin seats himself on the chair opposite the desk, and it hurts, but it's fine. "You need a nice chair for - for guests. A padded one. If I came in here to make a statement and I saw this deathtrap I'd - I'd leave immediately."

\---

Jon all but whines, "I knowwww," the moment he sits heavily in his own chair, bringing his legs up to sit cross legged. "We'll have to find one we both like. Order it here, so we don't have to use Michael's Moving Truck."

\---

"I can look later. I don't think they'd let the Spiral get a license," Martin says with a short laugh, and then the air sort of... deadens. They're both sitting there, and Martin's not sure what he's supposed to do next. He looks to Jon, because Jon's in The Archivist Chair, and that means he knows how to do Archivist Things.

\---

"We forgot the hot chocolate," Jon says, but it's an excuse, and he knows it, and he lets his expression twist up into an approximation of awkward pain. "Martin. I don't know where to start. It was  _ your _ idea. I don't even know what  _ normal _ couples ask each other about."

\---

"I-It can be an intermission," Martin starts awkwardly. God, he hates himself. "Then. Then don't be normal. Be - be you?" 

That sounds terrible. He's out of his depth. He's out of his depth every day of his life, now. "You can work up to things, start... easy? Things you're already - er -  _ curious _ about? Doesn't - doesn't have to be  _ deeply personal _ . Just - just getting a feel for it."

\---

"... Okay." Jon says, and-- well, it's hard to clear his head, to just feel, but at least he got practice the part year, meditating, feeling things call to him, knowledge and paths to follow to find more information. Start small. Not big. He closes his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath, and when he opens them again, his tongue is dripping in ambrosia. "Why did you apply  _ here _ , of all places?"

\---

"It's sort of that in-between where I have - I have coworkers, but I've got space to myself. And time to myself. Getting sent out to do things, pull research, it's sort of... meditative? And I like reading stories, I thought it would be a good experience to see. Like, get some secret knowledge."

Martin's eyebrows push together in thought. "I kind of tricked myself into - not feeling  _ important _ , exactly, in the personal sense - like, like I told you. Maybe when I'm gone they'll still be here and someone else can get a use out of... my alphabetizing."

That was easy. Martin's still smiling at Jon by the time he's out of it.

\---

Jon smiles as he listens; it's easy, when it's a question that feels  _ good _ . They don't feed him, not necessarily, but it's beside the point. It feeds something inside him that can still feel happiness. "I'm very certain people will remember you. Not just your alphabetizing, though-- that  _ is _ helpful, you know."

\---

Martin shrugs, but it's not dismissive. "Maybe. We'll see. And I know-- I  _ like _ alphabetizing, thank you." 

He pauses, tilts his head. Like that gets him in the groove. It's more inquiring, than straight out compelling. "Why did you start working here?"

\---

He doesn't feel the words form in his mouth supernaturally, but he nonetheless wants to answer. Different, this time, than his outburst in the safe room when he'd admitted to Martin that of course he believed in everything.

There's something nice about being way past that, now.

"I mean, I, uh, was always slated for archival work, really. Library Sciences degree and all that. But, um, I found an, uh, Leitner, when I was a kid. And. I always hoped a place like this could actually-- tell me. What it was. If it was real. What it all  _ meant _ ." He pauses. "I was  _ not _ qualified to take over for Gertrude. Not really. Guess, I, uh, have a bit of a natural talent for the whole thing, though."

\---

"A Leitner?" Martin asks, and the urge to pull the truth tugs at him hard. He doesn't, though. As if to prove a point. Not sure what that point is, though. 

"Guess not being qualified is part of the job. I think you make a fine Archivist. Seems like - like the kind of job you can't do without help, though. Maybe she didn't have many friends." 

He adds one last piece as a teasing aside. "Bookworm."

\---

"I think she was just willing to sacrifice her friends." Jon says, and brings his hand to his mouth, chewing on one of his nails. "Someone I knew died, from the Leitner. It-- No doubt it was the Web. Spiders and all that. Couldn't read books that even  _ talked _ about spiders in it for a long time."

\---

"Oh. I-I'm sorry. I thought you just... hated spiders to be - to be stubborn. How do you even-- Can someone just  _ make _ a Leitner? Write a book and make it do something? Or does it need a seal, like - like a brand?"

A mark, he almost says. That's not comforting. His follow-up is quiet, out-of-sequential-order. "Just don't throw me into any  _ pits _ and I think you'll be fine, Jon."

\---

"I think they're-- purer forms of the entities, in a way. More-- condensed. It's not like Leitner, the fool,  _ made _ them. He just-- collected them. Put his damned seal on them." 

Jon laughs quietly. "I've done and seen too much to just  _ arbitrarily _ fear spiders, Martin. I don't really think I fear like a normal person. And I'm not like her."

\---

"I-I mean, some people just have  _ phobias _ , Jon. It's - it's not abnormal. I-- " He shuts his mouth. 

This is so strange. What's he supposed to say? 'Oh, yeah, damn Leitner getting his seal all over books, the madman, he clearly has to be stopped'. "Maybe - maybe ask me something not  _ Institute _ related? I feel like it - it always loops back around to  _ Leitners _ or - or  _ bodies _ ."

\---

"Martin, it's-- that's my  _ life _ . What am I supposed to do, ask you about-- your favorite movies? We don't even have time for movies, ever." He rolls his eyes, like it's preposterous. Even though it's not.

\---

"Did you read it?" Normal question, again, if short and a little frustrated.

"And, unrelated, but just - just so I'm clear. Can I ask you-- Am I allowed to ask you a-a question, like-- Compel it from you? For this conversation?"

\---

"I did to you, so- - I thought that was the point of this. This weird game you've constructed. So yes. Yes."

He pauses. "I did. I almost got eaten."

\---

Martin sighs in relief, runs a hand through his drying hair. "Okay. Yeah, right, right, that's the point." 

He leans forward on the desk, partly for comfort, partly because it's closer when he's lowered a bit. Less threatening, that way, like it's just a question. "Why do you think it took someone else, Jon?"

\---

Jon sucks in a breath, and his eyes go a little distant. "It wanted me. Nearly had me. All I had to do was-- knock. The- the book. It had a door, f-for Mr. Spider. That's how it got you. It entranced you, and when the pages came, you--" He mimes it, on the table.

"But there was an older kid, I mean, he must have been a 12th year, he used to--to pick on me. I mean. I was-- was easy to pick on. Wasn't exactly-- friendly, I was small, tom-- I read too much. You know. Rather bullyable.

"He took the book before I could knock. Just to-- mess with me. But then he read it and. You know, I followed. He was in a trance. And then he knocked. And-- well. He was taken. Two big, spindly arms just.... Took him."

\---

"Maybe you were just bait," Martin says sympathetically. "Like dangling a lure to catch a bigger fish. What if it just wanted your help? Knew you liked to read, maybe?"

His smile is small, gentle. Careful. It's all Martin, though, using his applied kindness to reframe it in his head. "I don't know. Bullies might have more fear on them, you don't turn into a bully unless you're  _ really _ afraid of something, right?"

\---

"... I suppose." Jon says faintly, and his voice is slightly weak in the aftermath of the words tumbling from him.

"Bait," He echoes. "You're-- you're good at working through this kind of-- the Web's line of logic."

If they keep going at this like this, he's going to need an anchor. He puts his hands on the table, reaching toward him, an increasingly familiar gesture.

\---

Martin resituates himself in the chair as he runs his fingers over Jon's experimentally. It's a bit of a dick move, feather-light touches like something skittering. 

"All the entities I've heard of so far have  _ some _ pattern to them, it's - it's adapting, right? I'm not afraid of most of them, so far. The... Web seems like it just works like normal spiders. They're good at, um, at symbiotic relationships." He shrugs. "I just make up bad poetry for the Spiral and - and that works. It's all different."

\---

Jon shivers at the touch, and closes his eyes for a moment. "What were you like as a kid?"

\---

Martin doesn't hesitate, until the directionless steam fizzles out as soon as he starts. "Um-- A  _ problem _ ? That's - that's a bit  _ vague _ , Jon. Covers a lot of ground. I was - I was short, for a while... erm. Went walking a lot."

\---

"A problem." Jon rolls his eyes. "doubt you were more than me. I was an  _ awful _ little shit. Felt bad for my grandmum sometimes, even." And then it pours from his mouth. "What is your favorite childhood memory?"

\---

"I..." He can't argue or explain, partly from lack of desire, partly from the compulsion to tell twisting him into a different direction. "It took three months to convince her, but my, erm, my mother let me spend a few weeks in the country with a friend and.. and his family - they had some kind of animal farm - so we were driving out, and on the way I got the idea to sort of, stick my head out the window? I'd been working so hard to - to get out, go somewhere, and it was so  _ windy _ \-- I just laughed until I couldn't breathe from the cold, and I had to sit back again-- "

There's a few tears falling down his cheeks, and he wipes them away with a smile. "It's stupid. My mouth hurt from smiling for  _ hours _ and - and I looked feral. My hair was curlier back then, when I was younger-- So it was all over the place. But nobody told me to fix it."

\---

Jon listens, and almost feels what he's saying, what he's describing, the slow creep of icy wind upon his skin feeling like freedom rather than frigidness. His smile is wide and broad, and he imagines Martin with curlier hair, younger, softer, and it makes him want to melt.

"It took  _ three months _ of convincing?"

\---

"...Yes." 

Martin almost thinks to stop there, but he tries. Desperately tries to give Jon something less vague to work with. "I had to stay on her good side. I had normal chores and trip chores."

\---

"Was it hard, staying on her good side?" Jon's voice is quiet, somber, pushing. It's easier to compel when the question weaves pain under it.

\---

Martin shudders with the struggle to hold back, dragging his hand a few inches from Jon's in the process. "For me," is the first thing to slip out, and with it comes a swell of relief. 

"I always found a way to screw it up. I tried. I did. Most of the time. She never  _ explained _ rules, I was - I was just supposed to know. But I didn't know."

\---

"How could you? You can't read minds." Jon says softly, and chases after Martin's hands, grabbing hold of them. Keeping him here, at the desk.

\---

Martin swallows any emotional outburst that might come up as the compulsion fades, once he's able to reply proper. He nearly draws his hands back, but Jon's sort of got him stuck there, and there's a bright flash of fear passing through him at the movement. 

He tries to talk before Jon can, before he can keep trying to comfort him for things he doesn't know about, before he gets a chance to analyze this. It wasn't about mind reading, it was about not trying hard enough. Fundamentally being unable to do it. 

It gives him some kind of impulse to be combative. Martin compels. "Why does it matter so much to you that you're  _ touching _ me?"

\---

"Because I feel bad," Jon says, and the words don't even take long to form in his throat. "And she's clearly this big knot of pain in... In you, just sitting there, untangled, and I want to be there for you, if-- if it ever unravels. And I like touching you, I like your skin, I like your warmth and it's hard to-- harder to... To fly elsewhere when we're holding on to one another."

He almost hates the uncoordinated ways these compellings make his words flow. Unorganized, flighty, an awkward tumbling. But at least it's  _ out _ there, even if it's clumsy.

\---

Burying his guilt, Martin scowls at Jon across the desk. "Don't feel bad." It's firm, but it's cracking at the edges. "Don't feel bad for me, Jon." 

He thinks, and thinks, and in an act of purely unhealthy rebellion he persists. It's not the smooth, inviting sort of questioning he likes to do. It's just the Eye, distant and hungry and uncaring. Cold even as warmth loops between Jon's hands and his own. "What are you afraid of turning into without me to hold onto?"

\---

"I don't even know," Jon gasps as it takes hold, and he almost tries to resist, his hands tightening around Martin's, tension writhing up his arms. But it would be unfair, and Martin nerds to  _ know _ , and there's no other way he would say this, not really.

"A monster. Something uncaring, unfeeling, just-- watching. Devoid of empathy. Hungry. So, so hungry. I felt-- so hungry, sometimes, before. Hungry to the point you don't realize you've done something...  _ awful _ , until it's already done and you're sated and guilty, but-- but not really guilty. You're only guilty because other people saw.

"It controls me, more and more, and in turn, I control others, and do-- whatever it is Elias wants me to do, and it's  _ so _ easy to fall into it when I'm alone. When I dream about doors and wake up to an empty bed."

\---

Martin shivers. He likes that answer. It feels better, to have the attention away from him, to have that second imaginary set of Jon's eyes rolled inward instead of peering into  _ him _ . 

He's snowballing, a little. Down and down the hill to the edge of a cliff. "Do you think there's no choice but to turn into a monster eventually, Jon? That it's just controlled you all the way here, and that's it?"

\---

"I want to believe that," Jon says, his eyes a little unfocused, his grip loosening somewhat. "I want to. I want to-- deep down... I researched the Web for weeks, and weeks, and weeks, trying to put the blame elsewhere. Sick as it made me think that I'd been... Led like a dog behind the shed to be shot, at least it would take the control out of my hands. Not my fault. Not my monster. Can't blame a monster for being turned into one."

He chews on his lips a moment and takes a breath. "But I think it's just me. I think the choice is gone now, but I made the choice. Originally. I don't, l-- I don't think I'll stop myself, when it comes down to it."

\---

Martin hums, confident and collected. "Not stopping yourself  _ is _ a choice, Jon. Doesn't make it easy, right? 

"You  _ can _ blame a monster for turning into one. Understanding why doesn't change that. I-- " He stops, thinking not to commit his own experiences to this. Even on this high, he's still seeing Jon. He's still able to make a choice. The way it leaves his mouth, though, it feels like more of a formality. "Do you want me to stop?"

\---

Jon's hands claw back to squeeze Martin's, and some unfocused gaze sharpens. He looks to Martin, and almost says  _ yes, yes, stop _ , but there's a pain in this that he's never voiced. There's something masochistically fascinating about his own fear turning into a verbal statement. He wonders if it's feeding Martin. Wonders if it's bad, that he wants it to.

"No. Keep going."

\---

"Careful-- My hand." He doesn't pull away, but he does make a bit of a pained face. The pain's not centralized where Jon's squeezing, but the pressure has a way of traveling. 

Martin snaps out of it, not entirely, just enough to gain some perspective. All the confliction wafts off Jon in waves, and maybe Martin deserves to be a bit of a jerk. It's only fair he denies Jon, if for no other reason than to draw it out. 

"After your turn."

\---

Jon can't help the shocked glare that passes over his face, and after a moment, he pulls back his hands, so he can dig his nails into his forearms and ride out the gentle trembles that have overtaken his body as they progress through these questions.

He lets his mind still, the thought of his own answers and pain and fear being pushed aside. Locked in a neat little coffin for the time being. "Why are you letting me do this to you?" He asks, and presses, and presses on it, because that's just it, isn't? Jon has a choice, but so does Martin. And Martin has chosen to go  _ with _ it, despite every instance of Jon's paralyzing fear, guilt, tears.

\---

With Jon's hands gone, the string tying him down fades with them.

"It lets me earn being taken care of once I can't keep going. It hurts, and it's good, and it's cathartic to blurt stories fully-formed, as if poetry were that easy. And - and there's an exchange, where I get to know  _ you _ . And I like to learn. Not the same bookish way, but about the world - the people - why they  _ do _ things. Maybe this can help me do that. Maybe if I learn, I can use that, and I can use that to change something." 

He shrugs, like it's no big deal. "Maybe I just like how much it hurts."

\---

"And you don't mind turning into a monster, as well, in the process?" It's easy to sound cold when he's the Archivist. He doesn't mean to; but sometimes the questions have a way of binding his tongue just as tightly as they compel answers from the throats of his victims.

\---

"I already think I was born one." It's simple, and the answer doesn't hurt him. Martin sits back, like a petulant child in the Principal's office.

\---

"Don't dodge the question, Martin," Jon hisses, and sits up straighter, his focus narrowing in on Martin like a viper. He's not lying, he didn't resist, but it's not where the question was going, and Martin  _ knows _ it. Jon knows it. "What do you think is going to happen, in the end? Where do you think this all leads? What kind of monster are you willing to  _ become _ , with me at your side?"

\---

It dawns on Martin that he  _ likes _ fighting it. It also dawns on him that the nature of these questions leaves more room for leaving out details than they seem to, that when he's expecting them he - he can sort of move a few things around in his head to prepare if they don't catch him off guard. The bigger the scope, the easier to warp, maybe? The flustered, frantic way it gets Jon to throw questions at him, questions he can't possibly tackle nice and neatly, Martin loves that.

"Too early to say. I can't know that yet. Depends on what kind of 'monster'  _ you _ turn out to be at my side, doesn't it? I  _ wasn't _ dodging the question."

\---

"Why do you think you were born a monster." Fine. Dodge the question, and he'll track it, follow it; there's something there, anyways, something to wiggle free, and the farther they dive into this, the easier it is for Jon to track it, track him. The Eye feeds him with the shadowy, dark corners that have yet to have light illuminated upon them; it's only fitting to make all things seen in equal glory.

\---

Martin thinks he knows the answer without having it forced out, but living through it is a different beast entirely. Where seconds ago Martin had confidence, had found a hole in the Eye's logic, now it's wiped away as easily as wet chalk.

"Her eyes," He says, subdued. "She always looked at me like she saw something inside me, under my skin. What I really looked like."

\---

"And what do you really look like, Martin?"

\---

"I-- " He shoots Jon a mutinous glare as his mouth moves. "She never told me. She held it over me and kept it to herself, but she would - she would tell me all the time that there was something wrong with me, with my blood, with my  _ face _ , the way I smiled at her. She used to..."

He pauses, but not because he's trying to remember.

"Sometimes - even when I was just  _ sitting there _ she would say, 'I know what you're hiding'. And it scared me. It scared me more than anything. I didn't know what I was hiding. I still don't. But when I'd ask her, she'd tell me I knew. To not - not play  _ stupid _ . She's so  _ stubborn _ about it. I don't kn-know what I look like, but I-I imagine it's awful."

\---

Jon knows. Oh, he knows what she saw, because he heard Elias extract it from Martin's mind, a year ago. Two years in the future. It sits crystal clear in his mind's eye, and it nearly unfurls from his tongue, not cruel or spiteful, but cold, detached academia. This far in, it's hard to remember to stay present, to stay  _ here _ , with Martin. 

Part of the flow views this as just another statement.

It takes  _ effort _ to pull himself up, and he's still, sitting silently in the chair for nearly a minute before he takes in a deep, solid breath, and reaches back out to take hold of Martin's hands before his mind can catch up with his body, his grip unforgiving and not willing to let Martin pull back. He needs this. And he's certain Martin will, too. The warmth of Martin's hands ushers the detachment away, and he mumbles, quietly and disjointed, "Y- you don't look awful, Martin. You. You don't."

\---

The words pass over Martin without absorption, without acceptance, because Jon's grabbed his hands and it's igniting a cocktail of emotion that Jon's been pouring flammable solutions on. He pulls, and when he finds that he can't get away he whines, high and panicked and lost. 

Martin's not looking at Jon, he's focused on the grip, the bandages peeking out from their sleeves, the way bitter tears are building up behind his eyes.

\---

It takes him a few moments of touch to come down, to refocus on Martin in the way  _ he _ wants to see Martin, and it's-- He's nearly crying. "Martin," He says faintly, and leans forward, trying to catch his gaze. He wants to keep contact, to keep  _ him _ grounded here, in this space, but Martin is trying to pull away, and Jon is all at once almost blindsided by how swiftly the cold academic is replaced with something near-panicking. 

He messed up. 

"Martin, I-- Maybe we should take a break? Martin?"

\---

Martin glues his own eyes to Jon's once they're close enough for it, breathing rapidly but coming down. He twitches - residually, instinctually - away from Jon's grip but doesn't actively  _ pull _ anymore, holding himself still. Once he starts letting himself feel the pleasant heat from Jon's hands as they rest against his own, he can talk again. 

"Sorry, I-I was still-- I wasn't thinking about you. You - you scared me. I don't-- Do we need one?"

\---

Jon wants one. They were starting to get close to territory he's not sure is good, for either of them. It would have been easy to just dive right in, nestle himself inside Martin's head. It's too soon; he's certain he would destroy himself if he did. 

"Not unless you want one," Jon says, slowly, softly, his words careful and scrubbed from any lingering fear or coldness. "Just putting the choice out there. We can continue."

\---

Martin laughs nervously to release the tension at last. "I don't - I don't know why I pictured this turning out productive. I'm - I'm just exhausted." 

He puts his head down on the desk with a dull thump. "Ugh."

\---

Jon sort of shrugs after a moment. "I knew it'd be tiring. It's different when it's stuff you don't  _ want _ to say. Stuff you've been-- you're so used to keeping down."

\---

"I can see that." Martin says it dramatically, and then he forces himself to sit up. "Do  _ you _ want a break?"

\---

"Not really," Jon says, but drags his hands down his face. "But it might be wise." He pauses. "I should have recorded all of that, probably. To see how far along we are."

\---

"How  _ you _ forgot to record is beyond me. I don't - I don't care much for it, s-so it's fine, really." 

Martin finally pulls away, stretching his back until it makes a terrible crack."Might as well be responsible. I-I need..." He rummages through his pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes, just now noticing how badly his hands are shaking. He manages to pull one out, but doesn't move to light it yet. Not with all the attention on him, not when he's not particularly a fan of Jon noticing that right now.

\---

"You  _ need _ a proper statement. So do I," Jon says, and pulls out a breath he didn't know he was holding. It feels blasphemous, almost, to say it out loud. To admit to that need after-- After all of that. Talks of monsters and mothers. Two most fearsome words that start with 'm', it seems.

But he knows it's true, like he knows the sky is probably a deep slated grey right now. "It's as though we haven't eaten for a day and then just-- Picked at some appetizers." Despite himself, a near-giggle falls from his lips. "'These bacon-wrapped scallops certainly pack a punch, but I'm looking for some  _ meatier _ trauma, if I do say so myself.' That sort of thing."

\---

Martin turns slightly so his bad hand is out of view, tries - and fails - to light the cigarette a few times with a swear under his breath. 

"Day off is over." He snaps it out, but not in Jon's direction. "I liked breakfast, Jon. But I-I'll do one." His voice is a bit more hopeful, excitement just barely ringing in his tone. 

He leans across the desk with the cigarette between his lips, pushing his lighter in Jon's direction. "Light?"

\---

Under the dark, flickering flame that Jon produces and pulls across the desk, letting it alight the cigarette, Jon says, "You'll feel better." He flicks the lighter off once it's lit, sitting back against his chair and pulling whatever file is closest to him, rummaging through the scant sorted files. 

"It's not just work anymore." He slides one of the papers over; a typewritten statement that he knows to be from Lucy Cooper regarding the mother-who-was-not-a-mother.

\---

Martin keeps himself over the desk as he takes a drag, eyeing the paper in front of him. He's careful not to read too far in just yet, just in case. No spoilers. Reading's different, though. 

"What, now it's  _ play _ ? I-- Am I reading this one, Jon?"

\---

Jon nods. "Yes. Because-- Because for the sake of honesty, I want to tell you something. Afterwards. If we've the mind to do it."

\---

Martin narrows his eyes in Jon's direction, obscuring his own look with a cloud of cigarette smoke. His mouth is watering. Weird thing to notice right now. "Ready when you find a tape."

\---

Jon hums and busies himself with going through the drawers until he finds one that's empty, slotting it into the recorder and placing it between them. After a moment, he blinks and says, "Do you want this chair?" It seems to be the ritual, of a sorts; the Archivist reads; the other listens.

\---

"Christ,  _ yes _ . Wait, I-- Oh. I-- " Once he thinks the thought, the difficult part is speaking it into life. "I have an idea. You didn't - you didn't get to  _ explore _ much of - of the diversity of r-reactions doing these alone, right? And things are - are different with me around, I-- Do you want to try a science experiment?"

\---

"...What... Kind of... Science experiment?" Jon asks slowly, even as he's pulling himself up roughly from the chair. Focused solely on the statement in front of them, and a science experiment evidently, it's easy to push away everything from before. Their failed question experiment. Or successful, if the depths to which Jon was able to access his compelling without having first been in a coma is any indication.

\---

Martin forces it to come out quick so he won't stop, won't be weird about it or make it into a  _ thing _ . "Could you maybe work some knots from my back while I read and see if that's even possible while - while listening."

\---

"Huh." Jon says it softly, momentarily surprised by the request. Even past the-- the intimacy, of a sorts, the promise he gave back at the restaurant this morning, there's... It  _ is _ an experiment. Can he stay focused enough? Present enough? In reality enough? "Okay. I can try."

\---

Martin grins as he pawns the cigarette off on Jon, standing up to turn the violently terrible chair the opposite way. It's close enough that he can still brace his elbows on the desk to read with his legs on either side of the chair. 

"Don't - don't worry if you can't."

\---

Jon clicks his tongue and comes around with the other chair, nearly setting it down before saying, "Don't you want your Archivist's chair? I'll sit in that one. Turn this one around, instead." There's a nervousness fluttering in him at this. It's not like his fingers haven't pressed upon Martin's back before, scrabbling and needy in the aftermath of a statement's glow, but it's different, somehow, when it's none of... that. 

A domesticity to their strange lives that feels like a step up from whatever they've been doing, before.

\---

Martin huffs grumpily at having to get back up, but he obliges for the sake of it all. It's an easy switch, luckily he can do it with one hand, but the chairs swap places and he's straddling the Archivist's chair like a real professional man. 

"Ready." A finger hovers over the recorder.

\---

"Martin." Jon says, and his voice is self-serious and gravelly, as though this is the weight of the world they're talking about. "I'm not giving you a back massage through your shirt. Take it off. Don't be weird about it."

\---

"You-- are  _ so _ high-maintenance." Martin pulls back from the recorder, puts the statement down  _ again _ , and reaches with his good arm to pull his shirt off from the back. He manages just fine with it, returning to his previous position. 

"Anything else?" He adds, faux-accommodating. But he has a right to be this way. He deserves to be allowed to act out a little.

\---

"Getting snippy when  _ I'm _ the one rubbing your back," Jon snarks, and presses his hands to Martin's shoulders, leaning in close near his ear. "I don't think I'm the high-maintenance one." Blame it on his nervous energy. He leans back after a moment, and says, "Proceed." 

He's never really...  _ done _ this, before. He's afraid of fucking it up. Getting laughed at by Martin who will-- What? Kick him to the curb because of his mediocre, weak hands? It's a possibility in the anxiety-riddled brain of Jon Sims. But he's going to try anyways, and after a few moments of hesitation, he tries to grind the heels of his hands down between his shoulders, trying to fit between the muscles that he knows ought to be sore.

\---

Click.

"Statement of Rose Cooper, regarding her… mother." Martin pauses to glance over his shoulder, shooting Jon a half-hearted glare of suspicion before he starts again.

Something about the way this woman talks in his head makes it difficult for him to push on at a normal pace. By the time he's gotten just a few paragraphs in, suffering through "'...nothing I ever did was quite good enough…'", he feels almost stuck somewhere, unsure where Martin ends and Rose begins. He keeps talking, each word a unique struggle - not because of Jon - and he nearly sounds out of breath by the time he finishes the next paragraph.

\---

Perhaps it wasn't the best file to choose, but it was the first one Jon saw that would be a  _ segue _ into what he wants to speak about, and, besides, by the first few paragraphs, he doesn't much care what he chose, spellbound and almost trance-like in the waves of Martin's voice. 

It gets hard to continue pressing his fingers down the planes of Martin's back, his instinct to stop, to sit, to listen, to be motionless in reverie as the story unfolds in his mind. But he cuts through the fog, keeping himself at a distance throughout the statement, each press of his fingers, each movement of muscles a reminder to stay at least semi-connected to the plane of reality. 

Even so, the massage becomes whatever naturally comes out of him after a while. A tether, but an instinctual one, hot fingers pressed to a warm back and his mind full of Rose Cooper's words.

\---

Despite the rocky start, Jon's comfort eases him out from his own head. It takes him a bit to fully settle, but as details of Cooper's life start to deviate from his own, detachment follows naturally. Vivid descriptions of a father unlike one he ever knew.

He sounds confused, genuinely, as he goes on to describe her mother's change. Something being wrong, but not something easily described in a way that  _ doesn't _ make her sound any way but completely crazy. He's horrified to be  _ afraid _ as he reads a description of someone terrified to have a kind mother, of  _ pictures _ twisting shape. 

"...'she knew it was a lie as much as I did, and my confusion and fear delighted her,'" Martin takes a pause to sniffle through it, Cooper's frantic attempt to explain the situation infecting his own brain and clouding it over.

\---

Jon smooths his hands up Martin's shoulders and to his neck, pressing the pads of his fingertips deep into the muscle tissue. His head has dropped somewhat, nearly lying on Martin's shoulder blade as he continues to rub him, pausing only here and there to ensure Martin is fit to continue.

When he sniffles, he does lean against him, slotting his chin over Martin's shoulder and ignoring the deep ache in his forearms from all the exertion.

\---

Martin reads on to describe the only substantial evidence Cooper could find - the tapes. Recordings untouchable by material design as living memory to house the ghosts of someone who's been replaced. Soon, Martin will think how that applies to their own record, in case. In case this could ever happen. In case somehow it could have already. He's found a new appreciation for them, even through the haze of torture inflicting itself on him as he finishes.

"Statement ends," he says, and makes no move to stop the tape. As he comes back to reality, there's a murky layer of consciousness he can't quite push through until Jon's said his part. The part where he knows, where he's able to discuss the evidence without ever having to send someone into danger to get it. 

He tilts his head to bring comfortable contact in the form of Jon's presence at his shoulder, breathing out a soft noise of appreciation. He hadn't - he hadn't felt much of it at all, physically, as Jon moved. But now, coming back into his own skin, he gets to reap the benefits of tension smoothed out instead of piled on with how he tends to lock up during a reading. Especially one his body comes readily equipped to have a particular  _ reaction _ to.

\---

Jon speaks his part with his arms draped loosely around Martin's middle, his voice a soft, hazy mumble that will just barely pick up on the tape. He doesn't really care right now; it seems at the sacrifice of sitting still, fully committing to listening, he's lost the full ability to care how professional the tale sounds. At least for now. He'll probably be livid later.

He follows it up with what he knows, academic precision now coloring his tone. Not like his paranoid rambles the first time, just calculated information. Adelard's binding of the creature to the table being the same table that lives within the belly of Artifact Storage. And, at the end, a soft warning; "The table keeps the creature bound, to somewhat of a serious degree. Do not destroy. End recording."

And then he clicks the tape off, and breathes in the silence of the room.

\---

Martin trembles when the tape switches off, like there's an icy wind passing through him. And then he's back, with a mother  _ definitely _ not replaced by a kinder, somehow less human version of her former self, without a father, and Jon's weight is keeping his body completely still. Safety blanket. Not suffocating, the way statements fill his mouth with cotton and blood. 

He's not able to get much closer without  _ fusing _ with the man, though he's melting with a couple more agreeable soft noises. After a minute of silent contemplation, working out aftershocks, he tries to speak softly as close to Jon's ear as he thinks he can. "You wanted to tell me something, right?"

\---

"Hm?" Jon hums and it takes a moment to remember, comfort so wound around them that it's hard to move and breach this space. But with a sigh, he slowly sits up, disentangling himself from Martin's back.

"Yes. Well-- the reason I sent Tim and Sasha away. On the day of the Prentiss attack. It's-- well. Sasha didn't make it, originally. She-- ah. Was trapped in artifacts storage with the table." His voice is almost a whisper. "It took her, and we didn't know for  _ months _ ."

\---

" _ Sasha _ ? Huh." Not what he was expecting Jon to say, really, and he maneuvers his way out of straddling the chair so he can face Jon instead. Proper business meeting, but there's no desk between them. Something's starting to crackle at the base of his skull. 

It's not your life, it's not  _ your _ story, it's not your pain, it could be worse, so much worse. An entirely different breed of  _ wrongness _ to tackle that's somehow more complicated than a loveless mother. Somehow worse, if you're in the Cooper family. It's odd, to know so much about a group of people where only one remains. The only one, obsessed with remnants of a past that can't come back. She must be lonely. 

Martin looks at Jon, and isn't lonely. He doesn't look horrified, or concerned. More like a child enraptured by a baking soda volcano.

"I... did you wait until I was in a good mood to tell me that? Wait, wait - I have real questions. One. Did it kill her? Two. I'm guessing you didn't find out for sure until you went back to a recording, right? Three. None of us noticed? In - in this one someone noticed, but... the entire office? Four. Was she, you know, friendly? Five. So this is - this is the Stranger? Or,  _ strangers _ , multiple. I was wondering when that one would come up. Six-- " He realizes he's been counting these off on fingers, and also talking without pause so long that he's dizzy with lack of oxygen. "I'm not holding up any more fingers, so five works."

\---

Jon blinks, momentarily overwhelmed at the energy being lobbied at him. It's still getting some taken used to, this strange near-high Martin falls into the moment the Statement's power falls away like loosened rope around his limbs.

"I--" He cuts himself off, holding up a finger in the air so he can organize his thoughts, eyes moving contemplatively as he does so. It's easy to... Not quite match Martin's energy, but to  _ go _ with it. Without this, he'd fall into despair, talking about Sasha.

"Okay. It's easier to talk to you like this, because then I don't-- you know. Fall apart. It killed her, immediately. I don't know how it kills, but it does.

"It was this statement, actually. Something had been.... Off. An, erm, associate of ours, Melanie King, she could see through it. Kept asking about the 'new' Sasha. Got a kick out of us hiring two of them. We all thought she'd gone mad, and, I wasn't exactly in the state of mind to... Be kind, to her questions. I was-- a bit paranoid then. And then I listened to this tape, and-- there's another, same thing, just with a replaced cousin, that got me looking for the tapes. Sasha... Not Sasha. She hid them. I found them in her desk. I heard the original Sasha's--  _ our _ Sasha's voice on it. Like it was new."

He nods. "Horrid work of the Stranger."

\---

Martin laughs, then, relieved. "This isn't at all what I thought you were gearing up to tell me." He skips along past that. Jon's stoking a fire in his heart, with all that grounding nonsense. 

"So you prevented it. Horrid  _ unwork _ \- we still have Sasha. Not like you talk much with her anyway, but - but, I mean, if it keeps her safe, m-maybe you're doing the right thing?" 

He taps his foot on the floor with the amount of questions and comments buzzing in his head. It's nearly overwhelming. So much he could focus on, but every route is fantastic. "I think I'll ask too many questions and get us too sprawled out m-metaphorically to actually work through this, so. Um."

\---

"It's kind of... Cute." Jon says, quietly, a small smile dancing on his face. Hard to catastrophize about the trauma of losing Sasha when Martin is... So open, so energetic, so  _ here _ , keeping Jon with him.

"It's why I don't talk to them. The Stranger gets them both. The anglerfish with Sasha, and Tim--" He screws up his face. "When we end the Stranger's ritual. I don't want that happening this time. It's not fair."

\---

All the joy he'd built up from Jon's admission alone starts to crack apart. "What?" 

He has too many questions, and something keeps telling him 'at least  _ you _ got out just fine' and that doesn't  _ seem _ fine at all. Rituals, Tim, some woman named Melanie King, processing - processing deaths he can't begin to imagine, might not ever have to grieve or see - he does the only thing he can think to do, stands up to find his cigarettes. He lost the first one he lit, somewhere. 

Martin leans against the desk. "I think -okay, okay, two things. I think you should include them in this, it's - it's their lives, Jon. Two, I am - I am so, sososo overwhelmed right now and if we keep talking about death and friends disappearing and - and mothers while I'm...  _ here _ it's not - I don't want to say anything that hurts the situation."

He tries to light one of these stupid things again.

\---

Jon gives a small contemplative, frustrated hum and shrugs. Maybe. Maybe he should talk to them. It's hard, though. It's hard when knowledge seems to bind you body and soul to causes that should never have been placed upon their shoulders in the first place.

"We can talk about something else, now. I just wanted to get--" He exhales, and stutters, "t-that o-out."

\---

"I want you to do that, Jon." He hopes that's comforting. "You can talk about - Ha!" 

A spark of fire turns into a proper light, and he's so damn proud of himself for doing it despite his injuries. Martin continues. "You can talk about it. It's fine. Things are changing and that's scary, but you're clearly making a difference. I think you made a difference with me. That's a start, right?"

\---

"Yeah, clearly I've made a difference. You're practically high, Martin!" He can't help but laugh; Martin's mood is so infectious. "I like that you-- react positively, somehow, to the statements."

\---

"I don't know what you're talking about," Martin teases, even as he's moving everything off to the side so he can hop onto the desk and lean back, one leg hanging over it. He exhales smoke up to the ceiling. 

"I think when I come out of it, I just - I told you, it's like all the ways my brain's weaved to fight against feeling like anything I do matters or that I'm  _ important _ , they fall apart. I get to hear someone's story and learn about them, how much they're hurting, what it takes to hurt them so  _ badly _ they  _ have _ to make a statement... and then I get to come back here. And for - for a good while, I don't hate it here." 

He taps a finger to his temple to indicate he means 'here' in the internal sense.

\---

Jon says nothing for a while, just watching him blow smoke upwards. He's gorgeous. Beautiful. There's a confidence to him when he's like this that makes Jon weak, and after a moment, he moves from the uncomfortable guest seat to the plush Archivist chair, so he can be closer, one hand wrapping around Martin's dangling ankle.

"Good. I like seeing you like this."

\---

"What, shirtless and lounging over your desk like I own it?" Martin turns his head to Jon, and he's already forgetting the graphic details. Not that this story was very graphic - mostly the aftermath. The implications of how these entities, interwoven, threaten their lives at any moment. 

"How unbecoming of you, Archivist," he continues, and after a short, loaded pause, "I wonder if this is what I'd be like if I'd had a kind mother."

\---

"What, sexy?" Jon flushes immediately; it just came out. But to his credit, Martin is making  _ quite _ the image on his desk.

\---

At first Martin says nothing, shocked wholly into silence. Why are they such weird, terrible people. He can't blame his mother for that one. 

Well, since things are slipping out, might as well. He hums, soft and conversational. "You're not allowed to comment on how  _ sexy _ I am unless we pass second base."

\---

"Martin, I--" Jon's mouth suddenly feels very, very dry. He says quietly, "I think there's a few things we have to talk about before-- before that happens." He runs his hand up Martin's ankle and over his calf, focusing on the motion so he doesn't have to look Martin in the eyes.

\---

"Jon, I'm not going to  _ jump _ you, of course we can... we can talk about it," Martin snorts before trailing off. He tilts his head to follow Jon's hand with his eyes and gets lost in the contact for a second too long. "You - you're distracting me."

\---

Jon still, and mumbles a quiet "sorry". After a second, he pulls back entirely, pressing his hands awkwardly against the sides of the back of the chair. "I, ah, appreciate it."

\---

Martin whines out a "no" at the loss of contact, extending the 'o'. "I wasn't  _ complaining _ , Jon! I'll sit like this all day if you like it, I'm just teasing. I'm teasing you. You're allowed to call me that. I just want to - you'd tell me if  _ I _ was the problem, right?" 

He kicks his leg idly, just for the stimulation of moving. He's restless, alive, almost too warm, and Jon's so far away.

\---

"If you were-- how on earth would  _ you _ be the problem, Martin?" His eyes are wide, searching, and there's fear sitting just under his breast; he doesn't  _ talk _ about this, but Martin needs to know, needs to understand.

\---

"I don't know, I'm just covering everything. Checking in." Martin's tone is polite, contemplative. "I worry about that. Not right now, obviously, but - sometimes. It's worth talking about, right?"

\---

"Well. Yes." Jon is quiet for a long moment. There's a million ways to proceed. Each way suffocates him; a million what if’s swirl through his head and paralyze the easy-going mood he was in just moments before. It could go any one way and he knows, logically, that Martin should, will, of course, be okay with this. But it’s still hard, like it’s always been. 

In the end, he decides to just rip the bandaid off, before it becomes a sudden surprise. Clumsily, he says, "I've never had sex. And I'm, uh, transgender?"

\---

“Very aware of the first one.” The way he says it isn’t  _ cautious _ , exactly, but he’s not trying to mess with him. His tone’s bubbly, confident. Martin sits up on the desk with a faint grunt of effort so he can look at Jon properly. 

“Jon, we-- Two  _ days _ ago we were pulling bloody worms out of each other. You’re from the future, and you’re here for some reason I don’t  _ understand _ , yet. I’ve been held hostage by  _ parasites _ . That’s one of the most normal things about this whole situation.” 

He bites down on his tongue to keep himself from rolling along into the next point of business, because it’s not as  _ fun _ , and Jon looks like he needs to be here for a bit instead of blazing straight on past. It’s... strange. There’s no weight in the air pulling details of their lives out on display, no compulsion to dredge it up from the darkest corners of his memory. Maybe it’s the altered state of mind, but Martin feels safe. “I-- We can talk about it more, if you want. It’s not - not something that… changes anything, for me? I am… um, I am very interested in you.” 

Christ, he sounds ridiculous when it tumbles out of his mouth like that.

\---

Jon looks at Martin for a long, long time, his expression searching as he listens, and slowly, slowly by increments, he relaxes, the tension in his body escaping like a deflated balloon. "Okay." He says, and rubs a hand down his face.

"Okay. Ah-- Thank you, Martin."

\---

"You're welcome." The silence is comfortable for him, only because he's comfortable, but he's got sense enough that he knows it might not be... as nice for Jon. 

"You know, honestly, I'm not sure the right way to, er, assure you, but - but it's not just about...  _ sex _ ..." He says it like it's hard to say, like it's childish.

He stops letting himself think it through. "You are extremely attractive. As a person. You - you  _ see _ me. And I feel like I see you, Jon. That's all."

\---

"I do see you. Not much else has ever mattered this much. To me." 

He swallows, and sits up somewhat, so he can see Martin's face easier. "I've never-- desired someone. Like you. But I do. D-desire you. I want to learn, and- and make you feel good."

\---

Martin beams down at him, vibrantly alive. Feeling wanted, too, and it's entirely new. Really in it now, Martin, aren't you? 

"I already feel good, so you're on the right track. Just have to get  _ creative _ and all that, with my one-and-a-half working hands for now." He wiggles the fingers on his right hand - just about the extent he can move them - for emphasis. 

His voice takes on a specific tone of comedic documentation. "Jonathan Sims, addicted to learning and a victim of carnal desire. Corrupted by one Martin Blackwood."

\---

Jon let's himself feel it; he shivers. Some of the residual anxiety he's allowed himself to build up around the whole thing falls away all at once, leaving just Martin. Just Martin. And it's so easy when it's just Martin.

He leans forward to take hold of Martin's ankle again, and drops his voice, purring, "Back to work, indeed, Mr. Blackwood."

\---

"That's Head Archival Assistant Mr. Blackwood to you," Martin pushes, finding it so satisfyingly easy to commit to arrogance here. Plenty of opportunities for it to get to his head - well, it might be completely insane given they're just glorified librarians or  _ whatever _ \- now that he's felt what it's like to be  _ important _ , somehow. 

To someone, a cause, a vague and far-off goal, a chance. Maybe he needs therapy. Is this therapy? Oh, none of this is ethical. Not that that's ever been his top priority, really. 

Jon's touch leaves goosebumps behind on Martin's skin. His eyes are focused on Jon's hand while he holds the cigarette a few inches from his face. "What's the work for today, then, sir?"

\---

"Something a little more casual than our normal workload, I think, Head Archival Assistant." He can feel himself flushing, but Wills himself to go with it, to live in this moment, to feel Martin and himself and worry about scant little else. For the first time in his life, it's hauntingly easy.

"How about you walk me through some of the new job duties you've been training for?" His voice, low, drops any of the self-conscious reverb to it.

\---

Ah, Christ. Stupid Jon and his stupid way of getting Martin to stubbornly keep up with this  _ stupid _ game that he's deciding he loves playing very much. 

"I wish I wished I regret telling you how much that voice gets under my skin," he ends with an inhale, so Jon won't interrupt him. The loop of confidence started with Martin, but it's echoing through both of them enough that Martin's not completely sure when he stopped feeling it from his own head and when he started leeching it back from Jon. 

"I was  _ going _ to make some awful, corny joke about training tapes, but I'm thinking-- It's casual, it's still work, it's an idea. You can compel someone to  _ tell _ you something, and that's an action. Can you ever compel someone to do something? Maybe something they want to do, but can't get through to committing it to motion?"

He pauses, not quite breaking the tone but clearly checking in, blinking down at Jon. "This-- To clarify, this has nothing to do with sex. Or - or any of that. I'm - I'm genuinely curious."

\---

Jon has to forcibly pull himself from the mental fog that Martin had inspired in him, blinking rapidly a few times as his hands squeeze a little tighter on Martin's calves.

He hums, lightly, and says, "Somewhat. It's more of... A Web ability, that kind of mindless control of the body. But..." He grimaces. "I've compelled people to leave, and move, before. Just... Nudges. To forget that I'd compelled them. It--" It sparks guilt up his spine, so far removed, now, from  _ being _ that Archivist, sitting in the power of that body.

God, he feels so weak here, still.

\---

Martin is forever grateful that Jon is as easy to read as a children’s storybook. Not grateful for the fever-inducing perspective as audience to Jon’s guilt, but he channels that into his own action. He puts the cigarette out on a tray that must exist somewhere on the desk so he can use his good hand to card through Jon’s hair. 

His voice isn’t a whisper, but it’s even in a way he can’t often get just right. “Hey. You don’t have to go back there. You can stay here.” 

His fault for asking. Sometimes it’s hard to know when a quest for knowledge might bring some uninvited baggage along with it. He doesn’t want Jon  _ stuck _ there. He tries to give Jon a way out, familiarizing himself with the texture over the webs of his fingers. “Do you like it this long?”

\---

He takes the out immediately, melting into Martin's touches, sitting up as tall as he can in the chair to give Martin better leverage. It's so easy, in the soft caresses of Martin's kindness, to let the pain of the world fall away to a dull ebb and flow.

"I like it longer. Easier to pull back." He closes his eyes, and gives a low hum, eager for more touching.

\---

“That makes two of us.” There’s a near-unbearable urge at the phrasing to tug - he knows that’s not what Jon meant - just for the fun of having done it at the most hilariously perfect opportunity, but all he does is tense his fingers a bit involuntarily before changing his mind. 

He thinks of a few different ways he can handle this situation as he idly commits the sensations to memory. “You know, I’m not exactly sure how to move us around, where you - where you want. Can’t show you all my training without a better vantage.“ He lightly scratches Jon’s scalp with his fingernails as far as he can go at the angle for emphasis to his point.

\---

Jon shivers and opens his eyes to half-lids. Martin's fingers almost stall his thoughts entirely, a pleasant buzz in his brain from the affections, from-- the tentative implications. 

"Tell me where you want me."

\---

“High-maintenance,” Martin sighs, his fondness openly bleeding through. “Can’t pick you up, so I’m at a disadvantage,” he thinks out loud as he puts a bit of force into the way his fingers run through Jon’s hair, the subtlest of pulls. “Would rather not sit on  _ you _ , not now, easier to tap out if you feel like it.”

His smile is charged, self-assured. “I can’t just order you around, not if I don’t know what you like yet. I could always resign to the  _ chair _ ," he says like it's a chore, "The desk isn’t really built for - for… things... that - that aren’t strictly work-related.” He's caught off-guard by his own sudden shyness. The dangers of overthinking something like this, overthinking anything right now. It's like a metronome flicking between confidence and weirdly cozy embarrassment.

\---

An amused huff leaves Jon's throat, and he follows the light pull like a moth to flame. " _ I _ don't know what I like yet, Martin," He says, and normally it would layer him in embarrassment, but now it's just-- It's just laying the facts on the table. Their strange half-tongue-in-cheek talk of work gives them an itinerary with which to work with.

But really, what they should do seems obvious, with their strange collection of rules and rituals neatly stacking up for a breathtaking dominoes fall. He needs Martin, needs Martin to teach him, to show him what this can  _ mean _ . So. "Take the Archivist chair. Swap with me."

\---

"Right," Martin obliges, hopping down from the desk and simultaneously remembering he'd lost his shirt somehow, earlier. Oh. Right. He remembers now. 

He waits patiently for Jon to stand up, and they've really just made a mockery of this entire space as a functional office with the chairs in all the wrong places and  _ stuff _ scattered about. They are terrible, terrible people. 

Another laugh escapes his mouth once he manages to sit properly enough, and he rubs the back of his hand against his lips to stop. It jostles his stutter back into life. "I don't know why that - the way you just said  _ swap _ made me think of - of the toy, what's it called, a Bop-It?" Why does he know so many games. Why is he remembering so many terrible, terrible games lately. And why  _ now _ ? 

His next sentence is directed at himself. "Christ, what am I, twelve?"

\---

Jon is in the middle of coming up to Martin, about to press his hands on his chest and really just let himself  _ feel _ , go with the flow, react on instinct, when Martin keeps talking. He comes to a standstill in front of him, cocking his head slightly.

"The-- the annoying-- ah. 'twist it'. 'pull it'? Yeah? It--" He shakes his head. He doesn't really want to go on a tangent about how  _ obnoxious _ he found the toy, when a child would bring it to school and his classmates would huddle around it and giggle as they played. "I don't think we'll be needing one of those."

\---

Martin covers his face with both hands to hide the embarrassment threatening to plaster his face. "I can't stop things from coming out of my mouth, Jon. You don't see  _ half _ the awful things that pop into my head when I can control it - just - just ignore it."

\---

"I don't want to," He teases, and steps closer, between Martin's legs, and presses his hands to either side of Martin's cheeks, trying to pull his hands away from his face gently. "I like listening to you."

\---

Martin gives in, and this time the pull doesn't frighten him. Quite the opposite, actually.

Because he's a complete fool, he lets his eyes meet Jon's where he stands above him. He's all too aware of how quickly his skin is heating up, how he's moving his knees apart to accommodate him.

The only way he can think to describe his enamored, pupils-dilated stare is... biblical. "I like you."

Smooth as butter.

\---

Shedding any embarrassment, letting it all wash around him, it's... Terrifyingly easy to let confidence fill him up, especially with Martin looking at him like that. He'd preen if he could. "So you've said, once or twice."

He runs the pads of his thumbs over the lines of his cheekbones. "Guess it's a good thing I like you too."

\---

Martin places his hands politely in his lap, following the flow of how the energy shifts in the room the same way he's following one of Jon's thumbs with a shameless tilt of his head. 

"You're killing me."

\---

"I hope not." One of his thumbs drops to Martin's bottom lip, and there's a mesmerized little smile playing upon his face. "You still have to show me what to do. Best not die before then."

\---

"You always do fine, Jon. You don't have to overthink..." He pauses, his mouth just barely open. Oh, there are some completely different roads to go down, here. Martin measures a few of his favorites before committing. 

He opts for parting his lips just a bit more, because relieving the tension of being so focused on by licking Jon's thumb in the least attractive way possible on purpose doesn't seem like it'll get him the best results. 

And he can't really talk much like this, so he just waits for Jon as if hypnotized.

\---

Jon presses the tip of his thumb into the opening of his mouth, just a few more centimeters, his breath catching in his throat. He never thought something like this could be  _ beautiful _ . Any yet. And yet. His other hand continues to smooth across his cheeks, like some strange form of petting.

\---

Martin doesn't pause to process his reaction this time, content to let Jon's thumb rest on the flat of his tongue. He uses it as an excuse to shut his eyes so he can finally focus, closing his lips around Jon's thumb. 

After a few slow bobs of his head he opens his mouth again, leans his head back against the chair to give Jon a chance to move if he's not into it. He's panting a little already, which might be embarrassing at any other time, screw him for getting sensitive and  _ weird _ every time he reads one of those shitty papers.

His left hand lifts up to catch the edge of Jon's shirt and pull, just insistent enough he's sure Jon will notice. Party in the Archivist's chair.

\---

Jon is frozen in place, utterly spellbound. Any other time, this would be... Well. Disgusting. Now, he just murmurs, "Perfect", and watches Martin spin magic with his mouth, and he feels a heat begin to pool in him.

Jon clambers at the pull and straddles Martin's lap easily, and before he can shove his finger in Martin's mouth again, he leans in for an unforgiving kiss, his hands cupping Martin's chest.

\---

Somehow Jon's weight sends him into free-fall, and all he can do to stay anchored is brace his good hand on Jon's thigh.  _ Perfect _ , he's called him  _ Perfect _ . That alone makes him delirious. 

Martin whines against Jon's mouth, mind startled blank at Jon's initiative. Not that he's complaining. 

"I don't know why you think I need to teach you anything," he sighs, devoted, as he turns his head just enough to speak. Martin places a soft kiss at the edge of Jon's mouth, trying to catch up.

\---

Jon pulls back, almost mock offended, glaring at Martin. "I think I know how to kiss by now, yes," He says, and then goes back in, thinks better of it and pulls back once more to continue, "That's not what I'm inexperienced with, Martin."

His voice is slightly slurred, the effort needed to bitch  _ almost _ at his capacity for brain function right now.

\---

“As if my experience makes me some sort of professional,” Martin scoffs, slipping his hand up beneath Jon’s shirt while they talk. He slows briefly to splay fingers over his stomach, then decides he’d rather stroke a thumb over one of his lower ribs. 

His other hand settles at Jon’s hip, easy to manage without much use of his fingers. “Do you want this to stay on?”

\---

Jon twists his body at the touch, arching, surprise forcing out a soft " _ Oh _ " when Martin begins running a thumb across his rib. It takes a while to catch up to Martin's question, so unused to the feeling of something hard meeting his skin that it all but blanks his mind out.

"It, uh--" He laughs, soft and breathy, looking down at his own body, and shakes his head. "No, no, it can, uh-- you can take it off."

\---

So easy to read, and Martin still worries that it’s a  _ bad _ response. Not enough to stop his fingers from ghosting down his side, though, the tips of his fingers brushing over each individual rib. Just to see if he’ll do it again. It's much easier to mess with him while he's not distracted with other complicated emotions. 

“Oh, I can’t take it off for you, Jon. I’m disarmed.”

\---

Jon laughs, curling over himself to put his head on Martin's shoulder, and he shivers and wiggles at Martin's--  _ juvenility _ . And-- great. He's ticklish. He's ticklish and Martin is just the kind of man to take advantage of that.

Out of a desire to stop his abs from hurting with the effort of laughing, and also so he can actually begin pulling his shirt off, he says, with as much flat casualty as he can, his voice still betraying soft lilts of a laugh, "I was just-- you shocked me. I forgot I still have those ribs."

Martin tickles him, and Jon is absolutely going to feed him strange information. As penance.

\---

“I can make you count them out,” Martin muses, ignoring the ominous portent. He’s gotten good at that lately, if he does say so himself. Now that he’s got the upper hand - as if this is some bizarrely complicated power struggle - he finds it easy to move his head so he can kiss a spot beneath Jon’s ear. Since Jon oh-so-lovingly made it easy to reach. 

With his shirt hiked up like this it’s easy to slip his second hand under to Jon’s other side, and there’s no pressure applied. He’s not trying to torture Jon, just stroking gently, but there’s absolutely a threat to it.

\---

"If you want the shirt to come off, Martin, you best not do what I think you're going to do," He growls, and jabs a thumb in Martin's chest to emphasize himself. "Cruel, to exploit a man's ticklishness in the heat of battle."

\---

"I was under the impression it turned you on and you were just sensitive," he half-lies, because that  _ is _ why he initially kept doing it, if not entirely why he's on either side now. "If this were a battle you'd already be losing, Jon." 

Now that he’s riding the high, though, he can’t really stop the stream of impulses he’s got no choice but to make - he pulls back just enough to bite Jon's earlobe, hands stationary at his sides. Okay, maybe he is trying to torture him.

\---

Jon  _ yelps _ , but it's not in pain, just in surprise, and his eyes blow wide, arching out backwards as he glares at Martin with all the force he can muster. Which isn't a lot, considering he's breathing heavily, shaky on the exhale, and after deliberating for a moment and licking his lips, he leans closer. "Do that again. I'll lose this battle."

\---

Martin smiles against Jon’s neck when he’s close enough again. He feels just the right amount of evil for his own contentment, even though he knows he  _ probably _ shouldn’t be testing Jon’s patience right now. “I don’t know, rubbing it in would be cruel. Get this off and I’ll think about it.”

\---

"I've been  _ trying _ \--" He grouses, and then realizes that maybe Martin is just teasing him, and leans back imperiously to tug the pullover off in one swell motion, letting it drop to the floor beside them. "Better?"

\---

Martin waits, eyeing the way Jon’s muscles flex and pull while Jon does all the work for him. Takes him in with a silent reverence even as he’s already finished and focused back on the task at hand. 

He’s completely screwed.

“Much. Now, what did you want? I must’ve lost my train of thought.” His smile is  _ scheming _ if nothing else, big enough that it makes his eyes squint a little at the corners.

\---

"You're  _ horrible _ ,” Jon says, and leans back in closer, his own smile just as devious and spiteful. "Remember. I can always just get up and walk away, Martin. Have pity."

\---

Martin finally nips him just below the jaw, at the point where his pulse beats the hardest. There's still a smile in his tone. As versatile as his range of voice is, he's really not one for sustained threatening. 

“You wouldn’t dare, Sims.”

\---

He melts, and shakes his head into the curve of Martin's neck. "Probably not," He gasps, and breathes into him for a moment, regaining himself. When he's got it, he starts pressing kisses up his neck and to his jawline, getting progressively frantic with each one.

When he gets to his lips, he hovers, and smiles. "But you better hurry, or I might anyways."

\---

The way they toss control around like a hot potato keeps throwing Martin off his game. Feels like every minute he’s got to come up with a new way to put Jon in his place. Wow, that sounds weirdly aggressive. Maybe don't phrase it like that. He’s already shut his eyes by the time Jon’s mouth meets his jaw the second time, hands falling down to his hips. 

He parts his lips again, thinking Jon’s about to kiss him - he might as well be polite and make it easy - but Jon’s  _ talking _ instead, making him look so ridiculously needy. Martin huffs through his nose and brushes his lips against Jon’s, deceptively gentle, and moves both hands to rub circles with his thumbs at the insides of Jon’s thighs. It hurts his bad hand to keep up a rhythm, but it’s worth it. With his mouth still so close to Jon’s, he breathes a certain sort of question that feels  _ good _ to ask. It’s not insecure by any means, he just wants Jon talking.

“What makes you want to do this with  _ me _ , Jon?”

\---

Jon gasps, and tenses his thighs, his hands flying to Martin's chest again to keep hold of something, and the words pour happily from his lips, spellbound and compelled but given freely, given eagerly, his voice breathless as everything crashes together in symphony. 

Maybe, in another moment, he'd have enough wherewithal to be embarrassed. As it is, none of that exists in this space.

"Love you, love you, couldn't do this if I didn't, every time I look at you, you make me  _ melt _ and feel like I could be good, truly good, if I-I'm yours. Want to be. I do, Martin."

\---

Right.

Okay.

That's not what he expected at all and now he feels bad about his plan to get Jon to start babbling about ways Jon thinks he's hot so he could bite marks into his skin until he stopped talking but now he's sitting here in this chair shocked into complete and total inaction mesmerised by what Jon's saying with way more passion than he was prepared for and it's all so very serious and what does breathing feel like again?

"Oh." 

At least his hands are still working, so he's not completely stuck in this bizarre fluttery space that feels like what love is probably supposed to feel like. He tries to recover before Jon can notice, not sure if he's failed in that endeavor, burying the look on his face at the angle of Jon's neck. It's not romantic in the echo of Jon's words, but Martin is... crying there. Not audibly, because he's too busy sucking a harsh bruise there, but he can taste some of his own tears at Jon's neck. 

\---

As the compulsion fades and his mouth dries from liquid truth serum, Jon thinks he might have made a mistake. A very sobering mistake. He shivers as Martin's mouth moves on his neck, but it's-- He Knows that it's not just that. There's too much. It's too much. He pulls back with a sharp gasp, and tries to cup Martin by the cheeks, arching backwards to give them enough space to look at one another.

"Is that-- Is that okay? Is it alright? I didn't-- I don't. I didn't mean to scare you." It's different from the press of a palm. It's different from little passes and known truths that pass between them.  _ Saying _ it, with passion, with a truth that can't be lied around, it's different, and Jon knows it. 

And now Martin's crying, and Jon is certain he's ruined  _ everything _ by being too much, by taking too much.

\---

Martin knows the cat’s out of the bag before Jon physically reacts, there’s just something resonating through him and Martin can tell, too, but then Jon’s separating them way before he can come up with something to say. 

Jon’s hands are at his face, holding him there for what must be the millionth time, and Martin’s smiling at him even as his eyes well up. He has to finish a couple of even inhale-exhale cycles before he can say a word. There’s still a bit of drool still on his bottom lip. He looks completely ridiculous. 

“Yeah, yeah - it’s - it’s - it’s just very okay.” And then he's turning his head to kiss the inside of one of Jon's wrists.

\---

He smooths the tears away from under Martin's eyes gently, careful not to jostle him where he's kissing his wrist. Some kind of mood change is occurring; Jon doesn't know what it is, where to go from here, can only watch as Martin kisses him, "Okay." He says, and keeps brushing his thumbs along his face.

\---

“Jon, I’m  _ happy _ . I-I cry when I’m-- When I’m happy, sometimes. I’m not used to being wanted, for - for  _ me _ . I  _ like _ it.” He’s still smiling even as he feels inadequate deep down to his core, unsure how he can possibly provide what Jon apparently sees.

He keeps pressing kisses to Jon’s skin, lifting his good hand to loosely grip his wrist and keep it there. And then he stops just short of the bandages, looks up at Jon. Tries so very, very hard to show him how much he appreciates it, as if there are lights in his eyes that Jon can somehow see. 

His lips trace back up, up to his hand, to where his thumb meets the flat of his palm. Rests his lips just barely parted there while he waits. His right hand is still petting his thigh, and he’s so terrified he’s fucked up somehow with his body’s  _ stupid _ reaction to being  _ happy _ , but it's his own fault if he has.

\---

"I'm just-- Just making sure. Just making sure." There's such a  _ look _ about Martin that stuns him, takes away his breath for a moment. It's so easy to just  _ watch _ him lavish this attention on him, like Jon is worthy of such a thing, worthy of such caressing and love and tenderness. It makes him  _ feel _ worthy, and Martin doesn't have to be compelled by Jon's voice for him to feel the same feelings reflected from his confession back to him. He feels it nonetheless. A steady pulse of something that must be love. Must be, because what else could it be? 

He tries to break the tension somewhat. It's stupid, but it's  _ Jon _ , and there's no other way for him to do anything but stupidly and with foolhardy tenacity. "I was just worried, you know-- First time I made it past. What did you call it? Oh-- Oh yes, 'second base'-- and I made my partner cry. Very good stats, Mr. Sims."

\---

“We’re not-- We haven’t passed-- We’ve been  _ at _ second base, and the crying  _ is a good thing _ , Jon.” He sighs, the dumb grin on his face watering down the exasperation. The grip he’s got on Jon’s wrist falls away and he’s resting his own hand on Jon’s chest. “This is second base,” he says for emphasis as he slides his hand down the center of Jon’s chest to the spot at his lower stomach just before his pants cut him off, tracing his fingertips along the waistband before settling on his hip. 

“ _ This _ is second base,” and he slides his hand a bit higher up Jon’s thigh and squeezes lightly. “It’s not about  _ stats _ , no one’s grading you. I know I’m a hypocrite for saying that, because I worry too much about doing it right, but I’d probably be  _ really _ doing it right if I stopped thinking so hard about it.”

\---

"Ah." He says, and refuses to feel embarrassed. Point blank, he's beyond that veneer. "Well. Then stop thinking, and do it right, then. Because clearly I don't know my definitions well." Emotional landmine swept away, it's easy to fall back into this banter, this strange back-and-forth of given-control and taken-control.

\---

“I’m sure you know more definitions than I do with your  _ degree _ and all that, and - and I  _ will _ ,” he scoffs, completely immature, stroking his good hand over Jon’s stomach with the smallest of his fingers dipping just beneath the button at the center. He swallows to wash down the last of his nerves. “Mind, um, sparing a hand in my hair while I do it right, Archivist?"

\---

" _ Finally _ ," Jon breathes, and does as asked, immediately carding a hand through Martin's hair with one hand and sitting up straight enough to press the other on his hip. Martin's hand is warm on his stomach, a comfortable heat that plays low, and instead of wanting to jump away from the touch, he wants  _ more _ . And Martin's finally  _ giving _ it to him. Took him long enough.

\---

Martin groans quietly as Jon’s touch shoots shivers up the back of his neck, as if he should be polite about the whole thing and keep his voice down. Jack just remembered they’re in Jon’s office and people work here, but Martin has remembered no such thing. He’s too busy getting the button undone with one hand, humming with satisfaction once he manages it and he can place his palm flat facing down just short of third base.

“Might have to sit up on your knees and lean forward for a second, I have to get them down just - just a bit so I can fit my hand, it’ll be a bit hard to spread your legs if you don't. Or you can just-- You don’t have to get up, just-- Either way is fine, if you want them all the way off or not.” Really nailing it here with the plan, Blackwood.

\---

"What'll be the-- The nicest? For-- For you?" But he's already well made up his mind. "Just-- Okay. Hold on." He ignores the flush spreading up his neck; Martin getting flustered is leaving him flustered. But he pushes onwards, craving the warmth of Martin's hands again. He slides off Martin's lap with one fluid motion, letting his hand linger in his hair for just a moment. 

And then he undresses. It'll just be a  _ hassle _ otherwise, he thinks, and really, he's pleased that Martin can finally see him, whole and in the flesh. He comes back to reclaim his spot upon Martin's lap, his veritable throne.

\---

Martin shoves three of his fingers into his own mouth to slick them up with spit - even if Jon’s perfectly ready for all of this, he wants to make sure his fingers are  _ warm _ \- and rolls his tongue between them idly while he tries taking in every detail he can commit to memory. His heart's doing backflips and he can't make them stop. It's very uncomfortable to the side of him that's trying so very hard to stay unlovable. 

Jon is his person, and Martin  _ wants _ to be his.

He wastes no time accommodating for Jon on his lap, using the same spit he’d built up in his mouth to lick up the underside of his jaw and bite down again. Dry bites aren’t nearly as fun for leaving pretty bruises behind, or keeping his mouth focused on a spot that floods his head with the rhythm of Jon’s pulse instead of his own thoughts. He sinks his teeth in to ground himself enough to just  _ do it _ , crooking his fingers so they glide easily over Jon’s clit.

“Oh,” he sighs brokenly at Jon’s neck, somehow  _ surprised _ that Jon’s turned on because he’s an idiot and always assumes the worst.

\---

Jon's hands fly to Martin's shoulders, and he lets out a soft, " _ Oh _ ," his body jerking straight up, his thighs tensing against where they straddle Martin's thighs. He lifts his head as much as he can with Martin attached to his jaw.

It usually takes a long while to get to this point; with Martin, this kind of pleasure seems ingrained him. Any attention from him is good. Any of it's pleasurable. And this-- 

This is  _ new _ . "Oh,  _ Martin _ ."

\---

“I could get used to those sounds,” Martin murmurs, breathing out a shaky laugh as he paces himself. Slow, clockwise motions with his fingers flat against Jon. He’s trying not to shiver, to not give away how much Jon’s tearing him apart already, but he can’t really help it. 

His head is foggy and he’s just about ready to get lost forever in the moment, but being responsible is important here if he wants this to be  _ good _ . “I wish there was a-aa sexy way to word this, but do you - do you just want this-- “ He clarifies what he means with a slower, deeper pressure on the next circle before resuming, “-- Or do you want to ride my fingers?”

\---

It takes a lot, a  _ lot _ of focus to parse what Martin's saying, and with his eyes half-lidded as he shivers and moves with the motion, heat tingling deep within him in a way so, so distinct from when he's done it himself, he almost doesn't want to. Almost wants to just ignore Martin until he gets himself off and can think proper again. 

But it wouldn't be very fair. He shudders out a breath, and thinks, tries to think, and ends up saying, "N-- Another time? Maybe?" He very nearly squeaks it out. "It's-- It might be. T-too. Too m-much this time. Around. It's--" His brain short circuits for a long, very dumb moment, and it takes him a while to come back online. "B-Baby steps."

\---

“Jon.” His free hand explores Jon’s side, and while he can’t bend his fingers well he definitely has the leverage to scratch nails over his thigh. “It’s about you, all you have to say is a-a ‘this is fine’, I’m not interrogating you.”

It’s easy to fall into a rhythm until it becomes muscle memory and he can focus entirely on the way Jon reacts. He’s stopped trying to use Jon’s neck as a canvas in favor of sitting back to watch, admiring Jon as his own chest rises and falls with rapid, shaky breaths. “Christ, you’re a wonder.” Don’t start trying to be poetic, Martin, you’ll throw him out of it. 

Oh, but a joke is fine. “Still think I’m not qualified for the job?”

\---

Jon tries to respond, but all that comes out is an undignified sort of  _ sound _ , the sort he'd love to insist he was incapable of but-- evidently is  _ not _ , as his body rocks to the rhythm of Martin's own delightful making. He gives a weak glare, instead, a glare that's quickly turned to a look of deep and utter passion, because it's impossible to even mockingly be angry at him right now.

In the end, it probably doesn't take that long. Enough for a sheen of sweat to envelop his limbs and his breathiness to turn to pants, grip on Martin clawing downwards, down his own stomach as intensity builds he didn't think was possible to create through another person.

"Martin," He gasps, and pulls himself up, just enough, so that Martin will  _ know _ . He's certain it's all rather polite to let him  _ know _ before he fully commits to the whole thing, after all.

\---

Martin briefly considers drawing this out - all it would take is a few stutters in the pattern to bring Jon back down in increments - but ultimately decides that's a  _ bit _ too selfish this early on. Bank that idea for later. He's barely noticed any time has passed at all, locked into an existence where all that matters is what flows from Jon's mouth, on making this something  _ special _ , on soaking in every breath and reactive movement as worship. 

His hips involuntarily jolt when his own name rings out in Jon's breathless voice, and Martin whines, needy in his own way, as he gently presses a kiss to Jon's shoulder. Head angled to look up at Jon, his fingers stretch wide on either side so he can focus rubbing tighter, more insistent circles with his middle, trying to keep his own anticipation controlled enough to make this  _ good _ .

"I've got you," he says, and he means it.

\---

It's all he needs; Jon let's go.

He raises his hips a little and lets his head drop back, his breathing reaching a crescendoed symphony of his name, over and over--  _ Martin, Martin, Martin. _ He's never been able to sing another man's name and have him be  _ his _ before, and it pushes him even further to realize it, his voice cracking as pleasure wracks his body.

He rides it out against him, gratitude flooding him, love flooding him,  _ wholeness _ flooding him as it fills him and leaves him, his thighs twitching in the aftermath from small residual jolts of pleasure still running through him.

In lieu of saying anything, he blindly reaches up to pat Martin's cheek, his breathing still too wrecked to say much of anything at all.

\---

" _ Ah _ \-- God," Martin barely manages, choked up by the litany of his own name off Jon's lips. Each one washes over him as distilled praise so overwhelming he almost cries again, almost but doesn't because Jon's rolling against him and Martin can tell the exact  _ second _ he's over the edge, and he's in love. Shit. Fuck. 

He works Jon through it, eyes on him, and eventually stills his hand without pulling away once he's sure Jon's too sensitive for more. He chases the brief contact of his hand in an explicitly desperate way he'd be embarrassed of any other time, beyond words in-- Well, it's not  _ completely _ different, but it's for a few different reasons than Jon's exhausted quiet.

\---

Jon keeps his hand planted firmly on Martin's cheek and breathes, and breathes, and when he's confident enough to speak, he does so after he pulls himself forward, pressing his face in Martin's neck, a mumbled, "Thank you," that holds much, much more weight to them than a mere two words can possibly hope to convey.

He feels comfortable here, home. He thinks Martin might be his home.

\---

Martin's hips grind up against the weight pressing down on him before he can control it, and he bites down hard on his lip. He tries to focus on Jon, one hand a gentle comfort at his back. 

"Of course, you're - you're beautiful, Jon," he says it and means it, but it's strained. A nervous laugh follows suit, and he's locking his ankles together at the floor so he's not tempted to do it again. "S-sorry."

\---

Jon is jolted by the motion, but it's curious more than startling. "Instead of being sorry," he says, and pulls back to look at Martin, to take in the strained look on his face, the look of genuine nervousness. He laughs, the sound low and more than a bit still shattered. "You could show me what to do. With that. Since you-- ah, took care of me."

\---

"Oh. Um-- It's-- You don't owe me anything for that." His eyes cast down to think without getting stuck in Jon's own gaze. It's the only way he can do this without getting too flustered to speak. He usually doesn't have this problem, but demanding something from someone you'll never meet again is much, much different. 

"I'd have to know what you're c-comfortable with, first, your mouth or - or your hands, it's not... um, science, it's... I-I mean I could show you, I could just. Do that." 

He's making a complete fool of himself trying to be accommodating about hard-ons.

\---

"Martin. I don't  _ owe _ you," He laughs again, loose in this comfortable headspace. "But I want to make you feel good. I want to  _ try _ at least." He presses a hand to his chest again, bracing himself so he can lean all the way back and scrutinize him with a look that would be a  _ lot _ more intimidating if his glasses weren't still fogged up and his gaze still slightly unsteady.

He grimaces." We'll work up to, ah-- haha-- uh.  _ Mouths. _ But anything else. I can  _ try. _ " He's almost  _ pleading _ , he realizes dully, so eager to make Martin feel like what Martin just did to him.

\---

"I nearly asked if  _ you _ wanted that, but you looked like you were having a good time as-is," Martin teases, clearing the air.

Right. Business. "I mean, you've seen, you know-- " He makes a crude jerk-off motion with his hand. "Er - that, and if I make a noise you want to hear again you just sort of k-keep doing whatever you're doing. Just - just make sure your hand's not dry? Is that - is that helpful?"

\---

"I know what--" He huffs. "I know what jerking off is, Martin. Ugh. Don't be so--" Crude, he wants to say, but, well, that would make him a hypocrite considering he's repeating the action Martin did to his fingers across his palm, making eye contact as he licks. "Like that?" He asks, and oh, he's upped the innocence in his voice, the peek of a smile just curling outside of where his hand still stays connected to his tongue.

\---

Martin nods with a short, humble "Yes." Tries to think clearly enough to make this easier. "I don't have to get up, I can-- " he uses one hand to tug at his own sweatpants, but Jon's pressed so close, he doesn't get very far. Please ignore the floral pattern boxers.

\---

He doesn't ignore them; they're charming, and Jon files it under a neat file in his brain that is slowly growing, containing only memories of how utterly cute Martin is.

Jon scoots himself backwards just a hair, shivering because he forgot he was naked, and the movement rustles against him, not unpleasantly. "Go on. Let's see it."

\---

Now isn't the time to let his nerves control the situation - he's been hoping this would happen for  _ weeks _ \- so without any fanfare he dips a hand into his boxers.

It's not, like, the most awe-inspiring dick, but that's sort of not the point, really, and he shudders as he pulls his boxers down enough to free himself, sighs deeply with relief. His fingers are still slick from helping Jon out with his own needs, and he just barely stops himself from getting his own fingers around the shaft to get himself off quick and dirty. 

He's so turned on it hurts, and his face is on fire. Jon has destroyed him. "Please don't give it a number rating."

\---

Jon laughs, and curls in on himself as he watches Martin. "I won't. But I'm not going to start writing-- writing poetry about it." Before he can psyche himself out of it, he wraps his slick hand around the base and draws it upwards, one eye squeezing shut from sheer fear that he's doing something  _ wrong _ , that Martin will laugh and the mood will be ruined and it will have been unfair for Martin.

The idea that only he, Jon Sims, could be laughed out of sex kind of makes  _ him _ giggle, his fingers tensing just slightly.

\---

"Well, so long as you don't mind me making poetry ab-  _ ah _ \-- " he's cut off with a sharp gasp, hips jerking to follow Jon's hand before he can control himself again.

This was so, so, so, so worth all the depressingly cold showers he's taken to make himself presentable enough to come back to Jon's office and act normal. The back of his head hits the chair and he pulls his own hand back to give Jon space, shutting his eyes with his mouth hanging open to thoughtlessly feel through it.

\---

Jon blinks, and after a moment, strokes his hand back down, up, and decides to run his thumb across the head, just barely touching it, afraid of applying too much pressure. His eyes are wide, taking in every detail of both this sight and Martin's reactions, what he can elicit from him. He didn't realize he  _ could _ elicit something so... Positive. From someone before. It's addicting. It's exhilarating. It's a little nasty, in that far-off quadrant of Jon's mind that still finds this whole scenario just a little hilarious. 

Each one of Martin's movements jostle Jon, too, and well. Poor Martin's sweatpants are going to need a thorough washing when they're through; Jon's nakedness hasn't exactly contained his orgasm well as he all but rides Martin's thighs as he jerks and bucks his hips in response to Jon's touches. 

His other hand stays firm on Martin's face, thumb just resting at the corner of his mouth, just threatening to dip inside. "You're so beautiful," He breathes, and he says it with a conviction he knows to be true, knows to be nigh-on pslamatic.

\---

Martin's thighs tense in an effort to hold his hips in place and let Jon work, but it's only really half-successful because Jon  _ compliments _ him and a moan slips past his lips, over Jon's thumb, and he decides controlling any of it is far beyond his abilities. 

"I - uhh -" Martin laughs, dumbstruck. "It's been a-a long time since I-- " He has to take a break to even out his breaths, shaky exhales that only help by a slim margin. "I'm just warning you, I don't think I'm lasting long," followed by a low huff and a hushed, pleading " _ do that again _ ". 

It's partly encouragement for where his  _ other _ thumb is ghosting over, but mostly it's drawn out of him whether he wants to give Jon a spoken reason to keep going or not.

\---

"Oh, you like this?" Jon asks, and does as Martin demands, repeating the action with a grin that can only be described as  _ wicked _ . It's strange, being the one to control this. Being the one to steer where everything will go, how intense it will be, what it is. He can pull Martin apart by  _ touching _ him. 

He slips the thumb on his lips inside, just testing, just watching, as he begins to set an even pace with his strokes. "Take as long as you need, Martin. I'm here for you," He purrs.

\---

Martin's halfway through an indignant 'Yes' when Jon's thumb presses over his tongue, so it comes out with a lisp. He wishes he could glare, wishes he was capable of pulling it off, but all he ends up doing is--

Well, he's just submissively sucking off Jon's thumb now, which is not how he imagined any of this going, and he can't remember the last time he ever did this with someone, got too far off the deep end to not think about putting on a performance on  _ purpose _ , just feel, just do whatever his body's telling him to do. To go technically-literally belly-up for someone else to take over. 

It almost scares him. He wants to take it back, to yank control out of Jon's hands and avoid all the vulnerability, but Jon's pretty much got him pinned into silence. Er. Aside from all the muffled noises around Jon's thumb. He's getting closer, knows that by the way his breaths falter and forget to  _ not _ deprive him of air, the way he's grasping desperately at Jon's hip for stability with his good hand, the way he doesn't second-guess looking up at Jon and thinking  _ I could stay here forever _ as loud as he can.

\---

Jon nearly  _ moans _ when Martin takes his thumb, and he can't help but move up on his thighs, rolling his hips close to where Martin's cock stands, and he mumbles, enraptured, "Gorgeous, gorgeous, so perfect, Martin, you're making this so lovely, better than I ever thought."

He pulls up, and then around, dragging his thumb lightly across the bottom of his shaft, and slows down some, not quite  _ playing _ with him, but near to, and he doesn't know what's  _ possessing _ him. But he thinks he likes it. He thinks he likes this.

\---

Martin taps Jon's thigh to try and warn him that he's close, breath hitching on a near-sob that has less to do with what Jon's doing and more about the way praise is making his brain short-circuit. 

He manages to gets Jon's thumb out of his mouth to try and tell him proper, plus the least Jon's done is earn a moan that's not stifled, but then he's slowing  _ down _ , and Martin whimpers, high, desperate, immediately tacked onto the growing list of noises he never knew he could make. 

It takes him a second to put a stopper on the stupid whines, but he does manage a "please" as he pitches forward enough to nuzzle against the junction between Jon's neck and shoulder.

\---

Oh, he must be close. He must be, and Jon realizes it all at once, just a second before Martin's all but  _ begging _ , and when he leans in to press his warmth in Jon's neck, Jon says, "Okay," like it's final, like it's done, and picks up speed one final time, content to let this end soon, to bask in whatever comes next, in the aftermath.

\---

Martin expects to be loud, but his climax starts with a harsh, stuttered exhale against the warmth of Jon's skin instead. He shakes through it, gripping Jon's hip with his good hand hard enough he'll worry later it might bruise. 

He doesn't realize he's babbling until he's already mumbled out a few near-nonsense praises where the only word that isn't slurred and melting into the others is Jon's name. Until he manages to open his eyes just enough to take in the mess between them, content to recover there with half-formed sentences dripping from his mouth until Jon gets sick of him.

\---

Where Martin begins, Jon isn't sure where he himself ends. It feels like they're in this moment solely together, and his hand cards through Martin's hair as he eases him through it. He breathes in tandem with Martin as he rides through it, breathing him in, feeling each tense and pull and shudder and delicious, delicious drop of his name, each wave easing him along.

As Martin recovers, Jon feels galaxies of love spool beneath his veins like liquid nitrogen; his blood electric. It's lovely. It's transcendent.

Until it's been quite a few minutes and his body cools down, and he realizes all at once that he feels quite gross, and he wiggles his way from the embrace just enough to peer at Martin, to see how coherent he is, before he starts-- well. Bitching.

\---

As Jon pulls away, Martin reflexively follows an inch to hold their connection. But he's present, now, enough to think better of it and tone it down. He still grumbles about it, though. 

If this were any other one night stand, he'd have no problem wiping some of the mess up with his fingers and licking it off without a word, but this is different. No grossing Jon out with apathy toward fluids. He's exhausted - emotionally, physically, and in a much newer, much stranger way - and unprepared to help Jon the way he wishes he could, with devotion. 

Fuck. 

"Might as well use my pants to start with, they're a lost cause no matter what else we get on them." He blinks and, despite himself, yawns. "It's fine for - I'm assuming you want a shower? - for the walk there. I'd do it myself," and he presses an apologetic kiss at Jon's chest, "but that would take a... um. Long time. You know."

\---

There's a jolted, almost sleep-deprived level of energy coursing through him, and he pats Martin's cheek. "Thank you," He says sincerely, full of-- everything, really, that he can muster. A thank you  _ for _ everything. He's not sure Martin really understands how profoundly new, how-- special. This all is. He doesn't know how to say it, other than a huffed, half-manic, "I love you."

He climbs off of Martin slowly, grimacing at his muscles, and when he looks down at his own chest, belly, cunt, he grimaces some more, but there's a distinct level of humor in the expression, too. Like he can't believe he's just done this.

\---

That energy does not extend to Martin. A weak smile as he lazily watches Jon move, though, he can do that much. "I didn't teach you a thing and you were perfect, hope you remember that." There's a bit of a slur to his voice, and it takes him a bit to catch up and figure out the nuance to Jon's expression. He lifts a hand to rest his chin in his palm. 

"I used to run to the bathroom every time with that same face until I met someone who made me laugh when something squelched."

\---

Jon scrunches his face up. "Disgusting word. Never say it again. Nasty." Nevermind that he reads statements containing brutal gore and the most fleshy of human syndromes in them once a day as a  _ meal _ .

He gestures down to himself. "This? The work of a madman. A disgusting little Pollack." He's grumbling more than anything.

\---

Martin narrows his eyes. "Squeeelch." 

And then he gets to work pulling his pants down, unceremoniously smearing cum off his stomach. He's kind enough to hand a side that's dry to Jon. " _ Our _ disgusting little Pollack."

\---

"Right." He takes the pants and wipes roughly, crudely, not caring too much  _ now _ considering the absolute treat of a shower he has waiting for him. He shivers, slightly, now that the heat of their activities has died down, and he's acutely aware that he's never really  _ been _ naked in front of someone like this in-- well certainly long enough to matter. He's surprised to find he doesn't mind. Martin has access to this, now. This level of intimacy. 

"Startlingly poetic way to end this endeavor, Martin, top shape as usual."

  
  
  
  
  



	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin meets up with a friend in the local park.

The day officially starts with Head Archival Assistant Martin Blackwood setting up a Jenga tower on a stone bench. He's settled down in a local park on a whim that's  _ somewhat _ premeditated, judging by the bag of things he didn't already own a few days ago at his side. 

Thinking back on it, he should've had Jon coach him through this. It's one thing to inspire Jon into confessions, another to  _ ask _ for a statement. Drawing those from Jon came as naturally as breathing. Maybe it's a good chance to rip off the training wheels. Or a good way to get himself killed, playing with gods of fear and all that business. Not that there's anything nefarious about any of this, there's no malintent to his genuine interest. At the very least, if it goes well he'll have had an outlet for a side to him he's not ready to show Jon. 

Somehow, it's different with this one. It makes him want to  _ find _ more, to see what makes them whole. To figure out why they do what they do. Who they  _ are _ . Martin is keen on stopping the Apocalypse, and Jon's just started giving him enough information to build his own network of knowledge. 

Over the past few days his hand’s dexterity has improved enough for him to use it properly, though his range of mobility isn't quite as decent. Dropped more than a few pencils. He thinks about that as he tilts wooden tiles into place with both hands. 

He never asked Jon how this whole process worked, but Martin theorizes there's an energy exchange process to follow. Like a sacrifice, sort of. He doesn't know  _ how _ to call Michael, but it's about narrowing things down. 

There's simply something deeply wrong with a grown man playing Jenga alone in public just shy of noon. That's the point. Martin eyes the tower judgmentally before tilting the whole thing slightly so it's uneven on the table and not quite facing him head-on. Idly scratches at the spot on his wrist where Michael had touched him, then pushes the first piece out of the way with one finger.

\---

Michael comes. Of course he does. The mark is faint and only just, but it's not as though many call upon him unless they truly need an extra corridor, and this call isn't anything like that. It's something else entirely. A soft, prickling sensation of warmth that rises through his Door and up into what might have once been a wrist. It's all very  _ soft _ , and  _ pleasant _ , and Michael doesn't know what it means for quite some until he remembers-- ah, yes. The Assistant.

The Assistant whose mark had been a juvenile response to getting him to actually  _ like _ Martin Blackwood. Is that petty? Is Michael petty? Perhaps. Something tells him he's earned the right, in some capacity.

So he feels the call, and he comes. What else is he to do? Wait around lamenting his own uselessness for eons and eons and eons? He's already scheduled plenty of that dreadful business in.

The door is in a thick, knotted tree. It's all very fae, and Michael thinks he would have once found it pretty. But that's why Shelley is gone, now. Such fickleness is nothing but folly.

The Assistant has a Tower, a gloating, impossible thing meant to pull and tug and wobble and distort and it  _ delights _ him to his core before he even reaches the bench. He bends to pluck a handful of grass to idly tear apart through their meeting, so his hands have something corporeal to focus on. He'd actually rather like this meeting to see its full fruition and  _ not _ cause a scene. Or much of one at least.

"You are a man of your word, Assistant," Michael greets, an approved purr as he sits opposite him.

\---

Here, it’s easy to let fear wash away. As terrible as it is, in a place like this, with  _ someone _ like this, he’s probably not the most likely target for brutal fear-murder. Tends to be a hapless bystander who draws the short stick. One who didn’t bring offerings for something they don’t worship. One who isn’t gleaming with pride with the knowledge that he was able to figure it out. 

Martin’s voice is friendly as he concentrates on pushing another piece out of place. It falls to the table with a harsh wooden impact. “Why wouldn’t I be, Michael?”

\---

"You would be oh-so surprised at how often deceit is wound tight within the Watcher's mighty Gaze, you know," He sighs, and his eyes jump with delight as the piece falls to the table.

His hair is pushed back, held neat by a bandanna that does nothing more than expose the cherubic nature of his face. The sunlight does him good; it is warm, today, and not the stifling humid-suffocation of his hallway. And Martin is much better company than the likes of prey such as  _ Helen Richardson. _

It's nice to be less hungry, though. Easier to stay stable. Easier to think. To exist.

\---

“As if the  _ Spiral _ is any less deceptive? At least Jon’s painfully easy to read enough of the time,” Martin pushes back, but it’s still friendly above all else. His allocated gossip time has officially begun. He reaches for the piece that fell and puts it at the very top, careful not to let the whole thing wobble.

“Want a turn? Anything’s fair game, you lose if you’re the one who knocks it over.”

\---

"Jonathan Sims has yet to be denied an answer he craves," Michael replies. His eyes narrow and he leans delicately across the bench, his shoulders hiking up to avoid jostling anything, letting his elbows bump the surface.

He deliberates for a while, eyes darting from block to block, and when he finds one, he pushes one long finger through it to free it. Not quite the grotesque  _ appendage _ it can be, but neither a human finger, either. Some strange amalgamation. His tongue pokes out in concentration, and then turns into a giant grin and a spiraling laugh when he's victorious, the block clattering to the table.

\---

“Not much of a problem if you don’t give him something substantial enough to find the right question for it,” Martin says, meeting Michael’s success with a pleased hum. He doesn’t feel that way about Jon, really, but the trick of communicating with Michael is to do it both mischievously and conspiratorially. 

He takes the piece Michael felled and places it on top for him. Wiggles one of the loose side pieces out so the whole tower’s looking properly threatening and lopsided. “Can’t really know what you’re craving if you’ve never had it before, right?”

\---

Michael stares at the lopsided tower and leans closer, nose almost touching the blocks as he scours them, overly cautious with this new game. "What happens if it falls?" His voice is a dead whisper.

He finds one near the bottom that, despite being lodged in fairly tightly, once worked about, proves to keep everything quite stable. It's a patience he's proud of; his instincts  _ want _ it to fall, want the clash of blocks exploding everywhere. He places it upon the top like he's seen Martin do and leans back.

"A dog with no taste of rabbit in its life will still chase one upon seeing it."

\---

“Not if it’s tied to a tree,” Martin snorts, tapping one of the blocks experimentally. The whole thing sways a little, so he picks a different one and slides it out. “You’ll see. That’s part of the fun, you never know when it might fall apart. Was I right in guessing you liked the park?”

\---

"Hm. That is a strange question. To have  _ likes _ and  _ dislikes _ one must be a person, I think." Michael watches it wobble, and he sways where he sits a little himself, frowning. He pauses his finger over the blocks and then stops. "But what are the stakes?"

\---

Martin thinks on that one. “Hm. It’s startling for everyone when the whole thing comes crashing down, satisfying when it’s not  _ you _ . But we could make our own stakes.” He waits patiently for his own turn, chatting his opposite up all the while. “How can you understand what people are afraid of if you can’t understand what they’re not? You’re allowed to  _ like _ things, Michael. Natural as the unnatural, yeah?”

\---

" _ I _ am not a person, Martin." He pushes his finger just a tad too hard, a jerky motion that jostles the entire tower, and as the block slides halfway through, it shakes and falls, collapsing onto the table. Even knowing it's coming, Michael jumps, his physical control blanking out for a moment and a kaleidoscope of colors, patterns, limbs and Being jolting out of him like the sound wave on a speaker, before collecting itself once again to wrap around him, none the wiser past slightly frizzled hair.

\---

Martin jumps, too, taking the opportunity to bend down to collect some of the ones that scattered about the bench in the collision. It’s a blessing he thought to do it then, because his peripheral is shooting signals to his brain that something is so wrong it can only make him nauseous. He decides to bend down a bit longer than necessary.

“You’re not a person, you’re the world’s most violent mantis shrimp,” he sighs unevenly down to the ground before hoisting himself back up, dropping the blocks into the mess. “And you used my name. Loser’s the one who stacks it back up, by the way. I brought-- I brought some more, though.”

\---

"I'm not an animal, either." Michael pouts, and sticks his hands into the pile of blocks. "What else? And-- what wagers?"

\---

Martin shrugs. “You’re Michael.” 

As he moves around his companion’s hands to organize the blocks again, he tries to mentally replicate the list of what he’s brought. “Mostly chance, ones where you - where the game can get switched up the second you think you’re winning. Er, Trouble, Mouse Trap, C-Candyland. Jenga, that’s this one - bit of strategy. Operation, not really a board game but it - it used to scare me as a kid, the noises.”

He laughs at how ridiculous he sounds. “I also… I found Guess Who? I thought you might like trying to break the rules on that one.”

\---

Michael presses a finger to his lips, leaning over to try and see the bag Martin's brought. It's a lot to choose, and it swirls in his brain, each title. "Choose one. You seem to think a lot about what I'd like."

\---

“They’re just guesses,” Martin starts as he fits pieces back into the container they came in, not bothering to make much of an order with them. That’s not exactly the tone of this meeting. “Operation’s a good start.” 

He pulls the box from the bag. He opened all of these first before coming so he wouldn’t have to do it here on the off chance Michael actually showed up. It doesn’t take much to set up. “You use the tweezers here to grab the - the pieces out, but you can’t touch the sides or it’ll light up and buzz. I think it’s - it’s-- When I was a kid I always thought it lit up to represent failing as a surgeon and killing him. It just ends your turn, I think.”

\---

Michael laughs as he peers over the Crude body of the man upon the operating table. "What a delightfully unreal body." He takes the tweezers and immediately jams them into the side of one of the wells, his laugh rising in crescendo at the horrid, awful buzzing. He does it again, and his body buzzes with it, blowing into static visually in time with the game's little man. "I think he would die. Fascinating."

\---

Martin winces at the first buzz, but it’s not so bad. Not nearly the same fear that gripped him when he was too small to have much of a framework for fear. He doesn’t notice he’s laughing, too, until Michael speaks again. His skull is vibrating just enough to scatter his thoughts. 

He leans over the table to watch the board. “Good thing he’s plastic, then. I'm glad you like it. I was serious about them being  _ guesses _ , can’t know if you don’t try.”

\---

"He's a wee abomination of the Stranger," Michael says, and grins down at him. "Pity the goal is to  _ not _ buzz it. I think I am glad I did not kill you."

\---

“Oh, this poor man walking around begging a stranger to pull his off-brand plastic organs out would give someone a heart attack,” Martin says quietly as he stays leaned in, like they’re being watched in the park while they construct some villainous plan. His voice returns to a more normal tone. “Mm. I think I prefer this to some great unknowable darkness.”

\---

"Yes," Michael says, and picks the tweezers up once more, pinching them between his fingers and actually trying to do it right, at least once, going for the man's heart. "Death is quite uncomfortable."

He growls, low in his throat, when the sides buzz anyways, the shock of it making him jump where he sits, and then laugh and laugh at the sensation of being so  _ scared _ . How invigorating.

\---

It’s not quite a laugh, the sound out of Martin’s mouth, but he hates to call it a giggle even if that’s what it really is. Between following along with the energy Michael’s putting out as he explores the game, Martin prods gently, curiously. “What would you know about that?”

\---

"You're getting stronger, " Michael comments, fingers poised to try and take the wishbone instead. He looks at Martin evenly for a moment, deliberating whether it would be a fun game to resist him, to tug away from the Watcher's pull.

But Martin brought him games.

"I was not always Michael. And the Michael that was, is gone. It was not pleasant for him. Still isn't."

\---

“But he’s a part of you, not completely gone. Memories, quirks, enough of him's still around, getting joy out of  _ something _ . Would I be right, thinking maybe the Spiral isn’t the one who came up with the outfits I’m starting to look forward to seeing more?” 

He rests his chin in his palm and lifts an eyebrow.

\---

Michael blanches somewhat as he stares, and his voice is a waver, more static than normal cutting through the vowels. "I don't know. Having an identity hurts. Remembering  _ hurts _ ." He doesn't remember dressing himself. Maybe he does. It's a shifting sort of Knowing.

\---

Something about the crackling edges leaves Martin wanting. He can hold back, he knows he can, but he takes a leap of faith. There's a care there, a desire for understanding, a wish to let Michael speak, in the way that his brows furrow and his attention narrows to the moment. "Does it have to hurt, or is that just what you know how to feel?"

\---

"Something like me doesn't get to feel anything else." He's still, now, still hovering over the board, but the game is forgotten.

\---

"Why do you think that, Michael?"

\---

"Because I was not supposed to  _ be _ , Michael." It feels good; spiderweb vice around his throat that produces such lovely truths. It sickens Michael. But he doesn't struggle. He doesn't hurt Martin, even though he could. Even though, by all rights he  _ should. _

"I am languished, chained, a failure. This  _ boy _ has ruined my purpose."

\---

"Can't you use that to get better at what you do? I'm not - I'm not  _ supposed _ to be sitting here watching you play Operation, I didn't plan for it. I had to change it up, so I could figure out something you liked."

Martin brings himself closer, getting the idea that he's talking to someone else, now. A facet of fear independent of the host.

"Seems like after our talk in the hospital, he's good at it. The only kind of person better at twisting the truth than a boy who thinks he's a failure is his mother."

\---

"Then it's a pity she didn't throw Michael Shelley's mother at me, instead." He snaps, and it's dangerous, what Martin is doing, this close to the surface of thinking, truly  _ thinking _ about what's been done.

\---

"Is it? If you fight what you are now you'll just bury your potential. Maybe... Sometimes the things that shake us up and feel the most wrong are - are actually the best things." Martin's trying to frame this in a way that appeases both sides, and he's not even sure  _ why _ he's doing it. 

Maybe it's the right thing to do. 

"Mothers aren't usually as creative. Michael's unique - uniquely  _ weird _ , if he's managed to make you spiral like this. Isn't that worth looking into?"

\---

"To lament upon a failed ritual made visible by the scar of my being?" His hands are too long. They're digging into the game, plastic wrenching itself apart under sharp  _ knives _ and electric failure.

"I am  _ wrong _ . Because the Great Twisting failed with this lamb."

\---

"We're all wrong. Wouldn't the world be boring if nothing ever threw a wrench into someone else's plans?" 

At the crossroads of fear, Martin can either cast his eyes downward and fall victim to primal terror at the sight of something he could never learn to process. Or he can try, try, try to hold his ground, to focus on what comes from his mouth, focus on the power words can have in the presence of physical danger.

"This counts as malpractice, Michael. You're an awful surgeon."

\---

His form is starting to loosen, unspooling from its neat, tight little human shell, anger pooling at the thought that this would  _ ever _ have been a good idea (oh the folly of Shelley to make  _ friends _ ), but then all at once, he's coalescing again, his hair falling to his shoulders, shoulders falling down from their hiked position and-- 

The words jolt something in him. It stalls the rage.

Ah. He's destroyed the Assistant's poor game. It's nothing but hunks of sparking plastic now.

"Well. I didn't go to school for pre-med, you know," He says airily, and slowly retracts his fingers, folding them over each other until they're wound tight into fists in front of his mouth.

\---

Martin's exhale of relief is borderline excessive. He can do this. It's a test. It's an experiment. Those seem to be leading him into great situations, lately. 

"I was hoping at least  _ one _ of them would get torn to bits by the end. That's - that's the thing about board games, you know,  _ breaking _ them in a fit of rage. I think that might be why they're all made of plastic."

He's silent for a moment, eyeing the rectangular box near the wreckage. "We could always find a tall building and throw Jenga pieces off the top." His voice mimics what Martin believes a startled housewife sounds like. "'What deranged people are playing Jenga up on that roof?' Actually - the idea of stumbling on a single piece in one place and walking a few meters just to see another is a - a little scary."

\---

Michael sighs as he thinks about it, his smile wide and a little vacant as he says, "Oh, I wish you were an Assistant those years. You would have been a much better sacrifice."

\---

"Guess we'll have to settle for friends." 

Martin returns the look. Mirror, mirror. Fidgets with a few of the plastic scraps in front of him before he poses his next question. Somehow, coming right out with it seems more fittingly bewildering than beating around the bush.

"Michael, would you let me take your statement?"

\---

" _ Oh _ , is that what you want? My statement. You want my  _ story _ ." He laughs a little, hands pulling back to his lap as he sits up straight. A little too still.

"Why?"

\---

"What - what I want? I'd like... I'd like to  _ understand _ you. What's the point of not killing me if we can't entertain each other?"

He finds the little plastic wishbone and flicks it off the table so it flies into the grass. "This is new for me. I don't have much reference for what you're like outside of - of words on a page. I'd like to know who you are, not just - just  _ what _ ."

\---

Michael laughs his knowing laugh, and all but guffaw, "Well you know how I feel about who's and what's, Martin." But he doesn't get up. 

"Alright. Are you going to  _ record _ it? It's such a quirk of your Archivist, isn't it. Miss Robinson never cared to, all that often."

\---

"I think he'd like me to." Martin thinks about the bag, a nest of board games with a tape at the center. An unassuming bomb, an antique amidst antiques. He meets Michael's eyes to ask with proper accommodation. 

"Do you mind either way?"

\---

"Record or don't record; I suppose the Archives will have a way of knowing regardless." His eyes drift away for a moment and then latch onto Martin again, his smile slow. "The statement is for  _ you _ , though."

\---

"Thank you, Michael." The same lax, easy smile that once made him sick in a pub eons ago oozes into the expression on his face. "Please - er - I've never done this before. With someone on - on purpose, on a recording, in front of me. So, yeah. This is new." 

Martin bends down to fish the tape out and plant it on the table. "This is for me. And you. That's why I asked, but I didn't - you know,  _ ask _ ."

\---

"Well. Spin your magic, Archivist.  _ Ask _ .” His eyes are transfixed on the tape recorder.

\---

As he presses the button, an anticipatory flash of heat runs up his spine. By the time it reaches his neck, Martin can speak calmly, eyes fixed to the only other person that exists. 

"Statement of Michael, interview and recording conducted by Martin K. Blackwood, Archival Assistant, date-- "

On his next inhale, he chooses something to narrow his focus. He wants to try this his own way. He's not prepared for how good it feels to do it. 

"Would you mind telling me why you think Michael Shelley's ruined you?"

\---

Michael sucks in a pleased breath, murmuring a soft, "Ah. That feels nice." He reaches up and unties the bandana, and his hair cascades until he starts to rake it up into a bun on top of his head, tying it loosely with a hair tie around his wrist. A strangely human motion. It helps him concentrate as the question pulls his story into a linear line.

Hard to be linear, sometimes.

"He worked at your Institute. Michael Shelley. A school friend of his had been lost to the spiral, once. Long ago. And it ate at him, ate him right up, the fear of that he had seen something real; the fear that he himself was going crazy. Quite funny, in the end. I suppose he is technically crazy now. If you count me.

"He came to be employed by your Institute, because your Mr. Bouchard so loves his lonely, lost, pathetic lifeforms. And so he was given to the Archivist. Miss Robinson's illustrious little Assistant."

He pauses for a moment, and anger flashes like storms across eyes that don't want to settle on a color; he is being kind to Martin, though, and doesn't want to hurt him in the middle of a statement. So he breathes through lungs that are not, and exhales, and takes a moment to continue.

"An Archivist is a lovely little job of deceit and self-importance, I think. It must be. Miss Robinson did so portray herself as frail and needy. And Michael Shelley, who has been useless his entire life, jumped at the chance to be  _ useful. _ To take  _ care _ . To  _ be there. _ "

\---

Martin rests his chin in his hand as Michael speaks, his own eyes blown wide and attentive. He knew about some of this already, which fills him with a certain sort of pride, and he knows Jon wouldn't do that to  _ him _ . There's a reason he's Gertrude's replacement. 

Michael's torrential downpour threatening to break the surface is met with kindness. Martin leaves himself out of it. It's easy to, like this, when Michael's perspective wraps around and consumes him in a temporary fugue of weaponized empathy. 

"Why did Shelley think he was useless?"

\---

"Because he was." Michael laughs, but it isn't with humor. There's a flatness to his voice, a stillness like the eye of a storm, especially compared to his normal bouncy way of speaking, expressive and light. This is dark.

"I think mother only tolerated him. Kept him around like a little accessory. A doll. Pity to her when he was useless and didn't stay a sweet girl. Pity to him for never making friends. Too weird, too esoteric, too... Prone to fits of fancy. Too spacey. Too much. Not enough. Too tall, for sure. Too gullible, certainly. Unhelpful. Too trusting. Too trusting, indeed.

"He trusted Miss Robinson. Fancied himself  _ important _ for once. She even took him on  _ work _ trips.  _ Oh _ , the joy he took from that privilege. The weeks of planning he spent, to make certain he was  _ useful _ to her.

"Maybe he was, the first few times. I suppose... The final time, too.  _ Oh _ , the nice coat he bought in preparation for a trip to  _ Russia _ . He always did adorn himself like it was worth anything."

\---

"It was worth it to him, that makes it something."

The tone isn't accusatory - it's soft, kind. As much as he wants to focus on this aspect of Shelley, his mind keeps getting pulled back to the original question. Like he needs that one to come around, first, before he can address anything else. He hazards a guess to move them along, but somehow it's not a guess at all.  _ Russia _ .

"And Miss Robinson led him to his death - prepared him for it without ever thinking to give him a choice, I assume. So you didn't get one, either. You were... fused, somehow?"

\---

"He was sent off to destroy a great 'evil.' I suppose I am evil; at least to the likes of Miss Robinson, who so likes her control, and so likes her neat, categorical boxes." Michael purses his lips and follows the question eagerly. It's nice, to be focused, sometimes.

"When I tell you the beauty of Sannikov Land, I am not certain you could comprehend it. Though, that was much the point. It was an impossible, twisting construction. It does not exist. It never has. I was at its center. Something like me. The great That-Is-Not-What-It-Is.

"And Gertrude sent him in. No hesitation. She had a map. Impossible. I suppose I can't complain of impossibilities. He was afraid, and yet he still listened to her. Followed her direction. And she fed him to me. Useless lamb, ready for my slaughter. Or my making.

"It was not supposed to  _ be _ him. He was not supposed to be part of the Twisting. We were remade. Twisted into something new. Something  _ wrong _ . And everything fell apart. It collapsed. Sannikov Land was dead. And so was Michael Shelley. And me, to an extent. Pointless."

\---

Neat, categorical boxes indeed. 

"But neither of you are really dead. You're just something new together. Why else would Shelley-- Why wouldn't he just be sucked up into nothingness? Something to do with your ritual, or because he had worth, somehow?"

\---

"He was fed to me, and we became an  _ Avatar _ ." Michael hisses the word, and he's angry again, pressing fingernails into palms. "I was to be  _ more _ . To be bigger. To be here, fully."

"And now I'm a mere creature doomed to feed. Doomed to exist. Doomed to have no purpose for another eon."

\---

"You could start some hobbies, then maybe the next Great Twisting will be even better? Make the most of it now, so you're ready when the time comes? Lots to learn from people, even the ones we think we'd rather not be...  _ attached _ to." Martin doesn't grimace, he keeps it locked inside. 

"Your purpose could be to - to just have fun, Michael. Don't you want that? To just be allowed to exist, to  _ enjoy _ yourself?"

\---

"What a peculiar Archivist you make." Michael says, and he sounds curious again, leaning forward to take him in. "Warmer than the Beholder likes. You know, I was marked by it once, too. I wonder if I could have made something from it. To Know."

\---

Martin stops the recording, then, having satisfied it with an acceptable answer. He pulls it off the table, a physical boundary, and once it's out of sight he looks back to Michael. 

Dazed, open, honest. "Do you think that's odd, Michael? I wonder, why  _ me _ . Warm, right. Tight, it's different than - than I see, when Jon - when he's p-possessed." Martin laughs, because he can't help it. The dizzying knowledge that he hasn't been sacrificed, that Michael's story is something he can slough off his own life now that it's over. It's  _ good _ . "I don't feel-- It's nice to ask, to - to have it, but I don't think it's for the, um, the same  _ reasons _ . The intent. Does intent matter?"

\---

Michael's eyes widen at the energy and he claps his hands together, a strange little shiver running through his body like an electric current, a visual distortion following the sensation as he drinks it in. It helps to distance himself from the memories of Zemlya Sannikova.

"It's quite odd, I think. But not unwelcome. It's nicer than the coldness she had. I don't know how Sims sounds; is it much more clinical than you? I should introduce myself at some point, though he's met me already, I suppose."

"What is your intent?"

\---

“Oh, he’s not a fan of you. As much as he  _ believes _ in this - all of this - so much has  _ changed _ for him over - over years, it doesn’t change that he thinks it’s automatically motivated by - by something terrible. Which makes sense, given… you know, your powers come from fear. I…”

He stops worrying about the way his words rattle on, stops  _ feeling _ like he’s talking too much. Like he’s taking up too much space. 

Martin Blackwood, in these moments following the story of another person, thinks he takes up just as much space as he should. Martin Blackwood, who notices far more than he lets on.

“He thinks he’s a monster. He might be right, by - by definition standards, but I think that, um, that sort of skews how he views you. Anyone else  _ like _ him. Except maybe, maybe me. He’s cold until he’s drawn out of it. You should-- Maybe you should come ‘round, some time, when we’re both there. Maybe things might be different. Um, about  _ intent _ , it started as… I wanted… I wanted to be helpful. To leave something behind when I inevitably... “ A frantic gesture follows, both hands in the air and back to the table. Dissipate. That’s what he means. “Now, I just-- When I know something about someone else, I  _ like _ it. I like to hold it, and have it there, and feel like - like being myself is something that can be positive. Like being on this side of knowing gives me perspective. I’m feeding  _ me _ .”

He inhales. “I think knowing I can lie to you, that lying is sort of - sort of your whole  _ thing _ , it makes me want to tell you the truth. How can anyone know, right, if they think it’s Not-What-It-Is?”

\---

"I think  _ perhaps _ ," Michael starts, "You are a good friend. If a strange one." He laughs. "I have no desire to feed from you. And yours is.... Altruistic. What a rare, impossible thing. I like impossible."

He hums. "Perhaps your Crown would not be so bad."

\---

Martin smiles, and smiles, and smiles, drinking in the slivers of positivity. But the confusion that follows is physical, and he runs a hand through his hair in a way that’s never done anything but set it all out of place. 

“My - my Crown?”

\---

Michael leans across the table and places his chin on the back of his hand. He pouts playfully. "It's a secret. A fun one."

\---

“We can swap those, you know. Secrets.” He’s holding back his interest, but he guesses it won’t matter with-- Well, Michael can’t read his mind, but he operates on his own rules.

\---

Michael grins. "This secret's too fun. I don't want to spoiiiiil you."

\---

Eyes wide as saucers and ready to make a bad decision, Martin leans forward. “What about a wager? Play a game, loser shares?”

\---

Michael raises an eyebrow. "What of yours would I want that badly?"

\---

"If it's fear you want, I-I have some of that. But you're not the type for statements. Institute secrets, maybe? We don't have to limit it to - to secrets, it could be  _ things _ , something else, depending on what you want. I'm learning what you like, but knowing what you want is a bit outside my scope right now, isn't it?"

\---

"Martin, dear, you're going to be hard-pressed with this one. It's just too much fun if you don't know." He leans back again. "It's going to be so baaad."

\---

Martin squints, scanning his brain for anything of worth he could possibly have. Jon would be screaming at him, now. Martin can nearly hear the echo between his ears. He's not even sure  _ why _ he wants to know whatever this means so bad, why he doesn't stop this here and go ask Jon about it. 

Ask Jon, for a cagey answer and an ominous, threatening story that begs more questions and holds even less answers. Ask Jon, to be protected from the truth. Ask Jon, for an emotionally exhausting day of dubious consent. Michael might be goading him, but it's not about being herded into anything. Martin can see it for what it is, and what it isn't. He still wants it.

"What about a sacrifice?"

\---

Michael's laugh does not even try to stay human. The power Martin is playing with is exhilarating. So casually, too, like he doesn't understand what he's wielding. Maybe he doesn't. Isn't that delightful.

"And what do you know of sacrifices, Assistant?"

\---

Martin's voice is low, serious. Committed. 

"I've made a few of them, Michael. Make me a menu. I'm sure we could work something out, we've managed so far. That's what friends are for, r-right? Playing games, working together, making wagers?"

\---

"Hm." He hums, and taps his chin and thinks, really thinks, and then slowly shakes his head. There's something addicting about the bright, needy look in Martin's eyes.

"I don't think so. If I spoil you now, it might not happen. I don't even think your  _ Jon _ knows. It's too exciting.  _ I _ don't even know it all."

\---

Martin struggles to hold himself the exact way he was before Michael spoke. He wins out, but just barely. 

"Fine. I'll bet the tables turn eventually, and I'll know something you want." He smiles brightly. "And I won't tell you."

\---

Michael puts upon the Visage of a wise and mature person. He isn't. But he can pretend. "And I shall throw my fit then. Thank you for the games, Martin."


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin, your vibes are simply scrumptious, and as your boss, I simply must commend you for them.

It is, Elias has to muse, getting increasingly difficult to corner either of his... Archival Projects alone these days. Jon seems to run about like a Tasmanian devil on a mission, and Martin acquiesces, follows, points Jon in new and exciting paths to be  _ together _ on. 

Not that he's complaining, per say; as odd as this arrangement is, there is a certain je n'ais ce quois about the whole affair. A dependence the two have made mentally and physically with one another that is  _ delectible _ in all the ways that it can be used, should Elias be forced to play his hand. And, well, they're performing perfectly thus far, but he's certain they'll rebel eventually. All songbirds do at one point or another, until they realize the comfort the nest brings them. 

The second Jon is out on some research opportunity, Elias leaps at the chance to finally,  _ finally _ have a sit-in meeting with his other half. The unexpected one. The wily, strange one whose tie to the Eye is firm and unwavering but still blurry, shifting and morphing and  _ unique _ in all the ways that Elias thought impossible. It's been long enough; the Mark from Prentiss has cooled, and even the new, fascinating scent of the Spiral sits well upon his flesh, rather than push him into a paranoid panic. 

If Martin plays his cards right, really, Elias could choose him. Up to how they both perform.

He knocks on the door to the office directly after lunch; these boys tend to wake late and lunch late, so he gives Martin plenty of time to be up and prepared for him, even if he hasn't given a courtesy email to warn ahead of time. Best to keep him on his toes  _ somewhat _ .

\---

Martin is in the middle of ripping a strip of tape to place over a short stack of papers when the knock rings out in the office. Lucky he has one headphone out, a little preventative measure from closing himself off from the world completely. It wasn't that weird, an unexpected guest, but he's pretty sure Jon being out today was common knowledge between all the ones who might stop by.

He scrambles regardless, thankful he'd shoved all their things into the other room for ease of mobility so their clothes and everything else he owned was safely squirreled away. He actually got quite a bit of his very real, very paycheck-giving job done when Jon was out of the office. Meditative, and all that.

Martin thinks on how he wants to present and decides to grab the pile, clutching it close to his chest as he stands up. There’s a little anxious quake in his voice. "Oh-- I'll be - I'll be right out!"

He straightens his shirt out, mentally preparing with the ritual of it more than genuinely fixing the wrinkles. It's a bit casual, the sweater, but that's something people have come to expect from him - if they expect anything at all - and he's not too pressed. 

The door swings open and Martin blinks, vaguely confused, smoothing the piece of tape over the stack with his fingers. "Ah. H-hello, Elias. You know Jon's out today, right?"

\---

"Good morning, Martin," Elias greets, and his smile is all pleasantries and stark politeness, his hands clasped firmly behind his back. "I  _ do _ know that. It's lucky for both of us then that I'm not here for him."

It's one thing to see from a distance; another up close. Martin Blackwood's aura is a sight to behold, an uncertain, spinning thing that could be pulled and prodded in so many directions. And my, look at how those Marks shine across him; it  _ is _ curious how fresh and harsh the Spiral's vicious unreality clings to him. Much more acutely present than one chance meeting with the creature known as Michael should warrant.

\---

Martin returns the terse, surface-level kindness with a side-step, allowing Elias entry. Not that it's his office to invite or deny company within, but it's about the gesture. He busies himself the second he's out of the way, placing the stack onto the surface of the desk so he can scribble a label onto the tape with a nearby pen. 

He starts with a delay, standing not quite with his back turned. That would be rude. Just enough to show he's at work. "Why would that be? Er-- Lucky, I mean."

\---

Elias steps into the office and hovers near the entrance, looking around the cluttered space as they've made it. He reaches behind him to lightly push the door closed, it's slow careen creaking before clicking shut almost painfully loudly. He takes a couple more prim steps into the interior of the office. 

"Because I'm here for  _ you _ , and you  _ are _ in. I feel we haven't chatted much, you and I."

\---

As the door shuts, Martin's brain kindly supplies the image of bear trap jaws snapping together. He grips the pen tighter to avoid jumping. 

"W-well, I tend to be back in the Archives most of the time, I don't blame you - bit different, our jobs, right?" He gives a short pause, looks up at Elias with kindness that may or may not be genuine. "I'm just - just organizing this  _ mess _ . A few things Jon wants to record, later."

\---

"Right." He sounds downright  _ chipper _ . He continues to look around the office space, gaze constantly roving. It's so  _ curious _ , is all. His Archivist's office has never been so lived in. Such a home. It's  _ perfect _ .

"And how is recording going for you, Martin?"

\---

Martin keeps his recoil at the idea of Elias' eyes settling on him  _ internal _ , braves it out to pretend every part of this is normal. 

"Me? It's fine, I-I like to help out, sometimes. It's still Jon's project, obviously, but - but, yes, I've recorded some. Makes the whole thing go a bit - er - smoother, with the two of us. It's going fine."

\---

Oh, the way he plays. It's much more subtle than any of Jon's attempts at subterfuge, at concealment. Far less paranoiac, for sure. Harder to read, and Elias is rather  _ pleased _ .

"And what leads are you following currently? From my estimations, you've been bouncing about considerably."

\---

Martin pauses, makes a show of rummaging about the stacks to refresh himself. He talks fast, but not the way that he's trying to cover something up, the normally-nervous model assistant.

"Oh, does Jon send them to you for review? About the  _ leads _ , um-- Lately it's been trying to connect a few of these statements about missing people who - who aren't missing. They're strange. But-- There's not too many credible witnesses, you know, it's just going over a few obituaries, police records. Bouncing about."

\---

"Of course. Well-- Commendable job getting everything organized here. The Archives weren't in their most tip-top shape, as I'm sure you're well aware. I'm seeing  _ marked _ improvements across the board since you two began sorting through everything."

He smiles so plainly. It's a strange thing; he'd discounted Martin as nothing. Something to use later, maybe. Fodder. He's really rather good, now that Elias is paying attention, at seeming that way. What a masterful trait.

\---

Martin watches Elias, then, and while he's suspicious, it's still praise for something he  _ has _ been making an effort to do. The corners of his mouth curve up politely. 

"Thank you, Elias. I like to think I'm decent, I've been at it long enough that-- W-Well, if I was making it worse, I…  _ guess _ I would've been told. Um. Is that - is that all you wanted to talk about?" 

Oh, he doesn't like the emphasis on that word at all.

\---

Elias rocks back on his heels slightly, and his smile turns to a quick flash of worry, carefully schooled over his face. Not  _ too _ worried, mind. The appropriate amount. "I  _ did _ want to check in that you're recovering alright? I did offer some time off after Prentiss'... Visit... To the Archives." 

He pauses. "Nasty business, what happened to your arms. Jon's too."

\---

"The... oh. Right, right. Right. My hand is - well-- " He lifts his bad hand and shows Elias, how his fingers can squeeze but stop just short of gripping the way his dominant hand can. 

"Other than that, I'm no worse for wear. It-- I think I've been so busy, I haven't thought about it too… too hard. You know, it seemed like such a-a terrible thing in - when it was happening, but I've just... I kind of... put it away?"

\---

Elias watches the way his fingers flex. He almost feels a twinge of pity. "Well! I'm glad you're making a recovery. I'm certain your hand will be back to normal in no time.

"You two certainly performed well, through the whole ordeal. Lucky that Jon had the foresight to ask about the suppression systems, Hm? Could have gone  _ quite _ a lot worse."

\---

"...Thank you?" 

Martin's not sure where to take this. Elias is a factor he doesn't quite have pinned down. At all, really. 

"I've been having a few strokes of luck, lately. I'm trying not to count on it, though, you - you know. It was a smart plan, erm. It was - I guess you can't - you can't really  _ plan _ for murderous worms to hide in a backpack, can you? It's-- " It's dawning on him at the worst of times, that the whole situation terrified him. "You helped. Might not be here if you hadn't!"

\---

"No, I suppose you might not have. Would have been a pity; you two are becoming such wonderful assets to the Institution. You think quick; Jon should be glad to have someone as wily as you wielding his corkscrews about." He gives a mild laugh, like that's a casual office joke.

\---

Martin gives up a short laugh in kind, until he notices that one detail stuck out. He could offer up an explanation for how he thinks-but-doesn't-think Elias knows about that detail, but he figures it'd be better to see what Elias offers first.

He sounds genuinely confused. "Corkscrews?"

\---

It would be fun to continue this little line of fun engagement, but Elias' smile just widens; sometimes the truth is just as effective. 

"You know, I wondered if knives might do the job better, but watching you pull them from Jon's arm with a corkscrew really did quick work to change my mind. Though with the kind of mindless precision you were operating on, I'm sure any weapon would have been... Ah, suitably effective."

\---

"Watching-- Me?" 

His voice is cold, and he hates it, but there's no other way  _ to _ react. Unless he wants to come out and give everything completely away. He's not-- If there are  _ cameras _ in the office-- 

His face heats up regardless of how he feels about it. He's not good enough to stop that tell. They  _ fucked _ in that chair, and they screwed in the back room.

\---

Elias' smile is sharp, hungry, now. They're dancing close to saying it outright, and it's invigorating. A much different fun than Jon's endless exasperation and rage, which, while still an endless pool of amusement, is nonetheless far harder to keep key information out of from the sheer  _ volume _ of questions.

"Someone ought to, Martin, considering the company you've been keeping as of late. Hm? Do be careful."

\---

"Did-- " No, that's a stupid question. Jon wouldn't have told Elias any of that. And that doesn't change the wording. The wording is the most important part, around here. 

"Why should I be careful, Elias?"

\---

"As you've seen with Miss Prentiss, most of these... Unknowns, might not have your best interests at heart, Martin."

\---

Martin loses the stutter for a quick minute. "Well, that's  _ vague _ . What about you, Elias? You're an - an  _ unknown _ , where are your interests?"

\---

"That's quite simple. My interests are  _ your _ interests. And  _ your _ interests are the Institute's interests." His smile grows tight. "Right?"

\---

"Right. Just the ones written out in the Employee handbook, yeah?"

\---

"Of course, Martin. What others would there be?"

\---

"I dunno. Sometimes people have other interests.” He shrugs. “I like chess. Not - Not that it conflicts with the  _ job _ , but, you know. Interests, hobbies, things like - like that. Off-the-clock, though, of course. I-I like my job."

\---

Elias raises an eyebrow, and looks very amused indeed. "That's all I could ask for, really. As long as your off-the-clock interests don't interfere with what we do here, I can't complain."

\---

Martin mirrors the eyebrow, though he's not nearly as amused. "I don't think chess counts, unless there's a tournament."

\---

"Yes. Unless. I suppose that's all, unless you have any questions yourself for me?" Elias takes a smooth step backwards, and presses his hand on the door to open it.

\---

"I-- " Martin thinks hard, tries to steady his voice. He decides to be a complete idiot about it. Nerves. "Oh. Do you… Do you like jewelry?"

\---

Elias levels him with a very, very flat look. "I do." He turns the knob and begins to step out of the office, but turns back last second, cocking his head slightly. "Do look out for Jon. He's... I'm afraid he's more fragile than you are, Martin. Have a good afternoon."

\---

"Ah, o-okay. Thank you, Elias--" Martin runs a thumb over the edge of one of the papers before him with a lopsided smile. "Have a good day."


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The little lovebirds go on a dinner date after a hard day of research and/or being harassed by Elias Bouchard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings/Heads-up for this chapter include:  
> \- Alcohol use (They drink wine and bring a bottle home with them)  
> \- Mentions of past drug use (Regarding Jon's Uni days)
> 
> I also would like to clarify now that both writers of this story are transgender. There are times where Martin is, well... Martin, and also someone who doesn't know the ins and outs of having a relationship with someone who is transgender (let alone a relationship at all). Sometimes he'll ask questions or make comments that might seem silly or basic. I just felt like it was important for me to mention that this is a labor of love and Martin's lack of prior knowledge isn't reflective of my own. I want to ensure that LGBT+ readers feel welcome here. 
> 
> Thank you all so, so, SO much for you comments, kudos, and support. The next few chapters lead up to the arc we're most proud of in this story so far (and have quite a bit of art for, too!) and we're so excited to share that with you. The stuff we're publishing now was written back in March, so we've done a LOT of plot since then!
> 
> \- Jack

By the end of the workday, which Martin genuinely follows through with, his phone lights up silently at the other end of the desk. He spends the next few minutes propped up against the wood while tuned in to a stilted conversation of working through specifics only texts can provide. Martin finds the way Jon writes with endearingly serious precision _way_ too entertaining. Despite the unnervingly uneventful conversation with Elias he'd had earlier, he spends a good chunk of their talk of ‘when's and ‘where's shaking his head almost lovingly down at the screen. 

He tries, this time, to make himself presentably professional. It's not until he's standing before a mirror - buttoning up his shirt and fixing wayward strands of hair behind his ears - that he realizes he's never done this, this giddy preparation for a _date_ . That he doesn't know _how_ to do it properly. 

His brain, working against his worry, thinks the right way to handle it is by dredging up Jon's voice - _so perfect, Martin_ \- and he decides it might be the perfect time to stop analyzing his imperfections in the mirror and head out. 

Shoulder bag in tow, he ends his day at the Institute and starts his night the same moment. The drive is quiet, comfortable, and not at all lonesome. A few pleasantries, a few personal facts from a driver he didn't ask for. Sometimes, he had one of those faces. He's not used to _liking_ that quirk about him, so the relative calm about the whole situation puts him in a mood fit to handle the invitation positively. 

Finding Jon once he arrives is easy - Martin's only scanning booths - and his small wave is as warm as he genuinely, genuinely feels. Sliding into the seat beside him, just as easy. 

"Busy day?"

\---

Jon's smile is warm. Tired, but not in the typical world-weary doomsday prep _exhaustion_ that lines his face; this is just.... Normal. The kind of tiredness that proceeds a long day of research that _isn't_ horrific in nature.

"Somewhat. As much as one can fill their time with at libraries less expansive than our own."

He's already gotten a glass of wine. He had nearly bought a bottle, just-- just because he _could_ , because he has someone to _share_ with for once, but had realized all at once that he doesn't actually know what Martin likes. If he even likes wine. How even though they've been through... So much, there's still large gaps that people.... Like _them_ , should have figured out already.

In the darkly lit space of the restaurant, Martin looks gorgeous. Healthy. And it's still hard to reconcile, when he goes to different places and sees Martin in different lights, that this part is _real_. That he can ask Martin to dinner and have him actually show up. 

"It feels.... Nice. To cut myself off of working at a normal time for once. Was your day decent?"

\---

Launching into speech, he doesn't get to _watch_ Jon, yet. Not indulgently, anyway. "It was fine. Elias showed up, acting, well, _vague_ . I wanted to tell you somewhere... away, from the office, I figured you'd feel more - more open, about it. But we could make it a case of - erm - _later_?"

He clears his throat, and the only thing else he can do to stop his mouth from rambling is reach over to grasp the neck of Jon's glass, sipping it idly.

\---

"Elias?! That--" His eyes search, and search and search Martin's features. "Ah. Hm. Hm. Hmm." Each sound from his throat gets progressively deeper, quizzical, and displeased, the last _hmm_ resulting in a slight cocking of his head and narrowing of his brow.

He tries. He tries. Beholding Watching, he tries. 

"I mean. I-I mean, if you want. We can wait. I _might_ actually stab my salad though, so don't be alarmed? Do you like wine, then? I didn't know if you liked wine, I almost bought us a bottle and then realized-- Well, who doesn't know if his-- I didn't know if you liked wine. Not really, so I didn't want to, ah, presume? And-- whatdidhesay?" Right. Valiant effort, Jon. Really.

\---

"Jon." Martin warns him, firmly but politely. "I'm telling you because it happened, and I want us on the same page. No - no surprises. We barely talked, but you like to know. So you know. I'm not... I'm not too worried. You don't have to be. Okay?" 

He's commandeered Jon's glass, swishing the liquid so it stains the sides. "I do like wine."

\---

Jon sucks in a very, very deep breath and lets it out slowly, then nods. And carefully stores it away for later. It's hard to do; he's not a patient man. Whatever stores he once had quickly evaporated the moment he could just _ask_ for information and get it immediately.

"Okay. Erm-- Okay. I'll order us a bottle, then. When the waiter comes 'round. Was that-- nothing else exciting today?"

\---

"M- _hm_ . Someone ordered me a bottle of wine." With the glass at his lips covering a devious smile, he can finally sneak a glance in. He's worried, almost, at the way his heart is making leaps over his company, through him, and back into his own chest again. Worried, only from the side of him that fears anyone who could possibly hold power over his emotions. The truth is, most people do. Most people can. They just don't know _how_. And Jon - somehow, through all this mess - has slipped through the bars like a large cat with a deceptively thin skeleton hidden beneath. 

He thinks of beauty less in terms of physicality, more in terms of verbiage. Poetic stuff, really. There's a poem coming on. He's been making quite a few poems about _people_ , lately. Not just observed subjects, but _lived_ ones. 

"I have a-a gift for you, too. Later. Spent most of the day organizing some things, put together a few statements I thought you might want on - on tape, soon, a couple hunches. Make it a bit, um, a bit easier for you to find them. How was the library?"

\---

Jon thinks he could collapse here, in this space where the warmth of this restaurant isn't suffocating, but too indulgent, and half of him wonders if maybe he's woken up in another realm, some fae-realm meant to ensnare him in a dream too rich for reality to manifest.

He reaches out across the table before he can second guess himself, vying for Martin's hand. Normally such an internal figure, reaching for Martin is such-- a novelty. A new thing for him. A thread of safety that he already doesn't know what he'd do without.

"It was okay. Jonah Magnus is deceptively difficult to find solid claims on." He tilts his head to his bag. "But I've got notes. Went to several different libraries, but notes to compile, nonetheless. I'm excited to hear your statements."

\---

Martin, fae creature of carnal sin. Entrapment incarnate. Wake up from your coma, Jonathan Sims, he’s shaking you by the shoulders back in gruesome, gloomy reality. 

"I - oh - I didn't _record_ them. They're not-- They're mostly random, a few things I thought might - might help, maybe, I tried to skim so I'd miss enough words to not get... _sucked in_."

He brushes over Jon's knuckles with his own, moves one of his legs so one of his shoes presses against one of Jon's under the table. 

"Definitely a bit of a - um - a social thing, for me. Recording. I-- " He's about to say he's only ever done one without Jon's presence, but that's the gift, if he could call it that. Whip it out now and they might not make it to dinner. "I'm sure we can look over everything back at the Institute, when we go."

\---

"Oh! Okay. Okay." Jon slowly smiles; he... It's strange, getting used to this. To statements being a thing done _with_ someone, rather than with the door closed and isolated from everyone. Daisy, sure, had sat in, a couple had before, but it was never _comfortable._ Not that he'd really felt it, once he had fallen into the thrall of the story, but coming out of it, always, he could tell. Could tell in the atmosphere that something was tense, wrong, off, and that the judgement was directed towards _him_. 

Statements have always been isolationist for him. But now they're not. 

"I think I like doing them with you," He says, a little dumbly, because it is a dumb thing to say, but Martin doesn't _get_ it. Not really. And it's a good thing. He's glad of it. Glad he's been able to experience this _with_ him, instead of by himself.

\---

Martin tilts his head, looking Jon head-on. "I'd be worried what it might mean if you _didn't_ , and us - what we do was just-- If you kissed people when you _hated_ them." 

Finishing the glass, Martin is thinking there's a subject to bring up hiding just below the level of coherency needed for him to speak it out loud. He doesn't want to ruin this. There's comfort in this silence, one unburdened by a need to know, or to discover something. Except, obviously, to figure someone out. Someone without ulterior motives. That he knows of, anyhow. 

"It's a good thing, I-I think our reactions aren't universal. Either one. Might cause problems if we didn't-- if we weren't doing them together. My worst nightmare's stepping outside for a glass of water and meeting Tim in the halls and-- God, if I said something to him while I was - was like that. Contained."

\---

Jon immediately flushes. "Not-- I didn't mean. I'm used to doing it all _alone_ , Martin. For _Years_." He laughs somewhat, and manages to not even sound entirely embarrassed by it. Score one for Jon Sims. 

His laugh turns to a grimace fast. "I'm fairly certain Tim would just... Proposition you. He's so-- Free, when he's not paranoid and angry."

\---

“I--” Martin’s just going to skate right over that last one. “Yeah. I think I-I get it, sort of. Not statements, you... you know. Different things. Life.” The glass is empty now, so he’s got nothing to fidget with except the rim, and that’s not nearly as fun or inebriating. 

Dinner table conversation, he reminds himself. Dinner table. Dinner table. Dinner table. “Hear of any pressing business in America?”

\---

"...Martin, I'm literally positive you don't want to hear my opinions on American 'business'. I know how their _election_ ends this year." He grimaces, and desperately flags down the eye contact of one of the waiters, who gives him a solemn nod. Bloody fancy restaurants. Polite to a fault but _slow_.

\---

Martin doesn’t tend to preoccupy himself with American politics. Not lately, anyway. 

“...Then, let’s… go somewhere _liberal_ ? I-I mean, maybe we need a vacation. That’s what I’m - I’m _trying_ to say. I don’t know what comes next, or even if it’ll _happen_ how you think, since - since things changed. I’m not-- “ He huffs, and it’s not long until the bottle shows up. “I’m not talking about work.”

\---

The waiter makes quick work of the bottle and pours the both of them a liberal glass, setting the bottle in the center of the table with the cork settled neatly back in the center of the glass opening. Jon thanks him quietly and mumbles something about needing a few more minutes on the menu until he steps away out of earshot. 

He takes a deep drink before he speaks, considering Martin drank the majority of his last glass. He's let his hair hang loose today, but it's been piled mostly to one side, the part dramatically off-center. Whether it was on purpose or from frantic research-induced hand pulling... Who's to say.

"I'm trying _not_ to, Martin. I want-- I want to talk to you about things that aren't _work_ , but-- I'm not sure anything in my life _isn't_ that. At this point." He says it with minimal stuttering. Gaze head-on. It's followed up by another generous drink of wine. "I'll go on holiday with you."

\---

Martin drinks, first, a potentially too-long swig. And then he stretches forward at the table, chin propped up on his arms crossed in front of him. Unbecoming of someone in a fancy restaurant. 

From there, it's easy to look up at Jon. 

"It's rotten work," Martin sounds out in a starkly comical recreation of Jon's voice somehow combined with the way he always recites another work before near-giggling into his own. "Not to me. Not if it's you. Not if we go on holiday to America and I get to look at a mountain lion with a pair of binoculars."

\---

Jon's expression stalls out and he just stares at Martin for a good beat, two, before his scowl turns deep set into his features and he takes a third drink. The drink seems to do him good, though, and he ends it on a small upturn of his chin, a roll of his eyes and the flex of a wrist. "I'll go to America with you, Martin. If that's what you want." 

He pauses. "We're making a pit-stop if we do, though. Before your-- _mountain lions._ "

\---

Martin tilts his head again, so one cheek rests against the makeshift pillow of his arms. "There's mountain lions in Yellowstone," he says, and the word sits odd and heavy in his mouth. "I don't know what else I'd do in America. But it's not like we can-- Well, work, except if - if we feel like bringing some optional reading material. " 

He stops just long enough to rifle through his knowledge of previously-discussed pit-stops. 

" _Skin_ book, right, right, your friend. Mhm." He's staying flighty, buzzing to every conversational piece at once to avoid ruining all of this with something more serious.

\---

"The reading material isn't optional. We'll get sick, without it." But that's enough doomsday. He knows Martin is trying to get away from it. Not even a Knowing. Just-- just _knowing_ him, trying to stay light, trying to stay-- 

Good God. This is a dinner date. 

He swallows, and his eyes widen fractionally. "Just-- Yellowstone?" He asks, and he's _staying_ light. He can do that. He can. "Nowhere else? No-- Cities you've ever been curious about? Destinations?"

\---

"That's... _kind_ of one of the only places I know about that sounds.. fun? Cities are cities, I'd be happy with any nature. I hear it's weird in America. The - the scenery. We could try some off-the-wall American drugs, go hiking, find some uniquely American cults." He snorts, and finally lifts his top half off the table. Only so he can go back to Jon's hand and fidget with his outer knuckles. And sip wine. That is also important. 

"You?"

\---

He focuses his gaze on where their hands meet and shrugs. "I don't know. I've never-- I've never really thought about travel for-- for leisure."

Wait. He blinks. "What drugs do you think they have in America that they don't have _here_?"

\---

A laugh bubbles out of him, and it's not exactly at Jon's expense, but it's close. He replies like he knows some profound secret. "We'll have to find out in America, won't we?" 

He finally reaches out to fish one of the menus off the table, working the remaining giggles out of his system in the meantime. He's not even looking at it, really. His attention flips like a switch between the wine and Jon's hand.

\---

Jon rolls his eyes and says, "you haven't even _been_ to America. And what _drugs_ have you done?"

But he's being _polite_ , so he grabs the menu, too, and starts to look through it. It's standard fare, and Jon already knows he's getting some sort of pasta-- whatever his finger lands on when the waiter comes.

\---

"You - you want to know what drugs I've done. What are you, the _police_?" 

Martin maneuvers a few of his fingers beneath Jon's. "I'll tell you if you tell me first."

\---

"Oh, so we're playing quid pro quo now , are we?" He pushes down the flush. "Don't-- that's a fair thing to ask, I-I think? For a partner? Um?"

He stares down at their fingers and focuses on the way they entwine. "I mean, _obviously_ I smoked weed in uni. Shrooms-- got through a few projects thanks to those. K, once. Coke more times than I'm proud. LSD- once. DMT? Yeah, definitely that. Salvia, of course, but who counts that. Okay. Your turn."

\---

Martin stares, motionless, searching for any hint of a lie in Jon's face. How could he not? Christ. What? Better say that one out loud, too. "What?" 

No, Jon's one of the worst liars he's ever met. Martin's genuinely flustered. "Um. Have-- You haven't been... replaced, recently, right? With - With some kind of clone?"

\---

"It was uni, Martin. Relax." Jon rolls his eyes. When Martin continues to stare, he sighs. "Do I _really_ seem _that_ inexperienced?"

\---

"I don't - I don't think every university student had _DMT_ , Jon. You-- " Martin's face is flushed. He should probably slow down. 

"You just... come off... as... a _bit_ of a hardass? Sometimes?"

\---

"Well... _yeah_ . That's kind of on purpose, Martin. It's not exactly-- I'm not _Elias_. Can't just stroll into a business wanting a job reeking of recreational drugs." He snorts through his nose.

"Plus, I'm not exactly twenty-four anymore. Probably isn't smart to marathon a bunch of psilocybin while working on large projects."

\---

Martin wordlessly finishes his second glass of wine. "Right."

Replacement Jon's been around longer than the original, and he still can't quite get used to it. The idea of Jon's academic shroud being calculated mortifies him, but that's technically not being good at a lie, it's relying on an assumption. 

Martin leans down at the table, again, distracted by touching Jon's hand. "Would you lecture me if I ordered a sundae for dinner?"

\---

Jon wrinkles his nose. "No. But it won't fill you. And you'll just complain later that you didn't eat enough like it's _my_ fault." He snorts.

He isn't... sure if revealing anything about his university, erm, activities was smart, if Martin's reaction is anything to go by. Can't take it back now, though, he supposes, and well, if they're going to be together for any amount of time, he's certain _pictures_ will come up.

Which is such a mundane worry that the tension eases from him all but immediately. It feels _nice_. Normal worries.

\---

Martin sticks his tongue out a bit at his companion, and he’s not sure _why_ he’s acting out. Could be that it’s likely been less than twenty minutes and he’s had two glasses of wine. He doesn’t drink much these days. And having a sustained conversation about something that gets history out of Jon, not post-history, is _fun_ . He's having _fun_. Relieved, too, that the conversation has flown right past Martin’s own drug escapades. 

“Fine, fine. We should split a dessert at _some_ point, though. Very normal thing to do. Get our practice in." He laces their fingers together at the table. "Were there even any - any good parts of university, for you?”

\---

"What about any of that isn't _fun_?" Jon squeezes his hands and looks very bright, light. He pulls apart just briefly to finish his glass of wine and pour a new one. He's got to catch up now, it seems. He relaces their fingers.

"It was just-- you know how I get. Intense. Manic binges. All that. Mm. I shaved my head halfway through my first year and spent the rest of uni trying to grow it back out." He laughs.

\---

Martin’s expression is blank, but not in the same careful way that indicates he’s controlling it. He’s perked up, now, leaning less on the table. 

His eyes dart to Jon’s hair, clearly trying to picture it, then back to his face. “Please tell me more about this secret alter ego of yours.”

\---

Jon snorts ugly over his glass of wine. "Alter ego... It sounds so _dramatic_. I was just a pissy lesbian who listened to too much grunge. And then a pissy man who listened to too much alternative. Every humanities major who's ever existed."

He brushes his fingers along Martin's knuckles. "I'll dig up pictures at some point."

\---

If eyes could truly, genuinely sparkle, that’s the look he’s shooting Jon. He’d underestimated him. Completely. Not that he hid it, it was a _part_ of his life prior to the Institute, the same way Martin doesn’t hide his-- 

Oh, wait, no, he did. Well, if Jon asked, he’d probably tell the truth, too. Already has. About most things.

“It _is_ dramatic, Jon. Wait-- I thought that was a joke. Hold, hold on.” Martin holds his glass out for Jon to fill, not trusting his bad hand to do it with appropriate force. His voice is deathly quiet, like not a single soul in the restaurant is allowed to know what they get up to. “But we… we had sex.”

\---

Jon has the bottle up to pour before Martin finishes talking, and by the time he is, Jon has a hard time pouring, the laughter thick in his voice and making his hands shake a little. He almost spills, but juuuust manages to get away with just a drop on the table.

"Was. _Was_ a lesbian, Martin. As in, still thought I was a _woman_ . _Clearly_ neither of those have stuck, Hm? Things change."

\---

“Oh. Right. I never bothered with labels, didn’t - didn’t _matter_ much, really. I’m-- I can’t imagine you any different. Sorry.” He uses his free hand to wipe his mouth, to clear the laughter at his own fumbling there. “This is all new for me. Not - not what you have, I mean, um. Before, I-I always sort of felt relieved when I finally messed up and I could leave. L-Leave as in, leave someone behind. Justify it. Um. Not with you. I like you.” 

The ‘I like you’s have made their fateful return.

\---

It's quite a lot all at once. Jon loses the bravado and stumbles, "All this because I said I was a lesbian once?" He laughs nervously and tightens his grip on Martin's hand. "I like you too. For what it's worth. I would--Um. Like it? If you didn't leave."

\---

“No, _Jon_ , not because you said you were a lesbian. People are - are hard. They’re easy to sort of… _understand_ , but that’s not the same as feeling. Erm.” 

Anxious sip of red wine out of the way, Martin rubs a hand over his eyes. As if that might make him more coherent. 

“I don’t want to leave.” His voice lowers in volume, as if in confessional. “I found a way out of someone’s three-story window once to get out before they could wake up and keep me there.”

\---

" _Keep_ you there? Were you-- They weren't going to _kidnap_ you, were they?" Jon blinks. Martin's certainly more talkative with a few glasses of wine.

\---

“No, they just might’ve rolled over and spooned me,” Martin sighs miserably, “I’m terrible.”

\---

"Martin," Jon asks, and is so, so serious for a moment, his expression blanching as he _realizes_ what Martin's saying. What he's--

Why the fuck would Jon be so lucky?

"Am I the first person you've really... _dated_?"

\---

“N-no, sometimes I’ve-- I mean, I’ve _spooned_ before, and I’ve - I’ve been _on_... dates… I just kind of, don’t keep--” Martin’s hand slides from Jon’s so he can cover his face with both palms while he tries to finish this trainwreck of a sentence. “I don’t keep in touch.”

\---

"Yeah." Jon says, and hides his gulp by pouring himself another glass of wine. Michael (the co-author) forgot to have the waiter come by at an appropriate time to order food, so in the edit, he's going to make sure to add that somewhere, because it would be ridiculous to chug down two glasses of wine without having ordered food yet. (Spoilers: Jack turned out editing this one, and he’s keeping it this way because it’s hilarious). "That's-- that's what I mean. That's not dating."

\---

Martin’s face stays dutifully hidden behind his hands, but his ears are hot enough that he knows he’s blushing and he hates every second of it. He nods slightly. “Yes, fine, it’s not dating. I was a bit _busy_ , and then when I wasn’t, I-I sort of went the opposite direction, that - that you did.”

\---

"It's _fine_ , Martin. I'm just--" He searches for the words. In true Jon fashion, they're a bit dramatic. "Honored. Honestly. I mean-- makes me feel rather nice."

\---

Martin drags his hands away, painfully, as though an oppressive gravity went up instead of down. "That's nice." 

His voice is too high. He tries again. "I'm not ruining this, am I?"

\---

"I don't. I don't think so? I-- do you think you are?" the kind of easy smile slips from his face and a flash of concern springs up.

"I mean. I'm-- enjoying myself. I think."

\---

"You - You think?" 

Jon's expression shifting mortifies him, and he has to dwell on that for a moment of near-physical pain. 

"I don't think I know how to do it right. I'm - you're the good part of it." And then the absurdity of it all hits, and he's shaking his head. Trying not to smile while trying to be _serious_ , while trying to push down an excuse for him to get away, while trying to keep himself from _actually_ messing this up. He's a complete idiot. "It's a lot at once. Being… alone, and then, to _now_. I'm coming to terms with-- I'm very, um, very out of my depth, with this one. Most of the time that all stays up here. And now it's all kind of - kind of coming out. I'm used to... just... handling it alone."

\---

"Yeah." Jon says quietly, softly. With utter and complete sympathy, because it's not like he doesn't know how that feels. He's been trying not to think about it, because it threatens to swallow him whole. This-- Everything, with Martin. The way his thoughts drift and circle and obsess.

"I feel like I'm messing up, um, constantly. Too. If that's Um-- if that helps? Well, no, of course it doesn't. God."

\---

That breaks the pattern. Right there, what Jon's telling him, how he's reflecting Martin feels about himself but can't _see_ in Jon. The kind of thing that makes him wonder how he looks, genuinely, to someone who's trying not to mess up with _him_. 

"No, it does." Martin thinks that sounds cruel as-is, so he steps back to rephrase it. "I don't think you're messing up. That's… That’s exactly why it helps."

\---

"Well-- same. You're not-- Honestly, Martin. I don't even know how you _could_ mess up. Considering-- I mean, my _everything.”_ A bit honest. Blame it on the wine.

\---

“Your _everything_ ?” Martin laughs, finally, the back of his skull tingling as he dips into adequately tipsy territory. “We are the most... _absurd_ people on this planet. You-- There’s plenty to like about you. I’m still just warming up to, you know, the idea that I get to, you know. With you. And-- Obviously, the whole monster business. Warming up. Slow process."

\---

"It's not _very_ , to me. You-- This is all incredibly fast to me." Jon says, and then he hurries to add, not wanting to sound _rushed_ , "Not that-- I mean. I like it. It's just. Like you said. A lot to, ah, process."

He's quiet for a second, taking a drink while he thinks. "Sometimes it feels like a trick, you know. That-- That this'll be pulled out from under me for _presuming_ I could, um, have such a perfect-- That I could have you."

\---

“I think that every time someone’s nice to me,” Martin murmurs down at his wine glass. “I’m not tricking you. I _feel_ like I am, but I think--” Martin Blackwood, you will not mention how astounded you are at Jon’s entire university escapades as you falsely imagine them in your head. “I worry about it less, now, you kind of - you make the truth the best option, and I’m not used to that. The truth is usually - um - _ha_ , a lot more embarrassing. But good. It’s good.”

\---

"Truth is less embarrassing in the long run." Jon says, and shrugs slightly. "I've just, uh, never liked lying. To myself, maybe. Or-- Oh, the other day, that - that - _thing_ we did. Was that lying? I suppose so. I, um, I liked that."

\---

“As - As much as a performance in a theater or an improv club is lying,” Martin grins, cocking his head slightly as he taps the tip of his shoe against Jon’s ankle. Good to have a point of contact. “Want to do it again?”

\---

"Yes." Jon doesn't even hesitate or look away. He nods, and looks _hungry_. He doesn't even know how to explain it, except that it feels startlingly similar to taking statements from the public. A new sensation, Martin-bred.

"Forget about-- What are we doing. I'm just whining to you, as usual. Forget about that. We're supposed to be having fun."

\---

Martin winks, then. “You’re not whining, Jon. And I’m already having fun.” 

He starts a process of scanning the room, flitting between people he’s trying to gauge on some partly-conscious level. His eyebrows fix themselves into an expression of accommodating worry as he lifts a hand to flag down one of the waiters, and his ‘excuse me?’ is polite. It makes him seem smaller than he is, especially with his lowered posture. 

With the waiter walking over, he’s already got a few ideas. But he’s nudging Jon’s leg under the table, curious to see if he might come up with something to get them rolling.

\---

Jon sits up straighter, his attention imperceptibly switching between Martin and the approaching waiter, his expression stalling somewhat as Martin actually does what he _said._ It's one thing to want that rush. Another to have it arriving headlong with no idea of what's about to happen.

He busies any action on his part with a _very_ \- trust him it's a very - clever drink of wine.

\---

With the poor man entering a range close enough to listen, Martin turns slightly to Jon and scoffs, something new thrumming through his voice. "Go ahead, you keep _drinking._ Sir-- " 

And he's back to the waiter, his calm smile a switch to the fusebox. "I'd like your help settling a bit of a… a disagreement. My _partner_ here seems to think my dog's death - twelve years old, by the way, if that helps at all - isn't important enough to cancel our vacation to America. I'd like your opinion on the matter."

\---

Jon slides a particular _look_ towards Martin, his eyes squinting, and then he turns to the waiter, and his expression falls into something heavy-lidded, poised and unapologetic. He pulls his hair behind his ears. He sees how it is. _He's_ the bad guy in this one. Maybe he was the bad guy in their last... Performance. He can't remember.

It's... startlingly easy to fall into this one. He's starting to think reading statements with Martin is having an effect on him.

He lifts his wine glass to brandish with a curved wrist, his fingers curled around the glass, and musters every ounce of pompousness in his body, with just a _tinge_ of overwrought and over-produced heiress. 

"I just fail to see how a _dog_ is more important than six months of planning, you see. I mean, what are we going to do? Have a _funeral_ for the thing? It's just going to get cremated at the vet's."

\---

Martin's actually always the bad guy. That's the twist. Genuinely. He raises both hands and gestures to Jon, looking plaintively at the waiter. "You - You see what I have to put up with?"

He can see the man processing, figuring out both a polite restaurant-appropriate response and a way to exit the situation as smoothly as possible. Martin doesn't give him the chance, cutting him off as he barely makes it over an "I--". 

"That _dog_ has a _name_ , and you know it. Six _months_ , that's-- It's nothing, compared to that. Florida isn't going anywhere. And--" His voice cracks. "-- you never asked if I wanted anything _but_ cremate her. I do. I _do_ want a funeral."

\---

Jon puffs out his chest somewhat, and sucks on the insides of his cheeks, the tension around his lips making his features look all the more severe and judgmental. He levels the waiter with a look that is meant for Martin (But all the same, meant for the waiter, in this strange game of theirs, which really, is just for Martin; it's got complexes to it), and says, "I haven't been to America my entire life. He _knows_ how important this is to me. It's not _my_ fault he bought some inbred breed predisposed for spinal disc slips; I just truly don't see how this should interfere with _my_ chances at seeing dolphins and - and finding pearls, or whatever you do on beaches that are actually _warm_!"

He sighs. "It'll be like the damned cat all over. He just wants the excuse to mope about the house for another two months."

\---

Martin sniffs, glaring at Jon in a way that nearly looks genuine. Something about it _feels_ genuine, if not genuinely the emotion he's putting off. The act of doing this, sharing in this, something _secret_. It's definitely not just the alcohol. He can't analyze it, doesn't want to.

Warmth radiates between them in a ghastly Bermuda triangle where only two sides find comfort. Trapped in the Delta of Customer Service. One party silent, now, as if trapped physically. He's not, not really, but maybe the energy is tough to shake. 

"Of course he brings up the cat. The dolphins wouldn't even _like_ you. You-- Do I really - do I really matter to you less than Florida? _Florida_ ? It's not even the best state. There's-- _Bugs_."

\---

"Look." Jon fields an apologetic look to the waiter, but his expression still holds that pompous airiness to it. " _Obviously_ I don't want bugs. And _obviously_ I'm sad about the dog. Whatever."

He spends an appropriate amount of time giving the waiter solid contact and looking away as though guilty. "But it's not a reason to cancel a trip that would be good for _both_ of us."

\---

Martin slips out of it, somewhat, a physical twitch leaving him just disoriented enough for that frantic tone to waver. Jon's... beat him, somehow. He recovers, but it's different."You're right." 

It hangs in the air, swaying wind chimes. "Maybe I-I think I might need something else to think about. I just miss her." 

He looks to the waiter and gives an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry. I'm - I’m acting out. Rough, um, rough week, you know." Even the relief that floods through him from their temporary third feels good, though. Not just the bad. The man finally gets a word in, starting the process of dazedly excusing himself, but Martin's too busy watching Jon to hear it.

\---

Jon blinks and opens his mouth to respond and has to snap it shut, curling backwards and almost _ejecting_ the body language he'd exhibited before. It's a strange thing. It feels like it leaves him like a ghost, spooling out and leaving him deflated.

He wants to keep going. Half of him feels the sharp desire _to_ keep going, even if Martin's pulled out of it. He blinks and sets the wine glass down, a dazed expression washing over his features somewhat.

Belatedly, Jon stammers out some excuse to get the waiter to leave them alone, his face confused and astounded as he walks away from their table, no doubt ready to gossip in the kitchen about whatever the fuck _that_ was.

When he's gone, Jon breathes in a rush, "You pulled out of it, Martin, it surprised me, and wow, I had to pull myself physically from that, I didn't want to you know, which is strange, but wow she was really actually pissed at you, you know, and it's odd, because obviously _I'm_ not."

\---

The crackling static dissipates with the exit of their newest friend, and Martin's just about shoved off a cliff into reality via Jon's frantic voice. It sends him - tipsy, elated, floating - into a burst of giggles. 

"Aha, you switched genders a second time. I've _corrupted_ you. Completely diabolical. I love that. I love this game. I l--" he laughs again, resting his elbows at the table so he can hold his head up with both hands. "You're _really_ fun to play that game with."

\---

"It's fun. I've never-- I've never done that kind of thing. Before you. It's so indulgent. In such a fun way," Jon's smile is sharp as he takes another drink. He's pleasantly buzzing. Martin is so beautiful in this light.

"Weaponizing being other people. Something sexy about it."

\---

"It's called having _fun_ . I used to do it all the time, make up characters or... or versions I wanted to be, I've really - I never had someone to do them _with_." 

Martin blinks, openly doting on Jon in the most comfortable of ways. All half-lidded prolonged eye contact and attention. "You're good at it, Jon. You threw me off. I'm not used to-- I actually sort of have a stake in-- I-- _You're_ something sexy about it."

\---

Jon flushes and fidgets in the chair, his smile turning flattered. "I _hope_ you didn't find _her_ sexy. She was a nightmare. I don't know where I even dredged that up from."

\---

Martin's eyes track each motion, the upturn to the corners of his mouth, all the near-imperceptible little physical tics he has no business focusing on with how much wine's running through his system. "You're a nightmare and I still think you're sexy. I wonder where she gets it from?"

\---

Jon snorts and covers it by pressing his wrist to his mouth, his eyes glittering. "You're the _only_ person who could find me sexy. I swear."

\---

Jon keeps spurring him, and what is he supposed to do like this, _not_ flirt? "I don't believe that, Jon. If you could see what I see when you look in the mirror. I'm - I'm lucky, I think. Weird circumstances aside." Shortest of deliberating pauses. "Do you want to go make out right now? I was watching your mouth and now I can't with your hand over it." 

It tumbles out, and he's stopped worrying about whether he's talking too much. It's always too much. But that seems to be fine, for his company.

\---

Jon laughs and presses his hand over his face, heat filling him up. "It-- _Martin_ , our food's gonna be here soon! We can't-- I mean I _want_ to, but--" He giggles again.

\---

"I think we already ate." That sounds ominous, so he keeps going. "And - and I only wanted a sundae so I could show you I can tie cherries in my mouth."

\---

"You've always got these _plans_ , Martin, I swear." He hums, like he's thinking about it, clearing his head to see if their food is somehow on its way now. It's not. He squints at Martin and then flags down a waiter, who bustles over with a quizzical look.

"Yes, um, hi. Can we cancel our orders? I'm not, um, hungry anymore. And, um, order another bottle of wine? Thanks." He kind of waves the man off, and Jon can only imagine how their table is being discussed.

When he's gone, Jon leans across the table and levels Martin with a look. "Alright. I'll make out with you now."

\---

Martin waits, well-behaved and patient, as Jon sorts out the situation for the both of them. His hero. At least, up until it’s the two of them again, and Jon’s fixed on him, and they’re still in public, aren’t they. 

“Now?”

\---

Jon shrugs. "If I leave us any room to think about it, I'll probably freak out. So. Yeah. Now."

\---

Martin lifts his chin from his hands and takes one last sip of wine, eyeing Jon with a confusing amalgamation of passion and anxiety. Jon’s right, _again_ , and if he doesn’t move too they’ll hit a stalemate here. 

So he scoots along the booth, and there’s zero ways to make that sexy, but that hardly matters. Gets an arm around Jon’s head to loosely wind his fingers into his hair. The soft exhale where he parts to meet Jon’s lips is of bona fide appreciation, and he’s thinking maybe he might have some preferences. Pin in that one.

Where Jon lacks in his general tactile comfort, Martin holds an abundance, and he could die happy in the sensation of lips against his, with a texture winding between his fingers he’s proud to say is becoming _familiar_.

\---

Jon makes a sputtering sound the moment Martin is near him, and he makes an indignant sound when Martin leans in, and he's gearing up to make a "Don't you dare" sound, but then Martin is kissing him, and any complaints fall away.

He kisses back and stands up some, just enough to give himself some height, and leans in to all but nuzzle against Martin's hands in his hair, so deliriously good feeling that he can't help but nudge for more.

\---

Martin's own noise, from somewhere deep in his throat, is a muffled vibration by the time it reaches their mouths. It's a real struggle to deny the urge pressuring him into pushing more, asking for more, but he _does_ win out. The separation hurts, and he reminds himself that it's temporary as he pulls back. 

"Sorry. Crime of passion. We--" he laughs, breathless, smooths out Jon's hair as best he can. Tries so very hard not to let that distract him. It does. "Right. We should leave. I brought that gift I mentioned, earlier - just in case, you know, you wanted it out of the Archives."

\---

Jon glares at Martin. "You're lucky you're offering me a gift, or I'd be yelling at you for kissing me like that in the middle of a restaurant. Crime, _indeed._ "

But he very much wants to leave now. He's not sure he's fit for public anything right now, his lips buzzing and his thoughts circling around Martin, Martin, Martin. They've already tormented one poor waiter; if he drinks more, he might just start taking statements on accident.

He corks their new bottle of wine and throws down enough cash to cover the expenses plus a very, very generous tip.

\---

Martin nudges Jon from the booth, moving back around to the other side so they can both get out quicker. More efficient that way, even though they're both _orbiting_. 

Lucky, lucky. Always so lucky with this one. By the time he's left the booth - which he did as fast as he could without embarrassing himself to come out first - he's there to offer a hand. Least he can do to make up for it. Not that his grin ever wavered.

\---

Jon takes his hand gladly and uses it to propel himself up and out of the booth, and when he stands, he interlaces their fingers and just kind of stands there a moment, spellbound by looking at Martin's eyes. He says as much.

"I think your eyes are one of my favorite parts of you. They're just so gorgeous. There's so much going on."

\---

When caught between Jon's gaze and a desire to look away out of bashful shame of attention, the former wins out. He squeezes Jon's hand tighter. 

"In - In my eyes, or here?" The restaurant feels deathly quiet, to him. Jon was almost - well, _definitely_ \- the only thing he had an interest in focusing on.

\---

"In your eyes." Yeah, the wine's definitely had its effects on Jon. The world tilts just so, and it's hard not to keep giggling, not to keep pressing his hand to his mouth in an approximation of a nervous, happy little tic, hard not to just bubble and gush about anything and everything that comes to his mind. 

It's such a manufactured happiness, but they needed a night like this. At least, he thinks they did. He's not sure when they'll get it again. Strange domesticity swirls around them, and were they not making their way back to the Institute, where they live, it could almost be easy to pretend that he's somehow side-stepped into another reality, a reality where they don't hunt monsters and aren't becoming them, and the nebulously worrisome Watcher's Crown isn't hanging above them like an unknown anvil ready to drop at any point.

In this reality, they're just Martin and Jon, and they're finding each other and finding themselves and everything is _good_. And will remain so. 

They step out of the restaurant and into the chilly air of the night, and Jon shoulders his bag a little tighter, his fist wrapped tight around the neck of the bottle of wine. "I do want to go to America with you, you know."

\---

Martin says nothing, pocketing the compliment and the delirious way it scatters his thoughts. Every time. Every time, Jon finds _something_ about him worth complimenting that he's never heard before. Some new way his body is _fascinating_. 

Martin wants to get used to it. Maybe if he knows what he's looking for, he'll be able to see it himself in the mirror. One day. 

"I'll need a passport, but I'm… Me too, Jon." He lets it sit, processes that he's _excited_ about something. Some project with goals. And company. For _fun_. Once the contentment ebbs into a dull comfort, a few paces down the walk, Martin starts again. "It's a recording. The gift. I-I sort of got a statement from... Michael."

\---

Jon looks to Martin and smiles, his eyes wide. "Oh! That's-- His statement is sad. I remember that. He was about to kill me and I was just... _sad_ , for him. Rewarding statement."

"He seems to-- You seem to have him under control."

\---

Martin feels simultaneously useless and appreciated. A bizarre combination that keeps him from adequately enjoying Jon's excitement. Been there, done that, he has.

"It - It was less about the details of his story and more about - his - his feelings? Sort of? About being... _Michael_. I don't think I control him. He's not a pet."

\---

"I mean-- I don't think anyone can control a Spiral avatar. It's just-- He must like you, considering how often he visits you."

\---

Martin’s body is telling him he’s overdosing on _something_ right now, but it doesn’t seem to have any inclination towards telling him what it is. Traversing a confusing situation, being a _bit_ too rowdy (in public, no less), and trying to navigate through this without feeling inadequate despite inadequacy being integral to his reason for sharing... it's probably not the best for his higher brain functions. 

“Oh. Right, right. I-I also - _kind_ of want to give it to you so you can - er. See what I… I do. And tell me if I’m doing it right? You’re, um, s-sort of the expert, here.”

\---

"Expert? I mean. It's not like I was _trained_ , Martin. I Just-- _Do_ it, and do the research to learn it all." He keeps walking. "Michael is just-- Michael makes things _weird_ . Always has. Can't say I'm not happy he's chosen to pester _you_ this time. And At least he doesn't constantly threaten to kill you."

\---

Martin follows, attached at the hand. “ _Expert_ , yes, I mean - you’ve had years to do this, reading statements, I figured - you might want to know.” His breaths are coming on shorter and more strained. High-strung. “Maybe it’s another spider situation, where - where maybe the context is a bit different than, um, than what you think about them and maybe you could be... _friends_?”

\---

" _Friends_ with an avatar of the Spiral? I mean-- I mean, I guess I was _nice_ to who takes him over, but-- It's-- the Spiral wants _chaos_ , not answers. Won't answer. I didn't like that. And Michael gets so pissed _off_." He rolls his eyes. "He never answers anything."

\---

Martin pulls them both to a stop, shaking his hand free of Jon’s with a small sound of frustration. He briefly squeezes the strap of his own bag with both hands.

After a short pause, he turns to rummage through the bag, drawing the recorder from the depths of it so he can push it into Jon’s personal space, right at his chest.

\---

Jon grabs it on impulse, blinking rapidly as it's handed to him. "Do you want me to listen to it-- On the way home? Or-- Are you okay?" It just seems like a lot; just a lot of gestures, a lot of physicality.

\---

A pitiful sound escapes his mouth before the rest of the words follow, just as broken. If much, much faster. “I almost didn’t record it, but I did because I know you like knowing things, and I wanted to see if I could find something helpful you didn’t already know, and please don’t listen to it on the way home or I’ll die of embarrassment and I just realized I called it 'home' and I think I'm having a panic attack?”

\---

It's all a bit much and Jon stays still, looking away from the tape recorder to Martin. He tucks the recorder into his bag so he can have a free hand, and then he reaches out to take Martin's again. "It's okay. I'll listen to it later, alright? And-- I mean. It is home at this point. Is that-- does that bother you?"

\---

Once their hands touch again, Martin gives a deep sigh that leaves a cloud of vapor in the night air. “It doesn’t. There are-- _so_ many things going on. So many people and - and things _talking_ to me, all of a sudden. I’m afraid of messing up. Getting someone hurt, somehow. And other... things.”

\---

"We'll just-- have to be careful. You're not alone. You've got me to help you through it." He tugs on Martin's arm and keeps them walking. "And Michael seems to... Like? You? It's strange, but you seem to be doing good with him so far. He stabbed me the first time I met him."

\---

Much easier to tackle the Michael issue than the Martin issue. He squeezes Jon’s hand. “You two should meet. Maybe he doesn’t remember details, or, or we could use that. Someone else on our side. I think he wants to be useful, somehow.” 

He grips Jon’s hand tighter to avoid asking a question he hadn’t noticed needed answering before now, internally running through the events of their meeting. An itch that needs scratching, one he’s staunchly refusing to indulge.

\---

"Well, he'll have to come to me," Jon says stiffly, and not less than a little primly. "Or you can invite him over. If that's how it-- works. I don't know how you call him."

He glances down at their hands and squeezes back, narrowing his eyes slightly. It's just a brush of awareness over his skin; something left unsaid. He won't press it, but he cocks his head slightly, giving him the opportunity to try.

\---

“Mmm…” Martin starts, bottled up and actively forcing himself to focus on giving Jon information that might help. “I brought board games to a park and - and sort of made myself look like an insane person playing Jenga alone. I-I figured calling someone was sort of just... grabbing their attention.”

\---

"You--" The wine produces a nice giggle that flows from him; he can't help it. "I can't believe you played board games with _Michael_ , Martin. You-- you're astounding. I think-- I mean. If you've gotten him to side with the Beholding because of _Jenga_... That's--" He laughs again, light and airy.

\---

Martin joins in, because Jon’s damned laughter is _infectious_ , he wants to get him to do that every day if he can manage it. 

Giddy off the wine, whatever they’d done during dinner, the appreciation for what he contributes to this, how they all come together and force his guard down - it just slips out. “Does the word ‘Crown’ mean anything to you, Jon?”

\---

The laugh dries up all but immediately. He can't help it; it's sobering. "The Watcher's Crown," He says, and the grip on the wine bottle tightens.

"It's-- I don't _know_ yet. It's a ritual. I think it's the Beholder's ritual. But I don't know what it is, or what it-- what ending the world for the Watcher would even _mean_ . I mean. The other's, it's self explanatory. I-I mean, I've _felt_ the Unknowing. But the Watcher--" He's rambling. He's rambling because he's scared and nothing scares him more than _this._

"Did-- Did Michael say something?"

\---

"He said my Crown might not be so bad." Martin's relieved, having asked, but he doesn't want Jon scared. "I tried to get him to elaborate and he didn't. I tried to wager and I don't really - really have anything... to... _oh_. I have an idea." 

Martin's shoulder brushes Jon in a gesture of comfort before continuing. "Do you think there might be some way to - to separate Michael from Michael?"

\---

"To-- pull the spiral out of him? I don't know. I don't-- I don't think so? He--" His voice gets quieter. "The spiral chose someone else, um, a woman named Helen, and Michael was just... Shredded? Shredded apart. I don't know if they can-- _separate_. You'd have to... Maybe there's a ritual, you could make?" He gives a one-shouldered shrug.

It's enough of a question to keep him from focusing on what Michael _said_ , but it still leaves him worrying. _Martin's_ crown. He doesn't like that.

\---

"Chose someone else? Maybe it can - can do something different, in a swap. If it's inclined to. It obviously can't just choose to let them go at any normal point, but - but - where is Helen, right now? Already-- Did she go through one of the doors?"

\---

Jon nods. "One of Michael's victims. He lured her in, she-- she's a real estate agent? I wonder if he's done it yet."

\---

"M-maybe we can go see if she's bored of being a real estate agent? And - and maybe ask Michael if he'd tell us about the Crown if it... works out, first? Then you can know. I figure…” 

He pauses to think. “If Helen's a replacement, she's not just _anyone_. She must be interesting enough for the Spiral to choose her, right? It-- Mutually beneficial?" Martin's stammering through it, like he's terrified any plan he comes up with might be met with harsh ridicule.

\---

Jon twists his lips as he thinks. "We can-- look into her. But if Michael hasn't touched her, we shouldn't-- we shouldn't _push_ her into it. We shouldn't-- _force_ her to be a monster." But it's tempting. It's all so tempting. To experiment and see if it's possible to stop being a monster. To _win_.

And possibly get the Spiral as an ally, thankful that it's not Michael, anymore.

"Elias might know something. We could-- ask. Not about the Crown. He won't tell us. But-- Michael."

\---

"I don't - I don't think Elias should have any idea what we're doing. Um. He came to talk to me, I can - I'll tell you later. We should ask Michael." 

He lifts Jon's hand with his own, slows until he can kiss the center of the back of Jon's. Lingers there for a moment, sets a precedent.

"No forcing. We ask."

\---

"Of course." Jon's expression softens a little at the kiss, some of the lines of worry falling away. 

"He probably won't like it, you know. Won't think it's possible. He's a bit... Um, from what I gathered, a bit melancholic about the whole thing. Can't say I blame him."

\---

"He's hurting. Both of them. Shelley's in there, even if the Spiral doesn't like it. They-- I noticed sometimes, they switch. If they can do that, I think… it's a start." 

Martin hums as they walk, mulling it over. "Someone who - who likes it, but we can talk to. If Helen is a good person, it could work. Hypothetically."

\---

"She, um, is calmer. More stable. She helped us, sometimes." Jon is considering it all. It's not a bad idea. He's too afraid to hold out hope. "Hypothetically, let's call him tomorrow." He pauses. "Elias will know. We can't _stop_ him from knowing anything, not really. We can just-- distract him."

\---

"Stable is good. We can see, tomorrow. I have - I have more board games." 

Martin's hand tenses, relaxes, repeats in an I-love-you. He likes their growing list of little gestures. "For now, let's... just enjoy each other? Tonight? That - that sounds vulgar. I mean your company."

\---

I-love-you-too. It's almost automatic, at this point. Jon raises the bottle of wine conspiratorially. "That can be arranged. I think we should drunkenly online shop, since we've evidently moved in together in the archives and I'm starting to get increasingly embarrassed for the state of our living arrangements."

\---

"I'd like a mattress. You've contained my sprawling nature with that cot. Martin Blackwood unleashed." And just like that he's laughing again, impending crisis averted. 

Put off, really, but... semantics. "I can't wait to hear your drunk opinions on decor."

\---

"Our aesthetics better match, otherwise I'm calling the whole thing off." He says, jokingly severe and cold.

\---

"You can take the reins. I'm content to watch you scroll." A night of free entertainment. Much better than paying for a movie. He feels like a teenager.

\---

"I haven't bought anything like that in _ages_. I kind of gave up on the whole--" He lets his eyes roll around, searching for a word that isn't horribly depressing. He fails. "Living, thing."

\---

" _It's alive_." Cue failed attempt at maniacal laughter. He needs to quit dabbling with impressions.

They round the corner, Institute in view, so he quickens their pace now that he knows where they're going. "I hope you can… un-give it up. I'd selfishly love to see you unhinged over throw pillows."

\---

"Unhinged. Unhinged, he says. I don't get _unhinged_ . I'm _normal_ about-- about things, you know." He all but pouts at Martin.

\---

"So you _do_ have throw pillow opinions," Martin teases, brushing his shoulder against Jon's while he all but rushes them along. At night, it's easier to not feel so on-display, and he's starting to be at peace with all the weird things he does here. Maybe not permanently, he's certainly not _fixed_ , but it's a good start.

\---

"I-- I mean. Who doesn't? That would be-- of course I've opinions." He has to walk fast to keep with Martin, and he's going to have to have a Talk eventually about the length of his legs in comparison to Martin's.

By the time they reach the stairs to the entrance of the Institute, Jon forces them to slow down some, hiking his bag back up to the height of his shoulder. "I'll have to dimension everything, anyways. I don't think we can fit much more than a full-sized bed in there."

\---

Martin doesn't push him about his opinions on throw pillows. His own are quite controversial, and there's no point in poking the bear. "We don't need a _massive_ bed, just one that works and won't kill me in my sleep. I think we can manage that. Oh, new chair. _Especially_ if you're having guests, people making statements, might be nicer that way."

\---

"New chair. Right. Something with cushions. My poor back has _not_ had a good month." He snorts and opens the door for him. In the light of the night, the lobby is mostly empty, just a receptionist and a few people milling about; hours of operation ended almost an hour ago.

"I wouldn't mind a chaise, either. To read in."

\---

“Mm.” 

Martin takes a moment to imagine it. Not the presence of a chaise itself, but Jon nested there deep in thought. 

“I’m fine with that. We should probably come up with a good reason for us living there and moving _furniture_ in - we’re already suspicious enough.”

\---

"Do we _need_ one? I hadn't-- I hadn't thought about that."

\---

Once they've reached the lifts, Martin nods out a reply. 

"Might've been easier a long time ago, but - but we can workshop it. Maybe our drunk selves are better planners, since _clearly_ we can't come up with a good reason sober. I still think we should include them. Sasha and Tim, at least."

\---

Jon's expression twitches, but he gives a short nod. "Probably. I just-- it's. It's hard, you know. It is. Hard to-- To even look at them."

\---

Martin gives Jon an earnest smile, leading them down the halls one step ahead. “It’ll get harder the longer you don’t. It’s been _weeks_ and - and both of us could’ve died. Sasha was supposed to, and she didn’t. Before things - before you can’t predict what might come next, we can all - all work together, maybe?"

\---

"...Fine. Okay. It-- yes, I suppose." He sighs, though, and looks... Apprehensive, to say the least.

\---

"We--" Martin stops, watching Jon's face, figuring it can wait until it's more fun to do this. When it feels like a game and not a terrifying, potentially lethal chore.

"We can wait on that. Furniture first, then we figure out how to tell our coworkers I'm living in your office. We could just say I'm _seducing_ you." And with that he opens the door for Jon, this time, because as fun as it is to order him around he _does_ have the wine bottle in one hand and Martin's hand in the other, so. Gentlemanly sportsmanship.

\---

Jon steps in with a wry smile, giving a funny little bow in acknowledgement of him opening the door. "You _have_ seduced me, Martin. So congratulations."

He sets the wine bottle on the desk and shrugs off his bag, letting it fall unceremoniously to the ground. He'll pick it up later. Rolling his shoulders, he walks the short steps to their room, pulling off his clothes as he goes. If they're in for the night, he's getting comfortable. Martin can deal with him shopping in sleep pants and a t-shirt.

He comes back out after a few minutes with his hair thrown up lazily, wearing a faded NIN shirt from college and his favorite sweats. "We need to find some mugs, because there's definitely no wine glasses here."

\---

Biting his tongue to avoid the near-obligatory ‘was it supposed to be hard?’ threatening to come out, Martin focuses on unhooking the belt from his pants instead. Very important task. The mortifying ordeal of being known through your terrible taste in vibrant boxer shorts is a worthy sacrifice for comfort. 

Martin spends the few minutes of solitude trying to undo the buttons of his shirt, managing about half before his hand decides it’s over the entire situation and all the work he’s put it through the past few days. He tries desperately not to even _look_ at Jon, because he’s probably switched out into something he wants to stare at, and mumbles down at the button he’s struggling with. “We’ve committed to being reckless heathens, Jon, sharing a bottle would be the least weird thing we did all night.”

\---

Jon wrinkles his nose like _that_ is the grossest thing he's ever experienced or thought of in his entire life. "That's disgusting, Martin. It doesn't even give the wine a chance to aerate." He pauses, thinking quickly through their options. "Fine."

He steps close to Martin and idly undoes the buttons for him; somehow he just Knows Martin needs the help, and he, Jon, can provide it. His voice is light, joking. "Besides. I'm no heathen. I have a God, thank you much."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be a direct continuation of this scene, but it was over 25k words so we've split it up here!


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Destroying the sanctity of the Archivist's chair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a direct continuation of the last scene split up for length. 
> 
> Content warnings:  
> \- Alcohol use (Brought home that bottle of wine)  
> \- Explicit sexual content starts at the conversation about bedside tables and lasts just about the rest of the chapter (I seriously promise we don't let them get rowdy like this for at least another 100k+ words, that's not the point of this story! These scenes happened to be pretty close together but aren't the norm).
> 
> \- Jack

Martin hums out his appreciation, lifting both hands to the sides of Jon’s face to hold him there. “Can’t we indulge in a little pagan fanaticism without any of the commitment?” 

It’s his turn to mark out the details of Jon’s eyes, relaxed enough to be content with falling deeply into them both. Martin keeps the stream of comments he could make in his own head as souvenirs, and then suddenly he’s lost track of how much time has passed since he started smiling vacantly down at Jon’s face.

\---

Jon slowly pulls Martin's shirt off, sliding his hands down Martin's arms, and he maintains eye contact with him, a pleased little thrill running down his spine as he keeps looking and keeps looking and keeps looking. He presses against the hands on his face and lets his gaze turn half-lidded and lazy. He could stay here forever, he thinks.

"Pagan fanaticism without commitment is what uni was for," He laughs a breathy laugh, and reaches up to pat Martin's cheek.

\---

The flame flickers out with Jon’s hand at his face, and Martin climbs back from the depths of Jon’s eyes with a brief kiss to his forehead. 

Every time he remembers that he’s completely, royally fucked by his ever-growing fondness, Jon finds a way to make him not care. “Pretend it’s my turn in university and you’re indulging my pagan fanaticism. Is the bottle open, or are we--” 

He cuts off abruptly, off somewhere else for the shortest of seconds, before shifting his wording. “Do we need to open it?”

\---

Jon shakes his head, pulling back from Martin's agonizingly addictive space. "They opened it for us. No need to pull out your corkscrew." 

He snorts, and walks back out the room and into the office to grab the bottle off the desk. He pulls the cork out with a solid  _ pop _ and sets it on the desk, a small ring of red growing beneath it.

\---

“Ah. Good, it’s - it’s not exactly  _ sanitary _ .” He’s not sure if Jon knew that he’d kept the thing, or if he’s just joking around. It helped his sense of safety, is all. And it's dried with their blood. Something poetic in there, surely.

Martin joins him out in the main room, electing to sit up on the desk beside the bottle. He’s gotten used to shifting pens and paper out of the way to perch, lately. Once it’s uncorked he wastes no time grabbing the neck and lifting it back to pour down his throat, offering it to Jon. 

“First order of business, a mattress. I’d say we could fit the color scheme around our favorites, but - green and red are very  _ Christmas _ , aren’t they? Black and red - a bit too  _ goth _ .”

\---

Jon sits in the Archivist's chair and props his feet up on the desk, sitting back with a relieved sigh. He grabs the bottle of wine by the neck and wrinkles his nose before taking a deep drink, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist.

The scarcely used laptop that perches at the end of the desk is grabbed with a few fingers, and he logs in, opens a few web browsers, and fields a look up to Martin. "Green and red's a bit  _ dark _ , too. We don't need to help the Archives in being dark and depressing." He blinks. "I've never picked out furniture with someone."

\---

“I  _ like _ dark, but you’re the designer here. What about blues and purples, a bit of white?” Martin maneuvers so that his legs hang over the side of the desk Jon’s sitting at, and so he can see the screen at an angle. 

“You could do with a memory foam pillow. Might help your neck, with that posture of yours.”

\---

Jon wrinkles his nose. "They're too hard. I don't sleep with a pillow half the time. I don't want anything crazy." He fidgets somewhat to look at Martin. "Is my posture that bad?"

\---

“It’s not exactly sustainable,” Martin dodges narrowly, lifting the bottle again in the hopes he’ll shortly get properly wine drunk. “You’re free to use me as a pillow. No complaints yet.”

\---

"You  _ are _ very soft." The first few nights had been... Strange. Stiff and straight-backed and afraid any movement might jostle and scare Martin away. Or worse yet, that he'd scare himself away and ruin it all.

As they'd slowly relaxed around one another, though, so too have their sleeping arrangements. To say Jon sleeps like a normal man would be the lie to end all lies. The moment he gets comfortable he becomes... Some sort of clinging sea creature, suctioning himself to surfaces with the intensity of a starfish in low tide.

What that means for Martin is a very, very unpredictable nightly cuddling session. More than once, Jon has woken up curled in his lap like a fucked up cat. Or pressed nearly so deeply under him he was being swallowed by Martin's back. Or upside down and wrapped around Martin's legs.

"You're a good pillow."

\---

“Mm,” comes Martin’s knowing response, as if scanning Jon’s own thoughts to validate it. He’s not about to confess—

“When I wake up in the middle of the night and put a hand on your back, you make little noises. I, erm, I think I can tell when you’re having nightmares. Usually, when - when I pet you and they’re bad sounds, you - you stop.”

\---

Jon looks up from the computer screen, his expression a little-- no, a lot-- mortified. "You have to  _ pet _ me in my sleep so I don't make sounds? That's-- Martin, that's awful. That's so-- maybe we should get a king, so you don't have to do that."

\---

“No, nonono, I-- Sometimes you  _ make _ sounds when I do and - and I think it’s charming, and then I fall back asleep, but s-sometimes you’re tense and - and I figure you just get bad dreams, and it seems like it - it helps, when I do that.” Martin shrinks back at the look on Jon’s face, regretting what he said already. “It’s-- You don’t keep me up at night, I pass right out again.”

\---

"I've never-- I never remember that. You must-- you really must smooth the worry away."

His dreams are atrocious. He's not sure if they're supernatural in nature yet, or just the byproduct of them  _ having _ been, before he went back in time, but the landscapes they paint behind his eyelids scar him deep, deeper than bone or gristle.

He didn't sleep, much, until he and Martin began sharing a bed.

Instead of saying any of that, he swipes the wine bottle from Martin's hands and says, "Okay. I've been negotiated down to a queen. You don't mind my midnight whining."

\---

“That’s what they call me.  _ Smooth _ .” Martin laughs, painfully awkward, his ears hot on either side of his head after the admission paired with a healthy dose of fright. He bends back down to peer at the screen. “I wouldn’t mind a bedside table, to put…  _ stuff _ in.”

\---

"Of course we're getting a nightstand," He scoffs, and then pauses and squints at Martin again. A lot of squinting aimed at him lately. "Why did you say it like that.  _ Stuff. _ "

\---

Martin's not immune to Jon's carefully-constructed, evil squinting. He doesn't cave in, though. "I don't know. Just  _ stuff _ . Books, erm. Things. Whatever else we figure we might -- need."

\---

"Oh, yes, we should keep books in our room that sits inside a library inside a nightstand. Brilliant." Jon takes another swig and then turns the computer to Martin, flicking through a couple tabs. 

The first is a black bed frame, simple with a high back. The second is brown, with an end rail as well as a backboard. The third is grey. "Something like this? Simple."

\---

"I--  _ My _ books, not the  _ Library's _ , and - and private things. For-- So they're not just - not just  _ out _ ." Martin inhales deeply through his nose, and points at the second option. "That one."

\---

"So we're going with brown. Earthy tones." Jon nods to himself and idly passes off the wine bottle to Martin. Without looking up, he says, "You're not putting sex toys in my nightstand. Do you want a two or three drawer one?"

\---

"Ididn'tsaysextoys," Martin whines out in one short breath, snagging the bottle before he can say anything else. 

He's recovered nicely by the time he sets it down again, except he hasn't, and he doesn't set it down. He's using it to gesture. "I just mean, in general, there are some - some things we might not want  _ out _ \- the three drawer, please - and maybe one day we'll want to - to experiment, and, you know."

\---

Jon adds a nice three-drawer nightstand to their cart and gives a nice firm "mm _ hmm _ " as he loudly clicks the button on the track pad.

"Long or tall dresser?  _ You _ want to experiment, that means. I like ones with mirrors on them. " His voice is carefully strong, made focused by the task at hand, but he's flushing brightly.

\---

“No mirrors unless you can take them down, please. I said maybe one day  _ we _ , Jon, not  _ me _ , just because I have ideas-- “ Gesticulating with the wine bottle. “--doesn’t mean I’m - I’m not consulting you first. Long ones are easier to manage.”

\---

"No mirrors, then. Just asking me to look like utter garbage day in, day out." He finds something nice with six drawers and no mirror and shows it to Martin briefly before adding it to their cart. The main furniture is the easy part. It's the bedding that has him worried, an actual aesthetic coloration that takes effort to coordinate. "We'll see. Maybe I'm not opposed to your  _ ideas _ ."

\---

“That’s not why. I could look at you all day.” Martin’s lost track of what Jon’s messing around with now at the screen. He swirls the wine bottle so the liquid inside makes a satisfying noise within the glass. “Am I allowed to share some with the class, Mr. Sims?”

\---

He flicks his eyes from the screen to Martin for a second, and then back again, running a hand down his mouth to stay composed. "I'm listening."

\---

“I could be under your desk right now while you build us a house out of the Archives,” Martin starts, flushed and bubbly and  _ finally _ wine drunk. “You can still ask me for opinions. I’ve been thinking about you bracing your hands on the headboard wh... _ ell _ , okay, that one’s a bit much. I have - a, erm, painfully active imagination.”

\---

Jon kind of flusters out a few different half-syllables at that, his careful composure completely ruined in the span it takes Martin to say all  _ that _ . "You-- I. I mean. I--  _ Martin. _ What would you even do under-- oh my God."

He's terrifyingly quiet for a second. "Oh my God. Furniture shopping is turning you on."

\---

“I’m not turned on by  _ furniture _ , Jon — Your dedication to it is, um, attractive? You’re - attractive? That you want to do this with me? It’s - it’s all so domestic.” 

Martin holds the bottle out as a peace offering. “You’re turning me on. I’m sorry - is that - I’d really like to - Christ, I promise my mouth is better at things  _ other _ than talking.”

\---

"Martin," Jon says, and nervously giggles as he takes the bottle, downing a large gulp and wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist. His mind buzzes pleasantly, and it helps to cut through what Martin is  _ saying _ . He's certain he'd be rendered useless if he were sober, hearing this. "Martin, you're killing me."

He taps on the screen to show a few different bed spreads. "How about something basic? Black and gold. What is it you want to do, exactly?"

\---

Martin genuinely takes a moment to ponder the color scheme, drawing it up in his mind. He nods sagely. “Black and gold works, very regal. Very  _ us _ , too - not the regal part, just - that balance. You know.”

Now he gets to reward himself for his mature opinion on the matter. “There’s enough space for me to get on my knees under your desk, and--” God, he hates throwing sex terminology at him. Really throws a wrench in how much he wishes he could somehow be suave. “--I’d really love to - to give you head right now, Jon. If you’d let me.”

\---

"Give me..." He says it slowly and then trails off, his eyes immediately widening and his hand flying to his mouth. "That's-- that's obscene. I'm- Martin, I'm  _ shopping _ and you want to--" He blinks. "It's not a  _ blowjob _ . Also, how am I supposed to get your opinions? Or even shop?"

He's rambling and he knows it, words fast and embarrassed and more than a little aroused but in a mortified way, like he just realized he  _ could _ be aroused by Martin's words alone.

\---

"It--  _ technically, _ it is a blowjob? I can-- It's not hard to lift my head and answer or - or go 'mhm' with - with my mouth on you, Jon, I-It's not obscene, and you-- I mean, we can see if it's - if it's too distracting, um." 

Martin fidgets with his hands, because he's lost the wine bottle and that was the only thing keeping him at an acceptable level of coherency. He lifts a hand to bite one of his nails on reflex, and he hasn't done  _ that _ in a while. "I usually can't m-make myself ask, most of the time. I'm sort of-- I've thought about it more times than - than..." He trails off. "You said you were listening. So I... I told you."

\---

The thing is, with any other person, it would be a resounding  _ no _ . A no with a glare and an uncomfortable silence and a coldness from Jon that absolutely would be manufactured on purpose to put as much distance between him and the person as possible.

But it's Martin. And Martin makes him feel worthy of this, and Martin makes him feel loved, and Martin... Martin is just Martin in all the ways that no one else in the world is.

Suffice to say, it's easier to feel adventurous with him. So he says, "It  _ is _ obscene--" And he takes another drink from the bottle of wine and continues, "--But okay."

\---

"Are you - are you saying yes?" His tone is a bit too excited, by all accounts, but it reflects how he feels about the situation.

\---

"Well-- yes. But only if you can pay attention."

\---

His hand reaches out for the wine bottle, one last celebratory drink as he holds sturdy eye contact with Jon. There's a smile he can't contain around the lip, and when he puts it down it's still plastered just as firmly to his face. 

He's not even self-conscious enough to feel comically undressed, standing around in his socks and boxers like this is their bedroom and not a place of business. He hops off the desk so he can bend down enough to get a few fingers at Jon's jaw and tilt his head. Might as well get a kiss in. 

"Back up a bit, so I can fit?" He says against Jon's lips, giddy and hyper-aware of the taste of wine between both of them.

\---

Jon shivers, and already knows that he's not going to get any shopping done anytime soon. He very carefully backs the chair up, leaning forward to keep his mouth against Martin's, lips tingling with wine and Martin's presence.

His voice, when he pulls away, is deathly still and serious, belied by the slow-creep of excitement and hope layered beneath it. "If it's gross-- which it seems like it will be-- we're stopping. Just so you know."

\---

Martin places a kiss at the center of Jon’s forehead with a soft “mhm”, brushing his thumb along his jaw like leaving would be too painful. “Tap out and that’s it.” 

He positions himself in front of the chair, sandwiched between Jon and the desk, and braces his hands above Jon’s knees to lower down to his own. He re-situates himself into a more comfortable position - though his knees won’t forgive him later - fingers jittery as he brushes them up Jon’s shirt to ease out his nerves. 

This is painfully heady, and he’s nearly sure he’s dreaming. If he could see his own face, he imagines he might look very, very stoned. He genuinely forgets Jon’s even there, taking in the overwhelming warmth of skin against skin.

\---

It becomes all too real, all at once. Suddenly Martin is on his knees and his hands are on his lower belly, and Jon puts the laptop on the table to lean back and look down, his hands flying to Martin's hair as an automatic response to  _ all _ of this.

The wine on his tongue speaks in smooth intonations that gurgles up from some unknown place inside, soft confidence. "You look so beautiful down there."

\---

The hands in his hair draw a noise best described as a ‘mrp’ from his throat, leaving his eyes helplessly shut for a long, long second. Martin only shakes it off so he can give Jon a real reason to reward him. 

“Imagine the view from down here,” he sighs, and lets his smile fall back into place. His fingers hook beneath the waistband of Jon’s sweats and tug, until they’re down past his knees and he can freely press one cheek against his inner thigh to look up at him with nothing short of terrible, terrible devotion. Giving him a chance to warm up to this in steps. No use overwhelming him in any way other than  _ good _ .

\---

Jon's look is equally one of love, even if his voice is one of... Well, it can only really be described as a whine, marred by the shiver in his voice from the feeling of Martin's face pressed against his thigh. He's already wet, and he says, "Martin. Martinnnnn. We're going to make a mess. On my chair. That I work in."

\---

Martin ignores him, at first, in favor of trailing soft kisses up the inside of Jon’s thigh while his eyes meet Jon’s in a way that he hopes  _ burns _ . In favor of nudging his legs further apart with a thumb rubbing gentle circles just above Jon’s other knee. 

“Aren’t you meant to be shopping?” He just about mouths the words against Jon’s skin, and he's not being smug about it.

\---

With every ounce of self-control he can muster, Jon sniffles down at Martin, and he doesn't make an obscene noise, and he doesn't proclaim his love, and he doesn't lavish in the look Martin gives him, even though inside he's doing all of those things and it's extremely hard not just fall apart. "Please." it's a little tight, but still; he manages a good amount of derision. "I think you might die right now if I didn't pay attention to you."

\---

“Who, me?” Martin blinks, pausing momentarily to give Jon his undivided attention - the coherent kind. “I’ll get mine sooner or later. I’m patient enough for you to finish your business.” 

He’s not in any hurry, and proves that point by inching his way up, committing each spot he kisses to memory. “You wanted  _ me _ to pay attention, remember?”

\---

Jon ticks his jaw. He could just do what his attention wants: close the laptop and sit back and lavish in Martin's attention and touch him all over. Commit his skin to memory. Let the wine speak and ebb the majority of his anxieties away to just... Touch.

But there's a tempting second option.

"So I did." He says, and sure, he's not the  _ best _ actor, and his voice isn't quite the suave confidence he wants, it's close enough, and it's  _ fun _ , and he didn't know this kind of thing  _ could _ be fun.

He pulls the laptop closer and opens his legs a little wider. "I guess you'll have to. I'm onto sheets now. Do we like flannel? Cotton? T-shirt?"

\---

They’ll make a fine actor of him yet. 

“Hm.” Martin considers each texture as he laves over Jon’s skin with his tongue until he’s content to bite gently. He’s so very gentle with Jon. Not because he’s afraid he’ll  _ break _ , to get as comprehensive an understanding of his reactions as possible. 

“Flannel or cotton, not the third,” Martin says quietly, his last word partially cut off by his move to lick slowly, experimentally over Jon’s clit, eyes turned upward where Jon’s focused on the screen.

\---

Just the bite alone is enough to have him jump in his seat, but he's valiant in not making a noise, just a light hum as he chooses cotton. Lighter on their skin, and he's noticed they tend to heat up when they sleep. Jon has to take a full breath once he adds it to the cart, and is almost recovered enough to move onto couches and other seating options-- they need more seating in the main office-- when Martin does  _ that _ .

Jon's thighs tense and a surprised " _ Oh _ " leaves his lips, his hips jerking in surprise. It's so hard not to say anything. To continue...  _ shopping _ of all things.

It takes everything in him to grind out, "Love seat or armchair."

\---

Martin holds still at the first noise, forcing himself not to grin. He hasn’t  _ earned _ anything self-congratulatory yet, and he did just tell him he was patient, so. He exhales against Jon, shivering briefly as the reality of the situation hits him.

“Armchair if it’s for us, loveseat for guests,” and he’s fixing a hand around the underside of one of Jon’s knees, lifting him just slightly at an angle so he can get a better surface area, the flat of his tongue a deeper, more satisfying pressure there.

\---

The thing is, even if it weren't so...  _ obscene _ , it'd be hard to concentrate. It's such a new, foreign feeling, and the knowledge that it's  _ Martin _ what's causing it is enough to send Jon wanting to spiral into focus. He lets out a small  _ oh _ , and clicks around on armchairs with fingers that nearly shake.

This... Game... Is harder than he anticipated, but he's not willing to give in quite so soon. Not yet.

\---

Martin likes the quiet punctuated by the little noises he’s drawing out of Jon, and sees no conflict between paying attention and being obvious about what he’s doing. It’s just  _ fun _ to express his satisfaction with a moan that’s more a vibration than a sound.

As he works his mouth over Jon, he starts letting his hands roam - up his thighs, to Jon’s hips, holding him steady. He’s tempted to go higher, but not yet. Jon’s still working. Martin’s playing somewhat fair.

\---

A shiver wracks through his body, and it's getting  _ hard _ , hard to not look down, hard to not just fall to the floor and pull Martin close, hard to not just become undone in the chair.. Jon certainly hopes Martin appreciates his restraint.

Still, the breathy little noises increase, unable to keep them at bay, and his vision keeps swimming to keep up with what's on the screen in front of him. It's starting to not matter too much to him, and he all but selects a great black armchair at random, to get the choice out of the way.

\---

Martin loves everything about him. They should play this game more often, because it’s one he’s already won by virtue of playing at all. Everything Jon does makes him  _ crazy _ .

He pulls back just enough to ask, “Decided you’re done asking my opinions?” and then eases Jon just barely closer by his hips. At the new angle he replaces his tongue with one of his thumbs, stroking slowly, taking the opportunity to lick further down and penetrate him almost teasingly. 

He watches for Jon’s reaction, ready to back off if he’s not fine with it, praying to whichever god is most merciful that he doesn’t push him away.

\---

"It seems--" Jon arches his back, sitting up dead straight, and a strangled moan escapes his throat. It feels  _ good _ , in a strange way that just edges on the overwhelming, something he might have to get used to, if Martin is this insistent normally.

He tries again. "It seems--" Oh, but he's caught off with another moan as Martin pulls inside him, every one of his muscles tensing in surprise. "Oh,  _ fuck _ Martin." 

Well. That counts as a loss, he thinks. He takes that excuse to melt, and mumble, "It seems your mouth’s a bit occupied," But grinding it out after three solid tries doesn't quite have the reverb it originally intended.

\---

Martin nearly falls apart himself as his own name in time with Jon tensing all around him makes him whimper. As if he’s  _ helpless _ and not the one causing it.

He takes what might be the best moment of his life to push deeper, and it is obscene, Jon’s right, there’s really no other way to describe fucking him open with his tongue with newfound boldness. Martin’s a real gentleman, though, and he pulls out just long enough to give him a compliment for his troubles. 

“I love your voice.” 

And as if he can’t physically tear himself away from what he’s doing much longer, he slides right back in, shivering at how easy it is and how responsive Jon is and how all of this feels like heaven with Jon’s thighs on either side of him, Jon all around him, no possible distraction.

\---

Jon's hands fly to his mouth, muffling the sounds that leak out unbidden. Martin may love his voice, but he's  _ loud _ and it's a lot, and he's very quickly sliding into a territory where he doesn't care what he sounds like, but he does, still, for the time being, and moaning like... Well, moaning like a whore isn't necessarily something he thought he could  _ do _ until just right this moment, and it takes him by surprise.

Martin's said something to him. And oh, God, when he catches up to it, he makes another plaintive noise and gasps, "I love your tongue," and lets his hands drift down to tug into Martin's hair, his own personal handrail.

\---

He’s about to reach up and pull Jon’s wrists away from his mouth when they go to his hair instead, and Martin  _ really _ needs to stop being surprised at how much that unravels him. He’s always liked a hand in his hair, but with Jon it feels like a  _ need _ . 

He rumbles out a “my tongue loves you” once he finds enough self-control to ease out, only to move his thumb out of the way and swirl his tongue in circles around the edges of Jon’s clit. Not enough self-control to second-guess replacing where his tongue was with one finger, though, finding Jon slick enough that there’s not an ounce of resistance. He’s not really pushing yet, just seeing if Jon even likes it as he strokes slowly in and out, stopping short of the second knuckle because if he’s getting lucky he’s saving that for  _ later _ , but Martin’s shaking with how hard it is to stay at that pace.

\---

Jon's voice is just a litany of sound now, the unfamiliarity of the situation almost as pleasurable as the feeling itself. He's not surprised he's falling apart; if he knew Martin could do  _ this _ , he might have requested it before.

He's certain Martin could tear him apart, inch by inch, and he'd thank him. His skin sings for Martin, and he's surprised he's held out this long, this many years, in finally giving himself to him. No more of the performance, of the game, of anything approaching suave; each press of Martin's finger pulls him apart and makes him new.

\---

“You have  _ no _ clue,” Martin starts, breath shaky where he lifts his head up, “how much you’re complimenting me right now.” 

He slides a second finger along with the first, his other hand splayed over his hip and part of his stomach, and the best way to describe it is he’s petting him, not traveling too far up his side to his ribs. 

Martin lets himself be smug now. “I’m doing this,” he says as he crooks his fingers slightly up to the second knuckle, “you tell me where it feels best.”

He knows Jon’s got himself off before, but the details are foggy on Martin’s end and he knows from personal experience that someone else’s hands are a completely different ballpark. He rocks his curled fingers inside him as he watches Jon’s face, once again content to live in a moment like this forever. 

He’s got it bad.

\---

Never has anything penetrative felt so good. There's normally an economical nature to Jon's own pleasuring; if an orgasm is stress relief, no need to draw it out. A quick little thing before falling asleep and praying for dreamless oblivion. The occasional aroused fantasy played out over the course of a half an hour, but not often, and not without its immediate post-orgasm guilt.

This is different.

It actually  _ feels good _ , and Jon finds himself rocking in the chair moving in time with Martin's fingers, and he wants something  _ deeper _ , he wants more, he feels something so primal and full of love that to call it economical would make the Spiral laugh from the outlandish lie.

"I trust you," He gasps, when he has the breath to form words, and it's true. He'd let Martin do anything at this point, this high on feeling him. It feels like Martin is in his  _ brain _ , swirling all around him, and he never wants it to stop.

\---

Martin can’t read minds, but he can read cues. Jon’s not the open book he first assumed in that he can’t make an educated guess about his life history just by looking at him, but it’s his body, his reactions, the way he moves that makes  _ sense _ to Martin.

And what is he, if not a giver? Martin rocks in time with Jon, and maybe Jon doesn’t even notice his movements are actually controlling Martin’s pace and he’s working him open at roughly the speed Jon seems comfortable at, until—

Until he’s not, and Martin’s slipping a third finger in and sinking them as deep as they’ll go, tilting toward the angle where he thinks is best. Educated guess. 

“There?” It’s a breathless, excited question, and he repeats the same out-in- _ up _ motion a few more times at the same spot to make sure.

\---

Jon's eyes cross and he doesn't say  _ there _ , but he kind of assumes Martin will get it. Of course it's  _ there _ . Of course Martin finds it, finds something that Jon himself hasn't found in all his years of life. Maybe he hasn't searched. Maybe he has. Fact is, nothing has had him keyed up as this, right now, and he shows his appreciation in a litany of noises that would normally make him embarrassed to even think about.

It's not just wine. It's just Martin. " _ Fuck _ ," He breathes, and keeps his rocking, but it's more frantic, more desperate, more  _ I finally understand how this works _ in the sort of casual confidence that only arises in the heat of the moment and not a second too soon.

\---

Martin laughs, not at anything or anyone in particular, but because he’s actually  _ happy _ and having  _ fun _ and this isn’t service for anything in exchange, it’s just  _ Jon _ .

He lifts off his knees, knowing already by the strength it takes to fight gravity that they won’t thank him later, and braces his free hand over Jon’s thigh as he does. 

“Got you,” He breathes with a smug grin, possibly the most smug he could ever manage, and situates his hand just so that his palm grinds up against Jon’s clit each time he thrusts in with his fingers. That’s not the ‘I’ve got you and you’re safe here’ kind of tone, it’s  _ definitely _ of the ‘caught you and I’ve never felt possessive before but I sort of  _ like it _ ’ variety.

\---

Well. What is there to think about other than the feeling of Martin's hands upon him? Jon feels like he's swept up in a tide, and everything around him falls away except for the feeling of him within and his gorgeous, beautiful face.

"Of course you do," He breathes, and presses his face against Martin's collarbone, snapping his mouth shut to avoid drooling.

\---

“This is the first time I’ve - I’ve ever got off to some _ one _ and not just doing it,” Martin confesses before tacking on a sharp “don’t cover your mouth. You’re —“

He groans, and somehow he’s a bit ashamed about it with as far along into this as he is. “You’re close and I can tell and I want you to warn me before you d-do, can you do that, Jon?”

\---

"I'm close, I am, Martin, I'm close," He pants, and it's true. He's shaking, and his thighs are tensing, and he can't tell just how close he is because he's never gotten off to anything inside him, but he Knows he's close with a surety that leaves him honest. 

Martin's going to take care of him. Martin's going to bring this to fruition. "Keep going."

\---

Martin wants to do just that. Give Jon everything he wants, everything he ever asks for, to doggedly meet all of his needs without Jon ever having to lift a finger. Martin wants to take  _ care _ of him. 

The selfish side of him, desperate to catalogue and to know and to  _ stay  _ here, is the one operating his hands, though. Second by second he slows his pace down to a steady crawl, one that leaves no room to tip Jon over the edge. 

“Thank you for telling me,” he says through his smile, basking in this new, strange dynamic he’s building in his head that makes his brain fuzzy and warm and  _ happy _ . “I could keep you right here forever, can’t I?  _ Oh _ .” 

Well, he’s not perfect, and taking the time for dirty talk is new for him. “I think we should get something for you to use on me,” he continues honestly as he slowly fucks Jon on his fingers, “Your f-face that first time, when you were touching me, I’m-- I think you’d like it. You deserve some control. Not now, right now you’re  _ mine _ , but, you know. I’m yours, too.” 

He’s really not good at his whole possessive thing. He’s too humble about it.

\---

Jon whines, actually whines, his hands pulling down his stomach the more Martin slows down, desperate and needy and about to just finish the damn job himself. "Don't you dare," He growls, and his voice is a wreck, and his clit is on fire, and he's going to kill Martin because this is the hottest thing he's ever done in his entire life. Being so thoroughly in Martin's hands, so thoroughly under his control, it almost tips him over despite Martin's cruelty. 

"I'm not lis-listening to you u-until you finish this. I'm not. I'm not.  _ Martin _ ."

\---

Martin jolts at the growl, and the smugness in his voice has all but disappeared by the time Jon says his name. “Okay,” he whispers like he’s done dabbling in torture, and without pulling out he lowers back down to his knees. He’s happier there, anyway. Happier where he can tilt his hand so he can stroke up with his fingers, a deep rhythm without his palm against him, because he’s about to take care of that. 

“I think we should have you peg me, if you’re listening now. We could get a mirror, b-but only so I can watch you do it.” And he makes better use of his mouth than fumbling through embarrassing sexual admissions with his lips around Jon’s clit, moaning openly at what Jon’s doing to him just by  _ existing _ .

\---

Jon hisses, "Better," and drags his hands down his stomach once, moving back up and then grabbing Martin by the hair again, pushing him against him. Or really, just keeping him where he is. He has half a mind to straddle his head, but the position he's in is too perfect, just the right angle, and his whining turns back into moans as the pressure intensifies again and builds and builds and builds. 

It's a fast peak, what with Martin pushing him just to the edge, back off, and diving back in, so soon enough he's tensing, and his voice crests, and he mumbles, "Martin, Martin I'm close, Martin-- I'll do whatever you're talking about, just keep  _ going. _ "

\---

The real tragedy of the situation is Martin's in the middle of pulling back to whine out an "I love you", but Jon's grabbing him and spurring him on and he doesn't have much of a choice when wedged between confessions and some good, old-fashioned hair pulling, now, does he? 

It's a struggle, but he does open his eyes again to watch Jon fall apart, intent on holding him to his word once they're through with this and they get another chance.

\---

It doesn't take long. It builds until it doesn't, and then Jon lets go, and he can feel Martin, and he can smell Martin, and he wants to thank Martin, and he wants to live within him, and he gasps his name as he comes and he rides high. 

His moaning is obscene, but adjectives like that don't exist in this space, and thoughts hardly exist, and all that exists is Martin and his own pleasure. He ends up panting, and he keeps his fingers twisted in Martin's hair as he rides through it.

\---

Martin stays. He stays because pulling back isn’t what he wants to do, he stays because he’s connected to Jon on some obscene, intimate level he’s content to get lost in. Because staying is the only option, shutting his eyes to be consumed by the universe Jon’s created by colliding with him of all people... is the only option. 

His movements slow, bringing Jon ever so slowly back down like he’s not ready to let go. He doesn’t remove his fingers, the idea of being covered in a cold, lonely wetness - of leaving Jon to that - makes him think he’d rather die. 

He also can’t do that, because Jon’s still got him by the reins, so to speak. He’s panting, trying to tilt his head so his mouth is just slightly to the side so Jon doesn’t push him back with oversensitivity, but he still doesn’t have much room to talk. 

Martin understands, not just because of this moment, why people dedicate their lives to crafting sculptures of people out of marble.

\---

Slowly, the pulling of hair turns to petting, and Jon's body relaxes around him, the waves of oversensitivity slowly, slowly passing into a contented comfort. 

He breathes heavily, and slowly it evens out, and one hand slips from Martin's hair to his face, thumb skimming across his cheekbone. Martin is still...  _ in _ him, and he wiggles slightly, wrinkling his nose and finally taking in everything they've _ done. _

Which is a lot. And in the basking after effects, he realizes they just  _ fucked in his chair _ , and the grip on Martin's cheek tightens.

\---

Martin’s just fine with sitting there, half his face pressed to Jon’s thigh and glowing with pride as he finally pulls out. To preserve Jon’s dignity he moves his hand down where Jon won’t see or feel it and add  _ some _ comment about it. 

He doesn’t notice he’s making quite a few soft noises of dazed comfort until Jon twitches. He already knows. “New chair’s on my dime for the sake of owning up to my actions. Can you - can you sit with me, for another minute?” 

He opens one eye, pupil wide and words needy despite how much he wants to keep his focus solely on Jon.

\---

Jon relaxes his grip and nods, and after a few moments of processing, he murmurs, "Of course. Thank you, Martin." His voice only slurs a little bit from the wine and Martin's dining, and his hand is only a little shaky when he runs it down the length of Martin's cheek, down his jaw, cupping his face. 

He maneuvers them so he can close his legs, strangely feeling empty now, and helps to shift Martin so his head is on Jon's knees. "I love you, you know."

\---

Martin rests his chin where Jon moves him, no post-orgasmic bliss stopping him from a sense of hyper-awareness where Jon’s fingers move. He’s probably putting a bit too much weight on Jon and straining his jaw, but he’s done plenty of that the past few minutes so he’s not too preoccupied with adding more. 

The noises come back, and while he can’t  _ purr _ it’s likely the closest human physiology can get to it, and he lets Jon’s words hang in the air as he sinks into that space. It’s almost - he thinks he's getting nonverbal, actually, but not in a  _ bad _ way. 

A new way. Martin wonders if love is supposed to feel like this.

He hears Jon, albeit distant, and he’s stopped trying to process his thoughts just to feel through them. To hear how Jon's speaking to him but he's not retaining anything but the sound of Jon's voice. He wants to tell him to keep talking, and there's another 'I love you' just beneath the surface, but he's too damn comfortable.

\---

Jon isn't sure what he's done to deserve this, but he is sure he'd do anything, anything, to commit this moment to his memory forever. He'd do anything for Martin, he thinks. No matter the cost. It's as resolute and as bone-deep as any other part of him; ribs that he is used to missing sit lodged in the pit of his torso. Martin lies curled up in the pit of his heart, pumping blood through him and within him. 

He strokes his jaw idly, his look fond, and starry-eyed, and possessive in a way that surprises him. It's easy in this moment, with Martin sitting at his knees and looking at Jon like he's somehow hung the moon. 

He doesn't know  _ what _ he did to gain such... Affections, but somehow he has. He can't squander this. He can't ruin it. He has to live and be good for Martin. It's simple, a mantra, a way of life. Martin is as much part of him as he is part of himself.

\---

“I love you.” 

Martin flinches at his own words as they come out, tilting towards Jon’s touch in the hopes that he won’t move away if he notices. Everything he feels keeps bleeding out, and he’s sure he must look crazy with how quickly he falls between doting, smug, scared,  _ vaguely _ evil, euphoric, hysterical - everything in-between. He feels completely, utterly crazy. 

“Do-- Do you, um...” he blinks a few times to clear his head, but it doesn’t do much for him. “...Do you want to g-get up, I know it bothers you, but, um-- “ 

His own confession is setting in, but that doesn’t change his physical reality. He's stuck between needing to communicate and... and initially there was a typo there that said 'cummunicate' so he'll go ahead and call that a Freudian slip. Martin shifts slightly on the wood floor. “Y-you-- Watching you. I kind of-- y-you don’t have to help, but. You know.”

\---

Even if Jon didn't want to help Martin through this, the resolute 'I love you' all but destroys him and makes him anew, and Martin barely finishes speaking before Jon is dropping from the chair onto his knees in front of him, pressing his hands on either side of his face and capturing him in a deep, deep kiss that is all the  _ yes, of course I'll help _ that he hopes Martin needs. 

So soon, and already, his kind is wrapping back up in that pleasant, needy space where Martin can say  _ I love you, _ and Jon can do obscene things if it means showing his love in return.

\---

There’s a reality Martin is briefly thrown into where Jon’s pushing the chair back and leaving him there. It’s not a realistic world, but he still looks mortified by the time Jon’s holding him steady and at his level. 

But he comes back, pleasantly surprised that Jon’s even willing to kiss him with how  _ vulgar _ he thinks everything is and his mouth absolutely tastes like Jon, but Martin’s not in a state to complain. 

He pushes against Jon’s mouth, taking full advantage of what’s offered until his hand hits the floor to keep from losing balance and he remembers. 

Martin breaks the contact with a high-pitched, voice-cracking, “We’re under your desk?”

\---

"Yeah," Jon breathes, and laughs. His voice is fast, frantic, his energy catching up to him. "Remember when you found me crying here? Time flies. You taste weird. I feel like I'm high. I don't know how I'll manage if this is what being in love feels like."

\---

His own crisis averted, Martin sits back fully, or as much as he can given the measurements of the desk, and levels Jon with a look. His voice is far more composed this go-around. 

“I taste like you, and yes, I remember.” His eyebrows knit together with concern. “Are you... Are you okay?”

\---

Jon's lip curls, but it's not dampening his mood yet. He nods. "I'm good. I feel good. I-I mean, should I not be in a good mood?"

\---

"No, no - I - you were just - you're on the floor." Martin shakes his head and puts on a small smile. "Talking fast. Checking in."

\---

"Didn't want to be above you," Jon says quickly, and leans in to kiss at him again, momentarily distracted. He pulls back. "Just-- what's the word? Basking. Loving you. Taking advantage of the mood. Don't know how long you'll have me like this."

\---

"Oh. Okay." Maybe Martin's just being insecure. Telling Jon the truth about that, _ meaning _ that, it feels so simple now but it's - it wasn't, not before. Jon's had no problem with it, telling Martin over and over and over what he really thinks, why should he? 

He thinks maybe he should wait to feel bad about it until later, because Jon's right. His libido is a fickle bitch. 

"Right.  _ Right _ . Where's somewhere o-other than the floor that the version of Jonathan Sims I'm talking to right now thinks we should go instead?"

\---

"The version of.... The word you're looking for is drunk." Jon snorts, and finds his hands running down Martin's upper arms. Martin loves him. Martin loves him enough to say it. Martin loves him enough that Jon wants to do unspeakable things with him. 

"I-I don't know. I don't know what you want to do with me."

\---

"Ohhh, yeah, I forgot we were drunk." Martin was so busy honed in on his noble cause that he'd forgotten how anything else worked. "You-- " He laughs at himself, easing away the worry. "You came down here so fast I thought you had a plan." 

He tries not to shrug Jon off, because he very, very much likes what he's doing, but he's got to get out from under there at  _ some _ point, and offers a hand to help him up. Before they're both even off the ground, Martin's rambling to fill the space. Being drunk will do that, being Martin and being _ shy _ will do that worse. 

"There's - I mean, there's lots of ways to handle this without-- um. I-I don't know what you're-- can you go again? Do you want to? I can - I'm not opposed to the chair, I'm not... not grossed out by that, I just-- I think-- I mean, you could just start bossing me around and maybe you'll find out you like it and get some ideas. Um. That's just a f-fantasy. I'm sorry. My blood's not really i-in my brain. Right now."

\---

Jon colors some as they stand, and now that he's not entirely consumed with heat (still is, still feels it, still ready to go), he can feel the drink, and he sways slightly, his smile turning a little nervous. "I don't know. Um. I'm not-- I don't seem to get ideas until we're...  _ doing _ stuff. You know?" 

He swallows, and kind of surreptitiously pulls his sweats back up, because he's _ not  _ having this conversation with his pants around his ankles and his wet pussy to the world. Thanks.

\---

Christ, they're both ridiculous. 

"Well, it  _ might _ be a good idea to limit how much furniture we ruin in one night, so." 

He holds up both hands to indicate a 'stay here' as he crosses the room. The coat he picks up is one of his own, thick and padded for the wind, and he tosses it on the ground in front of their sad, pitiful, newly-retired Archivist's chair while trying desperately not to look embarrassed. Nothing lost, nothing gained.

"Come here," he says with care, low and sheepish as he laces the fingers of his hands with both of Jon's. He steps backwards as he gently pulls him along until he's one motion away from sitting back down. He lifts one hand so he can kiss Jon's, lingering there as he says his piece while he still can. "There's no wrong answers from you. It's  _ you _ . Just you. I-I like  _ you _ . Anything you do."

\---

"Well-- same goes for you. You know? I already got-- you already paid attention to me. Let me-- you know." His face is flushed, and his eyes are wide and nervous and aroused. "Do something you want." 

And then he's talking more. Not a smart idea, Mr. Sims. "I mean, I'm-- if it was  _ my _ choice, we'd probably just go to the bedroom and I'd shop and we'd go to bed and  _ you'd _ have to take care of yourself  _ as usual _ , don't think I don't know what you do in the shower, but that's not  _ fair _ , that's just me being too comfortable, and complacent, and not adventurous, and besides,  _ you  _ want to fuck, so let's do that?"

\---

Martin's face drops. 

"It - it  _ is _ your choice. I thought-- " He stops partway through, looking down, somewhere else, not Jon. "I thought you-- you wanted to help, you seemed e-enthusiastic about that, I'm-- I'm sorry I-- I misread?" 

He pulls his hands away, but he's sort of backed himself against Jon and the chair, so he ends up holding them up so he's not tempted to touch him. He's hurt, not because he's not getting his dick wet, but because he doesn't know what this means. The next time he opens his mouth, his voice is small. "You think I'm forcing you?"

\---

"What?" Jon leans back and squints at Martin, shaking his head a little. "That's not-- I'm just. I'm just  _ talking, _ Martin, I wouldn't -- if I didn't want to, I wouldn't. I'm just-- explaining?" 

Great. He's opened his mouth and talked about how hard this all is and now Martin thinks he's something fragile being forced. The mood shifts a little, and he finds himself crossing his arms and wrapping his hands around his upper biceps, closing himself off somewhat. This is what he gets for talking. 

"It's-- it's just new, is all, and. I'm not used to this and. And  _ yeah _ , it's a little scary, because I'm out of my depth here, you know? I'm just-- telling you where I'm at. Which is--  _ yeah _ , enthusiastic, but-- nervous?" He pauses. "Martin, I've never in my entire life wanted to do this with anyone before. You're the first. It's just-- I'm working through that?"

\---

Martin sits down, eyes tracking Jon as he exhales deeply. Relieved, partly. Terrified he's ruined this with a misunderstanding, too. He holds his hands out for Jon, trying to keep him from closing off completely. That won't do either of them any good, and Martin's determined not to start mirroring it. 

"You said if it was your choice you wouldn't be doing it. You-- You get how that sounds, right? It's for fun, I do what I ask to do to you because it's  _ fun _ to figure out what you like. To-- To help you stop thinking, and thinking, and thinking too much, a-and, Christ, I need it too."

\---

Part of him wants to pull away. Pull away and close himself off, and end the night right here with little closure, because it'd be  _ easier _ . His impulses want him to leave. Any other person, any other time, and he probably would. 

But this is  _ Martin _ . Martin, who he's neurotically buying furniture with, and who makes him feel loved, and makes him feel  _ good _ , and lets him explore parts of himself that he's been far, far too scared his entire life to address. 

He pulls in a deep breath and takes Martin's hands, and steps closer. "I didn't mean it like-- it was a poor choice of words. It's-- I meant. Habits die hard. It  _ is _ fun. I'm having fun. If I wasn't I wouldn't  _ try _ , and you make me want to  _ try _ even if I'm horribly naive and bad at explaining what I want and make you think I hate you when I don't, I love you, and I'm afraid of fucking up and you hating me because I have to psyche myself up to get over myself and--" 

He sniffs, and gives Martin one solid, miserably drunk look. "I think I need to stop talking. I'm doing a shit job of letting you stop thinking."

\---

"It's not your job to let me stop thinking, and I like hearing your voice. Knowing you is - is why I think I can l-love you," He says, shaking his head at himself for how ridiculous he sounds stumbling over it. It's like being what he  _ thought _ being a teenager was like, but a decade too late and just as awkward. 

"I love you. I love you. I've never said that to anyone like this, and m-meant it like that. There must be a  _ reason _ it's so easy for me, with you, c-compared to anyone else, right?" 

A beat of silence. It just sort of falls out. 

"You think about what I do in the shower?"

\---

Martin's conveniently given him an out from this conversation, and he follows it eagerly, shifting his eyes from the side back to Martin, his smile slowly reappearing in spades. This part's easy. The part where he surprises Martin and defies his expectations and gets more than a bit aroused from the shocked little face Martin makes as he realizes there's more to Jon than the scared, flighty bird he's learned to anticipate. 

It makes him feel  _ worthy. _

"Mmhmm. I love you, too. Sometimes I get off while you shower, after we make out. Just-- in bed, and I think about you, and then I clean up and go about what I was doing." He says it fast, because if he takes his time, he'll lose his momentum and  _ not  _ sound sexy, and he's trying to build them back up. 

He's… fairly certain Martin might get where he's coming from a little more. He hopes so. It's mortifying to explain, even to him, especially to him, and he doesn't want Martin to think he can't-- that he doesn't want to... He does. And that's what he's going to focus on now. 

He steps closer until he's pressed tight against the chair, still holding Martin's hands.

\---

Martin's lips part as Jon talks, not in a way that's meant to be sexy by any means, just completely  _ frazzled. _ "You-- Get off, when I go-- You know you can do that  _ while _ we  _ make out,  _ right? Or-- Or shower  _ with  _ me." 

He gets it all out even as a smile breaks how serious he wants to sound about it, because the whole thing is ridiculous, that he didn't  _ know _ this is ridiculous, that he's spent weeks taking the most depressing showers a man can take without knowing this is ridiculous. 

Telling Jon that fact of life is out of the question, though. He just pulls Jon's hands up to his face so he can kiss the back of one. His lips linger there as his eyes travel up to Jon's face. "What do you think I do in there, Jon?"

\---

"Well," He says, and his eyes go a little half-lidded thinking about it. "The egoist in my head would like to think  _ you  _ get off, too."

\---

Martin sits back in the chair, feeling very cornered but in a... good way, somehow. 

"Of course I do. If I didn't I couldn't... spoon you, w-when I came back."

\---

Jon wrinkles his nose, but there's a humorous spark in his face, a kind of comical farce to the nastiness of all of this. He presses closer. "Let's ensure you can spoon me tonight, then. Hm?"

\---

Martin's trying to be funny, really. To match Jon's tone and play along with this. 

So when he says "Yes, sir," he  _ means _ for it to escalate the humor, but how it  _ actually _ comes out is just barely above a flustered whisper. Miraculously, he doesn't stutter through it, because he might've just died on the spot if he did, but that's not giving him much.

\---

Jon shivers and lifts one of Martin's hands, and he kisses the inside of his wrist, pressing small kisses up his forearm over the bandages, maintaining a steady gaze with him. Weird how easy this is getting. 

"Okay, then. Tell me what you want. I'll see what I can do."

\---

Martin keens, a series of soft, sensitive noises he lacks the dignity to be ashamed of right now. He spreads his legs a bit wider while he’s at it, a frustrated motion to try and relieve some pressure. 

“I put the - the coat down for your knees, but please, um, touchmeanythingworks? I, um, it’s s-selfish maybe but I-I kind of want you to, um, still be able to - to talk? To me. I think. You can do anything.”

\---

"So not a--" well. He cuts himself off. Too real to  _ say _ blowjob, even when his mouth is evidently moving fast and fluid and saying all  _ sorts  _ of things. Probably a good thing he doesn't say it. 

He steps closer, Sliding between his legs to stand there, for once taller.

\---

“If you want to try, I can show you,” Martin says as he beams up at him, like they’re not talking about sex. “You can always come up for - for air...” And he giggles, the drunken and self-aware kind. “We’ll work through it, right?” 

Looking up at Jon is one of life’s little gifts. But so is not being painfully turned on after working  _ through _ being painfully turned on. Martin shifts their hands so Jon’s are positioned over his thighs. “I love you, Jon. Saying that makes - makes my  _ mouth _ buzz.”

\---

"I love that you love me," Jon says, and he knows it's ridiculous, sappy, to repeat it like that, but frankly, he doesn't care. It's what feels genuine, dorky romance and all. 

He hesitates a moment and then slowly goes to his knees, and Martin's lucky he's got him wine-drunk, otherwise he'd probably unsexily complain about how old he and his joints are. As it is, he makes a face that he quickly transforms into excitement, his hands staying firm on Martin's thighs like he's begging.

\---

"Yeah," Martin starts, and then... forgets to finish. He's too busy getting completely, hopelessly lost in Jon's face. There's a crisis coming on along the horizon about this, but it's not here. It's somewhere else, somewhere far, far away. 

He's squirming a bit despite himself, because he's really  _ trying _ to not be obscene about it, but there's no way to avoid being obscene when he's clearly tenting his boxers and flushed to the point of near-fever, when he's never lingered this long between gratification for the sake of it. There's never been space to fill with  _ care _ like this. He's never indulged in it. He can't just order Jon around, it's all - it's all complicated. " _ Jon. _ "

\---

Jon eyes Martin's boxers and then looks up, a vague sheen of amusement on his face. There's something... Funny about it. Maybe it's just that Martin tried doing the same to him. Maybe it's just that in this space, his face so close and Martin's reactions in his hands, it's so easy to hum and ask innocently, "Hm? Can I help you, Martin?" even as his hands move up on Martin's thighs, terribly slowly.

\---

Martin shoots him a pitiful look, trying and failing just as quickly to control the way he’s nearly trembling. He wonders if he’s always been this sensitive, or if it’s just Jon. 

“I’m sorry for not letting you finish before, t-that was rude,” and he’s keeping his hands dutifully on the arms of the chair instead of escalating this whole thing because he doesn’t really think it’s his call to make. Wow, rolling over for Jon kind of rules, actually. That’s an epiphany. “Yes? Please?”

\---

"Hm," Jon says, and then pretends to think about it, pulling back just enough so Martin can see him  _ deliberate. _ "Okay. Pull those down."

\---

“Right,” Martin complies, antsy and just the slightest bit rushed. Inhaling sharply, he sits back again, and he’s never really felt bashful about it until now. 

As if he didn’t just manage to finger his boss in his own office chair, which is very hot and the thought of it makes him twitch. Martin covers his face for a second, burning up against the palms of his hands, and mutters an anticipatory “Ah,  _ shit _ .”

\---

Jon's drunken arousal swirls eddies in his mind, and he can't help but lean forward, a gasping little laugh escaping him as he sees just how aroused Martin is.  _ He _ did this. There's a confidence in that that Jon's not used to.  _ He's _ turned Martin into this mess in the chair. 

He sits back on his heels and appraises him. How best to go about this? He's aware he's overthinking it, but there's not much else he  _ can _ do, and the many, many different thoughts of how he could take Martin apart and show him that he loves him, too, is doing nothing more than getting him ready for round two, and he can't help but run a hand down his own waistband and pull his fingers down over himself, his own gasp of, "Oh  _ fuck, _ " eacaping his lips as he jumpstarts his whole system. 

He pulls out and laughs slightly, then leans forward, braiding the gap between them and pressing closer between Martin's thighs, nervousness and need cycling equally through his gaze when he looks up at Martin from his position on the floor.

\---

For the first time, being seen for who he is, vulnerable and caring and focused on someone outside of his own head, it… It doesn’t viscerally unsettle Martin. It’s disorienting enough that he can’t even take what he justifiably assumes is Jon laughing at his hard-on as a personal insult. 

“Y-you’re not allowed to do that and not tell me what you’re thinking about,” he says, approaching desperate in this huffy, strained way where he’s stuck between taking charge and hoping that Jon will just  _ touch _ him because he likes when Jon slips control out from under him and that’s a bit too horrifying of a thought for him to analyze right now. He’s been good, he’s been patient, but if Jon’s going to do _ that  _ in front of him, then he’s just-- 

He gets his own hand around the base of his shaft, the back of the other up against his own mouth to stifle the weird little choked-off noise he makes, and it’s a bit uncomfortably dry as he strokes himself but he needs to or he’ll die and Jon’s watching him and that’s just a lot, really.

\---

"I'm thinking about--" And before he can think about _ this, _ he lunges forward and pulls Martin's hand off of his cock, replacing it with his own and nudging for him to lean forward. "How you shouldn't be allowed yourself right now because that's  _ my _ job." 

Which means he has to do it. Has to ignore the fear and the uncertainty that he's going to do it wrong and focuses instead on how  _ good  _ Martin's tongue felt on him, how heavenly that heat felt pulling against his clit and his lips and well, it can't be that much different now, right? What would Martin do if Jon's clit was bigger or he had a cock? 

He keeps his eyes on Martin, and slowly, slowly, licks a stripe up the underside of Martin's cock.

\---

Martin’s hand hits the armrest again with enough force that it’s audible. He leans back instead of forward so the distance can help him resist the urge to speed this along, barely stopping his hips from jerking up into Jon’s hand. 

He bites down on one finger up at his mouth and gives him a stuttered moan, eyes flitting from Jon’s mouth to his eyes in bursts so he’s not overwhelmed by one or the other long enough to spill over too soon. In his defense, he’s been ready to go since before he’d gotten on his knees for Jon, and he’s swallowing down all the noises for just a shred of dignity.

\---

Every reaction is carefully catalogued, and he makes a soft moan watching Martin react to  _ his _ touches. He maneuvers his hips, a small jerking motion, and he has to settle down before he can be cautious and slow enough to drag his tongue over the top of his head. Like everything else, there's a weird disconnect between how aroused he's getting from what he's doing, to the way half of his brain thinks this is  _ obscene _ , but he's slowly getting more comfortable with working through those feelings. 

Martin is, once again, all around him, and there's a comfort in the way he smells. Jon could stay between his thighs forever, pushed into a calm state by Martin's presence, Martin's love, Martin's arousal. It makes no sense to Jon. So he just doesn't bother analyzing it yet. 

Jon pulls back enough that his lips ghost the underside of his shaft, breath warm as he says, "You smell good. I love how you smell. I love how you react to me."

\---

By the time his body takes over and reacts to Jon's mouth the way it's been  _ trying _ to against Martin's control, he's already moved on from using his tongue and Martin ends up awkwardly jolting into thin air with the barely-there sensation of Jon's voice against him just short of where he wants it. 

Martin growls, then, frustrated and pent-up. "I love you too," he grits through his teeth behind his hand, tacking on a very articulate, "P-please-- Let me-- Jon."

\---

" _ Already? _ " Jon asks, and then immediately feels bad for the high pitched incredulity in his voice. It just surprises him, is all. He tries to recover, and says, "Okay. If you're sure," and presses his tongue back on his head, licking upwards towards the tip.

\---

"Don't say that," Martin whines out with what might be the most intense shame a human being has ever felt. "N-not what I meant, I meant--  _ ah _ ." 

He's sure he'll regret this when he's level-headed enough for it, but Jon's teasing him whether it's with or without intent and the grip he's got on the chair loosens until he can reach forward and shove his fingers into Jon's hair and pull him forward. He doesn't do it violently, he's not  _ pulling _ his hair, but it's enough to get friction where he needs it and he finally stops thinking through no choice of his own. "S-sorry," he sighs out even as he makes no effort to stop what he's doing, "I was trying to be-- p-patient."

\---

Jon makes a kind of choked off noise of surprise, but it's what he _ needs _ . It's direction, and Martin's hands in his hair turns the surprise into a moan, and his mouth drops open all the way, and from the effort of licking, a line of drool falls from his lips. 

He mumbles, "Don't be patient," and he wraps his mouth around Martin's head and his own head is blessedly silent.

\---

Something clicks into place in Martin's head, Jon's words and the pressure over his own lips from the hand he's using as a gag sending him back-- back to the first time they kissed, back when Martin told him to  _ be selfish. _

The next  _ "oh" _ that comes out of his mouth is half realization and half want, because he gets it now. His grip on Jon's hair tightens and Martin lets his hips push deeper into Jon's mouth, his own worries falling away in tandem with Jon's. Even if he doesn't know that, he's not inside Jon's head, it's a tangible shift in the way this works that he  _ understands.  _ Just fucking communicate,  _ Martin. _

He finds one of Jon's hands and brings it up to his stomach, so Jon can feel the way he's breathing. "You can get a h-hand around where your throat won't reach, a-and--  _ ah _ \-- When I'm close I tense up here-- " He squeezes Jon's hand at his lower stomach, "--I have this bad habit of holding my breath so if - if I stop breathing you can pull off and use your... haa-and, Christ,  _ Jon. _ "

\---

Jon pulls back with an obscene sound and eyes Martin's shaft, and he's barely thinking now, his eyes focused and unfocused all at once, a sheen of pleasure wrapped up in his eyes that seems to laser focus onto where he knows he can give Martin the most pleasure. 

He does what Martin says, shifting to wrap a hand around where he thinks he can go, and keeps the other pressed to his belly, fingers just managing to tighten into where the thick tangle of hair starts, and he pulls his head back just enough to test the grip in his hair, the pressure and pull grounding and solid. He leans forward and presses his lips around Martin's head again, and starts to go deeper, each tense and movement on Martin's part sending him into a space where he can make soft doting sounds from deep in his throat to rumble around Martin's cock.

\---

Martin has no words left. He’s given Jon the direction he needs to make this good for both of them, and he has no rational reason to keep on talking and talking his way out of feeling. He’s happier, infinitely so, letting Jon pull soft, choked-off noises from how good he’s making him _ feel  _ than when he’s usually so dead set on complicating everything to punish himself. 

He can’t punish himself, not anymore. Not when it impacts Jon. When it impacts their ability to do anything together, to just have  _ fun _ and stop thinking for a while. When punishing himself means punishing Jon by proxy. Don’t they deserve to stop thinking? With everything that’s happened to them, don’t they both? Even if Martin didn’t, even if he hadn’t earned that in any capacity, he’s in a position where he’s able to bring Jon back to earth, to show him how letting go of his wire-taut nerves can feel right. Jon deserves that more than anyone. 

His breaths go shallow, short, each one broken halfway through with the obscene sounds he’s making into the quiet of their office, and - and he just called it their office, because it is now, and that’s  _ okay. _

It’s okay. All of it. 

Martin whines, loud, and then there’s nothing after it but a series of barely-there breaths through his nose that leave him light-headed, tense and hypnotized as he watches Jon, enraptured by his presence.

\---

Knowing Martin won't judge him, now, makes it easy. It becomes less about  _ impressing _ Martin, less about doing it  _ right, _ and for a blessed, quiet moment, it's about exploration and curiosity and pleasure and  _ Martin, _ and nothing else. No thoughts but the need to discover Martin's body and discover what makes him keep making those strangled little half-breaths. 

Each one makes his own groin jump a little, sensitive and building just from watching Martin, half-lidded and looking up as he pulls Martin in and out and lavishes his tongue over it. 

The hand on Martin's belly tightens and his hips jerk when he elicits a particularly raunchy noise from Martin, and he loves him so much.

\---

Martin makes one last noise somewhere between a sob and a laugh, like this is the most incredible experience of his entire life. Right now it certainly  _ feels _ like it, and he’s tugging gently on Jon’s hair to warn him as he shakes with the locked-up strain to ride the high just before he tips over the edge. 

His other hand comes down from his mouth to squeeze over the one Jon has splayed over his stomach, hips stilling because he  _ knows _ Jon wouldn’t have time to recognize his tells if he kept up the same frantic motions.

\---

Jon pulls his mouth back, and without a free hand to wipe the spit from his face, it's a hedonistic look, spit connecting from Martin's cock to his lips, his expression unfocused and  _ obsessed.  _ He only has enough brain power to pull back because he  _ knows _ he'll make a face if he gets Martin's come on his face. He doesn't want to do that to Martin. 

His fingers tighten on Martin's belly and then slip away, grabbing kind of desperately down his own stomach and beneath his waistband, the hand wrapped firmly around Martin's cock drawing upwards to run underneath his head.

\---

Martin moans openly, then, his hips stuttering up in one final motion as he comes over his stomach with Jon’s hand still wrapped around him. 

He’s still jittering with aftershocks once he can  _ breathe _ again, squirming in the chair because Jon’s still touching him and he’s sensitive, muttering a breathless “oh,  _ Christ, _ ” with his eyes tightly shut and his head resting back against the cushion.

\---

When it's clear that Martin is riding the aftershocks, Jon pulls back, pulls back all the way to pull both hands below his sweats, drawing his fingers down his lips and running across his clit.

"Martin," He gasps, because Martin is a sight to behold right now, and he's breathless.

\---

“I’ll order the furniture,” Martin says with a tired smile, like that’s somehow the sexiest thing he could add to this. He’d touch him if he was close enough, but he can’t without moving, so that’s not really an option.

\---

Jon isn't necessarily proud of the loud moan that escapes his lips at that, the oxymoron of what his hands are doing against Martin's words somehow the hottest thing that could possibly happen. He builds himself up and mumbles, "You'll wait. You'll wait, I have to review It-  _ oh my God, _ M-Martin."

\---

“I’ll just get it all and see what happens, they do returns. Wow, I love you.” 

Martin pulls himself together enough to move forward, to put both hands on either side of Jon’s face and leave a chaste kiss on his forehead. “You’re wonderful. You keep taking care of me and I-I can’t wait to understand why the way you do.”

\---

And well, that's enough to push him over the edge for the second time tonight. He leans forward and presses his forehead on the edge of the chair, between Martin's legs again, and he comes, and what comes from his mouth is  _ I love yous _ , and it's keening little noises as he rides through it, and one of his hands pulls out of his sweats to drag up to Martin's chest.

\---

Martin sits quietly, taking him all in. The way his shoulder blades move as his lungs expand, how the sweat-slick warmth of Jon’s skin meets his own, connecting them in a uniquely intimate way Martin dreams of normalizing. 

Martin grasps Jon’s hand between both his own palms, slowly brushing his lips over each of his knuckles. “Two-in-one, that’s - that’s a successful night, I think. I think I might be dead right now.” And he laughs, softly over Jon’s skin, smug and spent and happy and owned.

\---

"Very," Jon murmurs as he comes down, and laughs breathlessly, the fog lifting somewhat and being replaced with a heavy satisfaction of  _ togetherness. _ He pulls himself up from the chair to look up at Martin, smiling on exhaustion. "Le petit Mort, mm?" Bad joke. It's a terrible joke. His brain is still half-off.

\---

“It’s a good look on you, Jon. It really is.” This space is an honest one, a real one, one where he feels safe to just _ be. _

“I’m sorry about your chair. I-i mean really, I’m not, but— Maybe a little. Not much, but a little. We can have - er - a strict policy on the new ones.”

\---

Jon laughs, and slowly pulls himself to his feet, pushing Martin's knees closed a bit. "Let me sit on you while I don't care about the chair. We're not talking about the chair right now." He starts to try to climb into his lap. "Too tired."

\---

Martin settles back to make room, wrapping his arms around Jon’s waist to nuzzle against his shirt. “Sex will - um - will do that. If you don’t sleep through the night, I didn’t do my job, really. Mm.” He pulls back enough that he can see the logo on Jon’s shirt, and he smooths out some of the wrinkles. “What’s this from?”

\---

Despite the sleepiness, Jon finds enough energy in him to pull his head back, kind of jerking his head incredulously. "N-nine Inch Nails? Oh my God. I don't know what music you like."

\---

“I... We’ll have to make a playlist, if you don’t want the radio in - in America. We’ll... compare?” Martin hums as he idly brushes Jon’s shirt with the backs of his knuckles, his other hand sliding up beneath it to brush over his ribs.

\---

"Sure," He says easily, and then grimaces slightly. "You might not like it, if you don't know what it is." He pulls into Martin's chest, resting himself against the solid weight of his heart.

\---

“That’s not true, Jon,” Martin snorts, shifting to move both hands up to Jon’s shoulder blades and scratching down. He’s learning all sorts of new ways just to touch him. “We’ll see, yeah?”

\---

Jon sits up straighter, the pressure from Martin's hands feeling so damn good it mentally shorts out his brain into listening to whatever Martin's saying. He feels too tired and good right now, and ends up mumbling, "This is what it feels like when I compel people. Rush of dopamine. Satisfied."

\---

“Hmm.” Martin’s listening, but he’s rewinding the events of the day as he can to connect the pieces. “At least you get something done when you compel people, we—“ 

He’s about to say they got nothing done, but that’s not true. “Let’s - let’s go to bed soon, plenty to do in the morning and - and we still haven’t ordered, I really could just hit two buttons right now and we won’t need to worry about it for a few days.”

\---

Jon hums in thought and then just twists in Martin's lap to reach across the desk and grab the laptop, handing it off to him. "Fine. But if I missed anything, it's on you."

\---

“Mmhm,” Martin hums smugly as he takes it, but now he’s holding a laptop and can’t touch Jon nearly as much as he wants. “Right. We’ll, um, clean up and then— I’ll meet you in bed?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as penance here are some of our pins from this scene:  
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	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's totally a good idea to let Martin come up with schemes and rituals.

Jon sleeps better than he has in a long, long time. And that's without them having a proper mattress, and the thought of getting one of  _ those _ honest-to-God makes an appearance in his dreams, which are... Surprisingly good. For once. No nightmares, no memories, no screaming, or pain, or residual statements lingering on the back of his tongue.

He just dreams about their room, and he dreams about Martin, and for once, the world seems to have given him something worth being hopeful about.

They wake up late, and Jon finds himself splayed across Martin's belly, face pressed into his chest like a personal pillow. He doesn't get up for a long while, content to listen to his heart beat, to the slow, even, relaxed breathing. He's so close, he wonders if he could sense the blood pumping through his veins, solid and red and alive. Martin is just so damn alive.

At some point in the night, he's ditched his shirt, and with the way the blankets are hoarded by Martin, Jon is forced to move only so he can pull the shirt from the floor, rolling off of Martin to sit up on the edge of the cot.

Jon feels  _ good _ . He'd showered before bed, so he doesn't feel grimy or unprepared for the day. He just feels ready, and comfortable, and not panicking. He pulls his glasses on and lays back down so he can watch Martin sleep.

\---

Martin’s own approach to consciousness is a slow crawl.

He’s at the brim of waking up when the cot moves, the comfortable pressure of Jon’s body falling away but close enough that he’s not left alone. Strange, how it’s all changed, where he trusts both his pa- Jon to come back, and  _ himself _ to come back. It’s no small commitment for him, but it’s somehow effortless to do it. 

Once he’s good and ready for a conversation, if sleep-addled, he turns to his side to face him. Eyes cracking open, he finds Jon there, awake, and facing him right back. Martin blinks, and in the moments before he gains enough control to hold some separation between his physical expression and his thought processes, his eyes are filled with a joy bordering on intense.

“‘ _ Heaven awakes to encompass us _ ’,” He slurs, groggy and unfiltered. He comes back into himself enough for a dumb smile. “That’s - um - that’s another Crowley. It’s a good one-- Did you sleep okay?”

\---

"Even if I didn't, waking up to you reciting Crowley would be enough to make any man's day, I think," Jon says, and his voice is heavy, still sleep-deep, and his smile is lazy.

"I slept good. Can't wait to have an actual  _ mattress  _ in here. We--we ordered it right? I can't-- I honestly can't remember."

\---

"Mhm." Martin nods, half his face pressed into a blanket that's somehow ended up beneath his head. "I didn't, uh... review much, but-- That's an easy fix. I-I swear your hair gets longer every day." 

He reaches out to brush wayward strands from Jon's face, laughing at how ridiculous that sounds. "I mean, of course it does, but-- I think about it every morning. Usually."

\---

"You think about my hair every morning?" Jon asks, and there's wonder in the question. The still novel idea that someone thinks of him, positively, regards him, sees him.

He giggles, just a smidge, and snuggles in closer, ruining the work of Martin's idle brushing as more strands are moved to the front of his face. "' _ For your hair was full of roses, and my flesh was full of thorns. _ '"

\---

Martin blinks again, pleasant surprise seeping into his comfort. "Oh. Yeah, I-- Not just your hair, but it's one of the first things I-I notice, when I wake up." 

He ruins his own work further with a hand in Jon's hair, intimate but not escalating. "Which one of us is the paladin?"

\---

Jon's laugh is surprised, and he says around it, "You, I think." He moves his head in a way that can only be described as catlike, so comfortable in this moment as to nearly be purring as he rubs against Martin's hand.

He's Hungry, he notices dimly, but it's easy to ignore right now, in the soft embrace of Martin's care.

\---

“Maybe  _ I _ want to be the sorceress,” he teases, sighing with well-rested happiness and resignation all at once. “We have a - a lot to do, today. Might’ve landed us a _ bit  _ off-track last night.”

\---

"Yes, well," He sits up slowly, and begins to stretch out the ever-present kinks in his back and shoulders. "I won't complain if you won't."

He pauses. "That's a lie. I'll probably complain. What's first?"

\---

“First,” Martin starts, sitting up despite how badly he wants to stay in bed. “We figure out, um, how we want to handle Sasha, and Tim, and - and anyone else we want in the loop on this. They deserve that.”

\---

Jon sucks in a deep breath and drags his hands down his face, groaning. "I'm terrible at explaining. Tim's gonna say a joke and I'm going to get mad and then Sasha is going to laugh at the joke and I'll feel bad for getting mad and it'll be a shit show, and then there's everything with his  _ brother, _ and-- ugh. I need coffee."

He slides off the cot to go looking for some clothes. He'd removed everything from his bags, folding out a blanket on the floor to use as a makeshift floor cover folding all the clothes directly on the blanket in neat piles. The bags are shoved deep under the cot so he doesn't have to look at them.

\---

“That’s why we talk about it together first. And don’t talk to both of them at the same  _ time, _ it’s not a-a water cooler conversation. In private. Otherwise they’ll outnumber you - er - you want it equal footing. And you need evidence.” 

Martin rubs the sleep from his eyes as he continues. “Maybe don’t start with things that - things that hurt. Stuff about them. Start with... mm. Hm.” He makes several different noises as he thinks. “You need to know what they’ll think sounds  _ insane, _ and you sort of - sort of tell them you know how it sounds. Leitners, maybe? Or - or, in the  _ future, _ if you figured out what they already believed before you - you met, or told them, things that happened in their lives without making it about them?”

\---

"Oh, I have to-- I can't just tell them about the entities, they need to know--" Jon blinks. "Tim's gonna ask  _ so many questions _ if he knows I'm from the future, Martin. Questions I won't be able to answer without it getting  _ really bad. _ "

He chooses a button down and some sweater approaching professional. If they're doing  _ meetings, _ he's not running around in ratty old band t-shirts.

\---

“You could-- Maybe you don’t have to say you’re from the future at all, yet, Jon. Things people might believe. Um, cultists who want to end the world... Maybe you could-- could connect them all, maybe if-- if you know some things Gertrude left behind that might help, you could organize some notes-- you can start small and build up.”

Martin gets up to start rummaging around for his own clothes. He can’t wait until they get a proper dresser. This looks like a den, not a room housing people. “They’d believe we’re investigating something, that there’s more to the Institute than we’re told, they’d-- What’s something concrete, something we could _ show  _ them?”

\---

"Our  _ arms, _ for one." Jon says, and lifts them to show off the clean bandaging. "I guess-- I mean. There's still tapes in the tunnels I need to find. With Gertrude's body. Um." He pulls the sweater over the button down and works on getting the collar up to show.

He shrugs. "I'm open to suggestions."

\---

"A tape would help, our arms-- I think that might just scare them, I don't want them to feel like-- like they're just in  _ danger. _ They need a-a reason to want to not think we're  _ insane. _ "

Martin stretches, parsing out all the things he's kept track of from their first conversations. "Too bad they don't write poems, right? We just have to-- You sort of-- You have to pick if you want them to know about the future or not. I had questions, they'll have questions, it's-- I really don't know. I don't know."

\---

Jon turns and levels Martin with a very flat look. "If we tell them, they should be scared. They  _ will _ be in danger. They already are. They  _ aren't _ safe, Martin." He turns back to his piles of clothes and finds some slacks.

"We're lucky Sasha is still alive. I still don't know how to keep Tim alive."

\---

"I know, I know, I  _ know _ that, but being - being  _ scared _ without anything else won't really help them, will it? Yes, let's spread more fear. Just for fun." Martin brings down his tone, because he's not trying to start a fight. "You're-- You can be creative, Jon, there's always something. We might make more progress understanding things with-- sorry, with more eyes."

\---

"I know how to get Tim to believe us. It's just- erm, well, to use a bad phrase, kind of a whole can of worms." He pulls his pants up and then rakes his fingers through his hair to manage some of the bedhead.

"I guess I could just compel them and freak them out enough to, you know, listen to what I want to tell them."

\---

Martin stares, vaguely horrified. "Don't do that. I-- We _ ask _ first, Jon. I don't-- I don't want them to feel the way I made you feel. In-- That one time. You don't have to compel them to - to get them to understand. You just phrase it right." 

He looks down at his own shirt, fidgeting with some of the folds to avoid glaring at Jon for entertaining the idea. "Then maybe you should talk to him first. My - my only advice, I think, is maybe don't-- Don't say you know all of the future. Maybe say it's just pieces. That-- It'll, um, sort of let you shrug off questions if they might not be helpful."

\---

"Oh, I see, I can't strategically pull the truth, but I can lie to his face. Better." Jon scowls. It's not that he  _ wants _ to compel. But sometimes it's easier. And it's not a lie.

\---

"You said you were open to suggestions. I gave you some. You don't have to take them." It comes out flatly, unsure of what the right answer actually is in this scenario. "You can try. It's better than keeping them in the dark."

\---

Jon gives him a short hum as a response, noncommittal in all the worst ways. He'll _ tell  _ them. But he's not exactly excited. "Are you not going to be there?"

\---

“Cornering them in your office and outnumbering them doesn’t seem very fair, I-I think it should be, um— If it’s one of us then it should obviously be you, and - and you might be more free to... talk. Without me there learning about whatever you’re saying for the first time, too.” 

Martin’s pacing, though he hasn’t noticed it. “Spilling their secrets to me like that while you convince them kind of makes a-a hierarchy where I’m different or-or above them, um, that’s not exactly ideal.”

\---

The look Jon levels Martin is one of abject misery, his lips pulled down and stretched thin over his face. He nervously starts to rake his hair back off his face, and then has to hunt for a hair tie, but at least it gives him something to do other than staring wretchedly at Martin.

"If you say so," He says, and then sighs, pushing out all the tension. Right. He's got to be the boss. He  _ is _ the boss. And he'll continue to hang over their shoulders as an aloof, cold boss until he loops them in.

\---

“I want to help you, Jon. You can start with one of them and - and we’ll build up from there based on how it goes, maybe?”

He’s still pacing aimlessly, not that there’s much room to do much of it in the safe room that isn’t safe. “Then there’s the whole  _ Michael _ thing. He knows things— Things that could be really, really important. He’s not just stringing me along, I can tell, er— it’s worth talking to him. That one, I’ll be here for.”

\---

"I was hoping for you, there. I haven't even... Ah, technically met Michael. Or, I guess he hasn't met me." He steps to the nightstand to grab the half pack of cigarettes and shoves one between his lips, muffling his voice somewhat.

"Alright. Fine. I'll deal with... Tim and Sasha, you-- maybe figure out to, ah, summon Michael?"

\---

Martin laughs, tension breaking at him finally, finally being able to say something about these piling interpersonal problems and feel confident about it. 

“It’s not hard. Last time I started playing board games alone at the park. I think it’s - it’s not like feeding that power, there’s no fear, but when people watch you do something weird it kind of, um, creates an environment where - where people might be more inclined to be afraid. If that makes sense. I think that potential gets their attention?“

\---

"Right." Jon lets out a breath and pulls the cigarette out of his mouth to tuck behind his ear. "I can't believe we're  _ summoning  _ a fear entity. It's--" He gives a breathless, terrified little laugh. "it's mad. I think we're going mad."

\---

“We’re not going mad, we’re plotting. You want answers, don’t y-- Oh, Jon, the tape. The tape I gave you. Me taking his statement, sort of, you haven’t heard it yet.” 

Martin stops pacing near Jon to steal the cigarette. He made it so easy. “You should maybe listen f-first, to that. Maybe you’ll get an idea of what he... um, what he’s like.”

\---

Jon hums, and feels that distinct hunger at the core of his being alight at the promise of Michael's trauma. He nods. "Yeah, yeah, I'll-- that's first on the docket then. I needed to do a statement today regardless. This makes it easy."

He hardly even registers the stolen cigarette, just absentmindedly passing his hand over his ear and frowning first in mid air and then at Martin when he realizes what's been done. He gets another from the pack and replaces it, too caught in their... plotting, now, to verbally bitch at him.

\---

“So, technically, does - does that mean I made you breakfast already?” Martin grins, relief obvious in the way tension trickles out of his muscles with his first exhale off the cigarette.

\---

Jon snorts as he makes his way out of the safe room. "Wow, how doting you are. Quite the boyfriend, hm?" And, well. He didn't  _ mean _ to say that word, but now it's hanging in the air as solid as anything, and Jon quickly escapes the room all the way, so he doesn't have to look at Martin right now.

\---

Martin makes a few disjointed sounds, something like “aah... mm,” before he continues loud enough for Jon to hear. “It’s - it’s in your bag, right? I think you put it there, walking home.” 

And he called it home again. 

Martin’s own entry into the office is delayed, but he does come in after only a marginally awkward span of time.

\---

Jon hides his blush in the search of his bag, an affirmative hum all he gives Martin as he rummages through it. It's in one of the inner pockets, and the solid, familiar weight of its contained knowledge helps to ground him.

At least Martin isn't freaking out. Nothing would mortify him more.

He puts it gently on the desk and then pulls a lighter from one of the corners. He spends a few moments lighting up, finally giving Martin a look, however fleeting. "W-Was that okay? What I said?" His voice is small.

\---

Martin is freaking out. 

Going out to expensive wine dates and ruining the sanctity of office chairs and corkscrewing worms out of each other is an entirely different state of existence than a commitment of mutual ownership. He’s not sure if he’s ready for that. It sits like a heavy stone in his gut and forces him to think about it.

To imagine what that means. 

“Yeah, yeah. Yeah, it’s okay, we can - um - we can talk about it later when we’re more awake,” he says, more awake than ever, leaning with his back against the wall of the room in case Jon wants the only chair that doesn’t... er… Martin did clean it, after last night, but he’s unsure if that matters to Jon’s brain.

\---

"...Right." He says, and absolutely ignores the way his voice sounds utterly fried. At least it's not high-pitched.

He pulls the wooden guest chair up and around to his side of the desk, and sits down, taking a few frantic drags from his cigarette to avoid saying something... Well, to avoid saying  _ anything, _ really. He has the tendency to say stupid shit that freaks Martin out if he lets his mouth full-stream talk.

His hands cradle around the tape. "I'm going to. Um. Listen to this now."

\---

Martin shifts from one foot to the other at the wall, a wave of self-conscious performance anxiety washing over him. Like this is a formal progress meeting, and his job is on the line. World’s most secure position, and he’s still worried Jon might not like his work. 

“Okay,” he says, soft. “I hope it - I hope any of it helps.”

\---

Sitting at the desk, it's easy to push everything other than his job away. Just the statement. His gaze fixates on the tape recorder and he gives a mild hum, distracted from-- from what he started by calling Martin his  _ boyfriend. _ easy to forget. It's gone.

"I already know what happened to him," He mumbles, smoke curling over his face. "I'm more curious about how  _ you  _ take statements."

\---

Martin's face is stiflingly warm, but Jon's not focused on him at-present. He has time to collect himself. Nothing else to say, too preoccupied to make anything but a small noise of acknowledgement around his own cigarette and steel up for hearing his own voice back at him.

\---

Without further ado, Jon presses play. He pulls the chair closer so he can curl over himself, elbows planted on the desk and gaze middling out as the noise interference begins to envelop the air.

Michael's voice makes him shiver, when he hears it. It's been a while, and that shimmery, wavery light tenor weaves him into the story. It's strange, to know how this one ends.

He speaks differently. The pain is still thick, clotted red in his throat, but there's a softness with the way he speaks to Martin. Martin pulls sympathy, empathy as easy as he does pain, and it makes Jon's mouth water, so unique and strange. 

Michael's voice, caught in his story, whirlwinds his mind and he's cold, so achingly cold, and he buries his face in his hands to keep from shaking with rage at Gertrude's misdeeds. Even kind, likable as Michael is caught in Martin's gentle story-trance, the anguish and anger in a being not used to  _ being _ leaks through to his bones. It's hard for Jon to pull himself up. Easy to wrap himself in this one, his own emotions so choked with Michael's everything.

And then it's done. So quickly, and Martin's kindness-- have fun, have fun-- lingers like the fluttering of a fat moth around his brain, rattling around and around and around. Instead of just  _ feeding, _ Martin has managed to turn a statement into-- into something cathartic.

Jon wonders almost distantly what that says about him, that he can't.

He sits back when it finishes. The cigarette has ashed to nothing, and he rather mindlessly stabs the butt against the wood of the table, just to have a solid pressure bring him back to earth somewhat, remind him that he's here, not in the tundra.

\---

Martin utilizes the emotional space between them to move closer. For as antsy as the b-word made him, it changes nothing about his sometimes nearly-burning desire to orbit him. 

He's propped up beside Jon, leaning against the desk, trying to make amends. A little bit of breathing time goes a long way. Martin's smile is lopsided and sheepish. "How-- how was it?"

\---

Martin's voice here, now, in the office, helps to jerk Jon from his reverie, and he gasps, jumping somewhat in the chair and turning to face him. After a moment's hesitation, he holds out his hand, pleading for some contact.

"Your statements are nicer than mine," He says.

\---

Martin jumps like a startled cat in turn, but the apology forming on his lips is swallowed down by Jon's words. "You always seem to know what the point is, when you ask. I-I don't, really. There's no structure."

He thinks back to Jon's horrible tea, his own advice on not pointing out its flaws. "It's a conversation, more than a statement, I think. It's - It's different. You get more information, I get more - more abstract, I think."

\---

"You-- it's like. You manage to give them closure. I just-- I just open them up. Raw wound. You gave Michael  _ advice. _ It’s-- I don't think of that when I do it. I just think about the next part. The next dagger. The next fear."

\---

"I think... Jon, my sample size is one. And Michael is easy for me to... engage with? To understand, in a sense. He talks about his mother, about Gertrude, and I can-- There's-- "

He notices Jon's still holding out his hand, and Martin reaches forward to lace their fingers together. "You have to-- um, you have to think about how I've talked to Michael before. When we talked in the hospital, after you left, we talked about our  _ mothers. _ I don't think I could do this with anyone. It feels easy because - I think because I understand him."

He's nearly finished with his own cigarette, and after a deep inhale above their heads, he smiles. "Asking like that, without - without layering it, without making it seem like it's just a conversation - it makes me sick. Not because it's bad to do, it's bad for - for  _ me _ to do. I think. Does that... make sense?"

\---

Jon sits back, leaning against the uncomfortable wood high back, and hums, thinking. Martin's hand does the desired effect; it grounds him into a semblance or being  _ himself, _ of feeling less of that lingering pain. "It does. It's just surprising, is all. With Michael." He pauses. "I certainly never heard anything from him about his  _ mother,  _ before. It was just... An entity. Forced or unforced."

It's strange to think about how these powers are manifesting. Maybe Martin is right; too small of a sample size to judge. But Jon knows when to listen to what his body Knows, and it seems to Know that Martin is different.

"it's almost... Hands-on. You know? That's not-- It's just not how I've been told the Beholder works. I'm glad it does though. Michael could be... An asset."

\---

“Well, I mean— You could always Ask, and then I could follow up. Teamwork. I’m... not sure how it all works, really. But it’s something. I, erm, I don’t really feel like...” 

Martin huffs, deciding to come out with it. “It’s not exactly easy to warm up to the idea that I’m special, somehow. I...  _ know _ you have your own reasons for  _ liking _ me, but it’s hard to - to feel like anything I’m doing is unique, or... useful? Or think that I’m some kind of odd exception. Um. That’s also why it’s hard, too, with the-- When you called me that.  _ Boyfriend. _ I wouldn’t even— I wouldn’t know what to do with that. Same with this.  _ Powers _ . Me. I’m just a... I’m just me.”

\---

A flush creeps up Jon's neck, and he doesn't know how to respond for a long moment, focusing instead on the way their fingers entwine, solid, solid, there. This is getting into a territory he doesn't know the answers to, either.

It's getting harder, being Martin's source of information.

"You are just you. I don't know if it's-- I mean, that's special to  _ me, _ but I don't know if--I let my ego tell me I was the  _ chosen  _ one, before, you know. Like-- here I was. Unqualified and being given this gift of divine powers, Knowing what to do, following the clues and finding the answers. Saving the world. But I think-- I don't think there are chosen ones. I think. I think we  _ are _ just ourselves, and have only-- only precedence to go off of.

"You're  _ important. _ And now you're a part of this and-- it's good to know how our approaches and feeding differ."

\---

Martin is still for a very, very long time. 

It’s always been about how individual everyone else was, how figuring them out had so little to do with becoming a well-rounded individual in his own right and instead becoming a receptacle for reactions.

“I never thought about it that way.” He inhales. “Um, about Michael. We should figure out what we want from him before he gets here. Answers, things like that. No compelling. We want him to like us, and - and I think he likes me, but... I think if we know where your gaps are we can - can see about him filling it in. Oh, I’m all out of order here.”

He huffs, flustered but still in a good way from the revelation Jon left him with. “We still don’t know how to actually pull them apart. If it’s possible.”

\---

"I would have thought it impossible, but... From everything you've told me, from everything I've  _ heard... _ Michael Shelley is not as dead as he would like to think. I  _ want _ it to be possible."

He thinks of Daisy. Of Melanie. Of the ways the different entities can or can't be wrested away from the body. Of  _ themselves, _ and how he's not sure how monstrous he and Martin will get upon their ivory Watcher's tower.

"I'm just unsure how much he'd want to... Play along? With everything. If he'll trust us."

\---

“He likes secrets, he likes games. I think it’s— Well, it’s less about trust and more about giving him a reason. I just don’t know what a  _ life  _ is worth, here. What it means to him. We might just want to... pretend. I think he likes that? Sort of his...”

Appearance. Martin shuts his eyes tight and tenses his fingers where he and Jon’s connect, a flash of what lies behind the facade of a flesh vessel burned into the backs of his eyes. “We can give him a hypothetical and  _ look, _ at least. M-maybe test a few ideas. Brainstorm. I can talk, I think, um. I just talk to him... a different way, than I talk to you. You just have to be okay, while you’re there. And play Monopoly.”

\---

"I just have to be okay," Jon repeats, and squints a little at Martin, not entirely sure what that's supposed to  _ mean. _ "Am I not usually okay? What Is that-- I can play games."

\---

“I mean... I mean I almost threw up in the library when he first showed up. You’ve seen him before, right, but it’s been a while and - and he kind of has a bit of a tendency to...” 

Martin gestures vaguely with one hand. “Scary. Wait, was that ‘what is that’ to Monopoly’? Oh, Christ, Jon, I’m not teaching you both how to play that at once.”

\---

"I know what Monopoly is, Martin." Jon scowls, and reaches into his pocket to pull out another cigarette from the pack, considering he mostly wasted the last one.

"I just didn't know what you meant by me having to be okay. Is all." He says it primly.

\---

“I mean— It’s nothing bad. He makes you,  _ general you, _ want to ask questions, and - and I have this weird feeling he won’t like it if you, that’s a-a general you again, get antsy and try to compel him into talking.”

Martin absentmindedly scratches at where his bandages cover his forming scars on one arm. “I mean that all you need to do is be okay, as in - as in I can talk, I think, if you don’t want to. Like, like you can watch, just be there, because I want you there.”

\---

"Well, if we're going to plan a  _ ritual, _ I'd like to be there, yes," Jon says, and frowns. "I'd love for you to  _ not _ plan rituals alone with failed eldritch creatures."

\---

“No, no, just to talk to him, to see if he  _ wants _ to be separated. In exchange for information. That’s - I figured we could talk to him today, get an idea of what he wants or what he knows, he can tell us about the Crown or whatever once we pull off something good enough if we do. We’re not doing some kind of  _ ritual _ today.”

\---

Jon lights up and gives a short nod. "Fine. Alright. He  _ better _ be willing to tell us some of what he knows. It's the  _ one _ piece I'm missing. If he knows..."

\---

Martin smiles, pleased with how the situation’s been handled. All damage control, all the time. “Then we’ll work it out like - like real  _ businessmen. _ Hm. Let’s start the day and - and my  _ first _ idea is a picnic in a graveyard with a board game. Um. I think that’s legal? Is that legal?”

\---

"Who cares if it's legal." Jon pauses. "We're meeting with someone who  _ eats _ people. I think legalities are past our worries." Not to mention the copious amounts of illegal deeds he's done since he became Archivist.

He waves a hand. "Bit romantic. In the-- you know, Gothic sense."

\---

“He— If he doesn’t eat people in  _ front _ of us, is it illegal?” Martin huffs out a single-note laugh, squeezing Jon’s fingers. “Romantic. Including the third party, o-of course. Let’s get ready to head out, then?”

\---

Ah. So they're talking to Michael first, then. Jon certainly isn't going to complain about it. Tim and Sasha can come later; Michael feels more pressing to him, anyways.

He inhales from the cigarette and nods. "You're running the show on this one, kinda. Sure."

\---

Martin is going full-speed in one direction to avoid splitting off into several and getting nothing done. He and Jon tend to operate that way. One at a time. World-ending crisis knowledge first. 

It seems like they might never get to telling everyone. 

“I-I’ll try my best, Jon.”

\---

Jon pulls himself from the chair, squeezing Martin's hand in return before pulling away from him to go find his coat. He stubs the cigarette in an ashtray on the way, and when it's clearly out, he shoves it behind his ear with one hand, the other grabbing the coat by the collar.

"Probably stop and get proper food on the way. We haven't, um, exactly eaten in a while. Considering last night."

\----

Turns out, combined with slowly becoming the avatar for a fear deity, not eating the night before, drinking two bottles of wine, and, erm, well, ruining Jon's chair, produces quite the appetite.

Jon was right. In a certain sense, there's a Gothic romanticism about the way their impromptu graveyard picnic looks. Martin had pulled one of the lighter blankets that often gets kicked off the foot of the bed anyways before they left, and it now sits across the soft earth, nestled between two Graves of unknown but resting souls. Maybe the stoner-impulse buy ruins the aesthetic somewhat, but Jon was too starving in their way here to wait for a Pret or something fancier, and besides, as the wind brushes against their skin and they sit on the blanket, Jon absolutely destroys the grab-bag assortment of food they bought.

He shoves the remaining amount of a cheeseburger into his mouth and reaches for a Coke, and pretends he's not eyeing Martin's summoning bag of games.

Of the entities, Michael is the one that he never quite hated. Pitied, perhaps. Was terrified of, in the ways its madness was so, so, so tempting to bask in and let it fold around him. Saddened, almost, when the Spiral seemed to dig through the veil and toss him aside like he was  _ nothing,  _ had never been anything.

Something feels nice about taking that action into his own hands and  _ preventing _ it.

He looks around at all the boxes and bags laid before them, and grabs a Filet O'Fish, and wonders if his appetite being so unpredictable and sometimes ravenous is a result of whatever is happening to him internally. It kills him that he can't just read what _ is _ happening to him, especially when Martin manifests somewhat differently. He chokes down the thought with a disgustingly large bite.

\---

“So I’m - I’m thinking,” Martin starts, squeezing mustard out of a packet onto something with a list of ingredients including 'vaguely-chicken'. “I always really liked Guess Who? Um, as a kid. I figure we can… we can start a game here, and… “ 

His voice floats away with the wind, shame taking its place on the next breeze. He’s glancing over at one of the little mausoleums nearby as he swallows. “Christ, this is horrible, there’s a-a crying family over there. We’re bad people. Are we bad people?” He laughs, a nervous, twitchy little thing. “I think we’re bad people.”

\---

Jon shrugs and shovels a handful of fries into his mouth. "Maybe. We're trying to do a good thing here, though, so... Balances out? M-maybe?"

He follows Martin's gaze and grimaces a little, swallowing before he continues speaking. "He might like the juxtaposition, though."

\---

“Right. Um, well. B-better not to think on that too hard right now.” 

He doesn’t even know if this will work. All he knows is he’s thoroughly  _ shy. _ Another performance review, except this one could have real consequences. Martin pulls out two sides of the board, one facing Jon, and starts flicking up tabs with people’s faces on them. “You know how to play?”

\---

Jon leans forward to squint at the small cartoonist figures, and slowly shakes his head. Even if he did, at one point, it's not like it was often, or with the totally copious amounts of friends he had to play with growing up.

He's not exactly that focused, either. Michael leaves an impression on a person, and though Martin seems nervous, he seems to have eradicated large swaths of the fear that still courses through Jon's veins when it comes to the entity. Michael has  _ hurt _ him in ways he apparently hasn't tried to with Martin. He didn't play board games and have a chat with Michael; Michael stabbed him, and he ate Helen Richardson, and he pledged to kill him. Sure, he offered a Door to Jon, one of escape, but it doesn't negate the very real memories of everything else.

Even knowing the sadness that courses through Michael's story, it's hard to think he  _ deserves _ it. Not that his opinion is warranted; the eye observes, it does not judge. Still.

\---

Martin throws a french fry at Jon’s chest, and it bounces off pathetically onto the blanket. “It’s easy. All those people have names and you each get a card with one of them on it, and the other person asks questions like ‘does my person have a hat?’ and - and you flick the ones that don’t match what they say until you... um, well, you guess who.”

He sits back from where they’re all set up and hands Jon a card from a small pile. “I used to like this game because I had an addiction to dramatically flipping them down. It makes a-a good noise?”

\---

Jon looks at the board and then the name on his card again, gives it a Look, then fields a look at Martin. "Okay. And this is supposed to summon Michael how?"

\---

_ "W _e_ ll, _ it's-- It was just a theory, that first time, I-I mean it's not just all about murder, there's-- We don't have to kill anyone or-or sacrifice anyone, not literally, um."

Martin puts his own card down, flustered. "I figured he can... feed off other people's reactions to something weird and unsettling? Something - er - bizarre, or - or it's like, even if he doesn't want to feed off it or anything, it's sending off smoke signals, and-- I'm just asking for his attention. I think. When I say it out loud I sound like a lunatic."

\---

Jon chews on a fingernail and shakes his head. "No. It makes sense. I just didn't get the logic, before. 'smoke signals.' I like that."

He glances around, at the cemetery. Certainly this is  _ weird. _ Certainly he'd have to come if that's the case. He leans over the board game. "Yours has red hair?"

\---

“Mm, no,” Martin says with a smile down at the board, content with Jon’s acceptance. It makes perfect sense, in a way, but it does feel extremely childish. Michael is extremely childish, too, though, so it all works out. 

“Is yours a man?” He’s trying to keep his voice at a normal conversational volume despite his instinct to quiet down, to not draw attention. 

He’s had to learn a lot about not sitting at the sidelines these past few weeks. 

As he waits for Jon’s answer he wrings his hands to work out the restless energy, and the spot where Michael’s marked him doesn’t feel like anything at all.

\---

"Well, I guess you have to ask him," Jon says around a smile; he's nervous, but there's something about the ridiculousness of what appears to be a macabre date that settles him somewhat. Hard to take everything extremely seriously when he's playing a board game in a cemetery.

"But... No. Not a man."

He shivers; it's a gentle thing, something small and almost unnoticeable, but it gets him looking up from their makeshift picnic. Jon isn't a stranger to being watched, and a presence latching upon him is something he's gotten used to, gotten sensitive to, over the years.

There's a door in a tall, pillar-like grave. A collection of cherubs wrap around the stone's top, widening out on the bottom. Where once an obituary statement lived is now home to a bright blue door, too colorful in this dismal environment.

Jon kicks Martin lightly.

\---

Martin kindly ignores the comment, not wanting to swim out of his depth. He starts narrowing down his tabs by flicking them forward, and he just has a few to go when Jon nudges him. 

It’s not hard to spot, the gaudy thing sticking out with a painfully obnoxious flair. “Let’s wait for him, I’m not walking through any doors. Is yours blonde?”

\---

Jon doesn't want to look away, doesn't want to  _ ignore _ it, but he resolutely turns away from it, looking down at the board and at his own card. A creature as fickle as Michael might not want to be watched exiting his... Hell dimension. 

He barely processes Martin's question at first, his heart thumping wildly. "I, erm. Yes. Yes I-I think she is."

\---

“Oh, I asked twice— It’s your turn.” 

While Jon focuses on the door, Martin focuses on Jon’s reaction to it. He doesn’t have some supernatural ability to sense stress, but he’s familiar enough with it to know he should do something about it. “It’s okay, Jon. You can get a quick Question in before he gets here, if it’ll help?” 

That sounds insane, now that he’s said it. Like all of this is normal, like encouraging this thing that brought Jon so much fear when they first talked is... their new normal. Martin holds his calm expression steady.

\---

Jon doesn't even hesitate. He'll feel bad about that later. But the moment the option is presented, he leans forward and his eyes go wide and he shutters out a breath and he Asks, "Why do you want to save him?"

It's not a very creative question, but nonetheless, it focuses him, pushes him towards the Answer rather than focusing on the way his skin is crawling and his chest feels tight and his face feels like it's burning.

\---

“He’s hurting, and I know what it feels like to have your life trapped in someone else’s when they won’t let you go, even if they hate you. How much damage it causes, and no one ever saved me. Maybe if they did I’d be happier.”

Martin, who’s eyes had fixed steadily to Jon’s as he spoke, looks down to the board the second he’s free from it. He’s not upset at Jon for that, it’s just a bit difficult to reconcile the consent as you’re coming back into your trusted mechanisms of coping.

\---

He hates how satisfied it makes him. How even as a sense of that  _ hurt, _ of pain, of deep, psychological connection through adverse events, courses through him, it's grounding. A bitter, acrid smelling salt for his senses.

Jon breathes out, and he doesn't smile, frowns even, but his nod is more solid, his gaze is more solid, and he lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. "Is yours a woman?"

\---

Martin shakes his head, and with the motion clears the thoughts clinging to his brain. “No, he’s not. Better?”

\---

"Your tuuuuuur--" He chokes himself off. Even before he looks, he knows Michael is there. Maybe his hypothesis was true; one second Jon is staring at the board and quelling the remainder of the panic, the next, Michael is standing behind Martin, and they look... Different, than the last time Jon saw him.

Maybe it has to do with the setting. But he almost looks lighter, bouncier, not as primordially tortured as the creature that decides to kill him to prevent the Unknowing.

A smile plasters itself to Michael's face, and he's looking in unabashed curiosity at the game below them. He doesn't address Jon, or Martin, instead merely saying, "Rude to invite me to a game all but lavishing itself in the Stranger's touches."

\---

Martin sighs out his relief in one short exhale. "It's close enough, isn't it? I'm sorry, my - my excuse is I don't have much to go off for  _ that _ one and you're the closest to it of all the others. It's all strange. Jon, is she wearing makeup?" 

He pointedly tries to draw his eyesight, shifting on the blanket so Michael can sit down if he wants to, automatically going through the motions of normalcy expected of a normal friendly gathering instead of... this. It keeps him grounded, it keeps him safe. Not adding fuel to the fire, so to speak.

\---

"I am  _ not _ the Stranger." He hisses. 

Jon swallows a lump in his throat and forces himself to look away. Even without the knowledge of what this creature looks like, he's dressed garishly, in a large woolen coat ripped straight from the 60s, a patterned blouse, and rippling ringlets pulled into loose pigtails. It's  _ loud, _ like everything else about Michael except his voice.

But he forces himself to nonetheless, his mouth straightening into a thin line of concentration. "No. She doesn't." He says, and knows how stiff his voice is.

Michael slowly inches closer, and after an unnatural stillness in his standing position, he slowly sits down beside them both, sitting criss-crossed and leaning close to Martin, his eyes wide. "The cat seems to have caught your Archivist's proverbial manners, Martin. Might you make up for it?"

\---

“This is Jon,” Martin says as he gestures with both hands as if pointing out a lovely display. He repeats the gesture to Michael, feeling very fake about the whole thing. “Jon, this is Michael.” 

Micromanaging the emotions of others is something he’s had extensive experience with, enough that he’s struck with a special sort of confidence, being the most seemingly stable one in the room. Or, graveyard. 

Martin smiles, then, at Michael inviting him into a conversation, another excuse to keep on moving. “He takes board games a bit seriously, don’t mind him. I had some questions for you, Michael. Not, um, the Archivist kind. I think you’ll like these better. Your turn, Jon.”

\---

Michael laughs, and Jon flinches; he hasn't heard that laugh in person in... Well. More than a year now, and it's a laugh embedded deep, deep in his psyche. It gets the entity to look at him, pulling back from Martin and straightening his grotesquely tall frame to regard Jon, the smile slipping just a little as he watches him.

Jon squirms, and Michael's smile grows again, and he cheerfully offers his hand for Jon to take. Holding it there, not looking away from Jon, Michael says, "What sort of questions? Hello, Jon. I would say nice to meet you, but I'm not so certain it's your first meeting, hm?"

Jon knows if he reacts too harshly, he'll fall apart. Something fluttery in his chest threatens to overtake him. It threatens the kind of mind-fog that overtook him during the Prentiss attack. 

He dredges up a deep-set behavioral pattern he forced himself to abandon as a teenager, when he was a dismissive, barely verbal ornery girl who caused a near wall of unsociability around her.

He doesn't look at Michael. He mumbles, "Hello, Michael," and squints at the game board, brow furrowed to stay concentrated, and asks, "Blue eyes?"

\---

Martin lets them have their back-and-forth, wondering if it might have been a good idea to do this alone. He didn't want to, he can't build terms that include Jon without giving him the ability to speak his own mind, but it feels like-- Like as Martin falls comfortably back into a routine he's had established for decades, Jon is slipping into something far less pleasant. 

He's relieved Jon doesn't take the hand offered to him, but Martin figures he knows well enough to leave it alone. "No blue eyes," Martin starts, addressing Jon first. As childish as the game is, and as ridiculous as it sounds when committed to words in his head, a game focused on asking questions seemed like it might be helpful for Jon to have. "Michael, er-- I've been _ thinking, _ about what you said at the park. And I think we might be able to help you, w-with not being  _ Michael, _ we might-- I think we can help each other."

\---

Jon sits up somewhat, and Michael keeps his hand in the air, patience in a skin that does not feel like his own. He ticks down a few squares of the cheap plastic, and Michael reaches across to flick a few more down at random, laughing when the Archivist silently pushes them back up. 

The Archivist is silly; he does a commendable job of pretending that a creature such as Michael is not a mere foot away, but Michael knows better. His fear is delicious. He wonders, for the first time, what It Is Not What It Is has done to the Archivist, in that magical, delicious, future unreality that sits only within the imagination of Jonathan Sims now.

Michael stares at Jon for a moment longer, tracking the way his eyes carefully avoid him, and he leans back somewhat, to flip his head back and then to Martin, pulling the hat from his head and letting loose strands of hair fall backwards behind him. "What?"

\---

One blanket seats three people who know more than they say, who think endless private thoughts that won’t stay private forever, given the future they’re all hurtling towards with alarming speed. 

What a scary thought. 

Martin clears his throat, and it takes effort not to laugh at the absurdity of Michael and Jon competing for control over the board. “I think we can help each other,” he says louder, trying, trying not to stumble through it. “You know about something that - that I think is important to us, maybe even to you if… you don’t want something else to win. End of the world, but not  _ your _ kind, right? Um, I think we can— I think we can separate you. From Michael. So you can be someone more - more you. Jon, is she old?”

\---

Michael stutters out a surprised laugh, harsher than his usual one, choked between lips that do not wait for permission to make sound. "Do you think to  _ save _ the dead Michael Shelley, Martin Blackwood? Is that your goal?"

Jon lifts his head and looks from Martin to Michael for a moment, and says, "Helen? She's-- forties, maybe, she--"

Michael interrupts him, and his voice is motionless glass. "Helen Richardson?" His movements stop, frozen in place, and the Archivist's attention sharpens, a narrowing of eyes that Michael does  _ not  _ care for.

"You've taken her already, then?" The Archivist  _ compels _ it. A shiver runs through Michael's body at the touch of the Beholder, and were he not with Martin, he might do something rash. As it is, he leans forward, smile bared like a growl. 

"She is growing mad by the day."

\---

"No-- " Martin can't cut him off, either of them, like a child sat far, far below the arguing parents. "Stop. Jon, I meant your  _ card. _ Your-- You stop talking." 

There's a bite to it, and it's directed at Jon, and once he gets a second where no one's talking, he groans. There goes the illusion of unknowns, a piece of it that Martin was planning on being  _ vague _ about so they didn't have to commit to anything. "Maybe. Maybe that's part of the goal. But it's - it's not about Michael, it's about you, because you're the one I'm talking to, and I'd  _ like _ to know if you'd be interested."

\---

Jon immediately glares at Martin, but this is a tenuous, fragile meeting, so he decides to listen, snapping his mouth shut and turning his gaze back to the board. He places his own card-- her name is Anita-- delicately nestled on top of Martin's still-standing displays. No, she's not old.

Michael idly flicks down the rest of Jon's displays and Jon just watches him.

"Maybe." Michael says, and Jon hates that he's nearly  _ purring _ as he speaks. "Perhaps. But if you amputate a hand, does the replacement not become a new hand?"

\---

“Do - do you not want hands? We just want one of them, I-- Maybe Helen  _ wants _ to be there. I don’t— “ 

Martin closes his mouth to collect himself over the ethical dilemma of not being able to save everyone, avoiding looking at Jon for clarification on the Helen situation. Another battle, another day. They haven’t even figured out what they want to do.

“Look, Michael. I want to be friends. You’re our best shot of understanding things so people like Elias, like Gertrude, aren’t the only ones who  _ know  _ things. I wouldn’t ask if I just wanted to save Michael because I’m - I’m a good person. But you both seem to— Neither of you  _ like _ it. And if we do this and - and it works, I’d like to stay friends with you both.”

\---

_ "Friends _ has terms." Michael squints, and there's a flash of paranoia that crosses his face, something too human to be quite an entity, something too fragile to he the hand of a God. "Michael Shelley is  _ gone." _

\---

“If he  _ were _ gone, you wouldn’t be so cranky about it,” Martin says with a tilt of his head, his smile speaking less to having caught him in a lie and more to genuine compassion. “I think I know the terms of - of our friendship.”

\---

"I will  _ owe  _ you." It isn't the Spiral that thinks that. The Spiral would relish in the lie of taking, and pulling apart, and giving nothing in return. Some strange human pride. Or commitment, they suppose.

He's bristling now. Static running down his body and his hair on edge, and the Archivist leans back to look at him, fielding this odd little look that screams of asking for  _ permission _ from Martin. What an odd duo they make.

Jonathan Sims speaks up and says, "We both know you were a bad fit. You'll live in better peace without Michael tugging along."

\---

Martin glances in Jon’s direction, trapping his eyes there instead of getting caught up in Michael’s growing outburst. 

“And— Yes, you’ll _ owe  _ us, but all we want is to know a few things, Michael. Nothing else. It’s an  _ offer, _ you’re— You can say no.”

\---

Michael is quiet for a long, long moment. It  _ would  _ be easy to say no. To flee, or to mark the Archivist Assistant deeper, or to mark the Archivist himself right now and scare them silly.

But something deep makes him pause. Michael Shelley's memories are a burden on his being. Michael Shelley should be dead, and yet he lingers.

"What would this entail?" He asks quietly, looking away from the both of them, his voice the soft unsurety of Shelley's.

\---

Martin thinks, and thinks, and knows that even if he’s not sure about the terms, he couldn't run it by Jon beforehand, he has to sound confident about it. 

“One conversation where you’re clear about everything we ask, no games, no  _ twisting _ until after. Not now, later, but we - we have it banked.”

\---

"You  _ have _ a plan for this already? You know what to do?" Michael squints.

\---

“Yes,” Martin lies. “But we can’t do it until we’re back from America. We’re on business.”

\---

Michael blinks and he's adrift. He's adrift and the Archivist is  _ staring _ at him, and he's fairly certain he isn't breathing. He doesn't  _ need _ to, but some instinct within him is surprised by this.

"When? How long? You have a deal to give me, and then wish to let me float like this until you get back from  _ holiday? _ Cruel. Cruelty far beyond you."

\---

“We have to prepare for it. I’m not getting ready until I know you want that.” Martin pauses, looking between them both and suddenly uncomfortable with the attention. “I said business and I  _ mean _ business, Michael— Part of getting ready means going to America, we’re not wasting time.”

Tough talk for someone who couldn’t even order furniture without getting distracted, but. He’s puffing up now, and probably laying it on a little too thick, but it’s all he feels like he can do.

\---

Michael narrows his eyes and then turns to Jon, and his smile is cruel, cruel enough to warrant a glare from the Archivist. "Your Little Archivist thinks he can lie to me, Jonathan Sims. I find it quite quaint."

Jon becomes unreadable. "Are you interested or not? You know what the exchange is."

"Yes. And Martin knows it will ruin the only fun I have right now."

\---

“You’re, what, a thousand years old? You had fun before...  _ before _ Michael, you’ll find it again. You’re creative.” 

Martin sighs out the last of his tension, holds out his hand. He’s shaking, just a little, as the reality sinks in that he can’t trick him. That the forces he’s dealing with are beyond the limits of human communication. “Deal?”

\---

Michael can feel the calm shell of his corporeality slipping. The changing tides of fate, so loose and fluid and chaotic, are shifting and weaving before his very eyes, and what is real and what is lies and what is deceit and what is  _ kindness _ all interchangeably mingle. It's dizzying. He lets himself  _ feel  _ it for a moment, this unknown potion dangling in the atmosphere, and for a moment, he falls apart. No humanity.

Just swirling, horrid chaos.

Distantly, he can feel the Archivist flinching, a soft, scared noise escaping his lips. Michael can't even drink that fear in, their own fear sharp and pungent on their teeth.

It's just a scant second, and then they pull themself together, and the oily-sick feel of sliding back into a body that does not  _ fit _ makes him squeeze his eyes shut. The cemetery is still and he does not belong here in the End's domain.

He holds out both hands when he returns. One to Martin, the mark already sitting upon his hand like a beacon, and one to the Archivist, who will wear his tainted scent upon him as partial payment. "Deal."

\---

Martin waits to commit to the contact before he can reach over and tightly grip Jon’s hand, the one he presumably won’t be using to shake hands with Michael. 

And then he closes the gap, palm up to rest in Michael’s as an offering. It takes a strikingly difficult level of strain not to tense, his gut telling him that would make it worse, but he prepares for the worst just the same.

\---

Jon doesn't want to take his hand. He knows what it feels like, knows what it means, knows knows knows knows as usual too damn much, and he's nearly going to panic, his breath going shallow, when Martin takes hold of him, and his immediate response is to squeeze three times, settling himself into one ritual to begin another.

Michael's smile is broad and happy when Jon takes hold of the offered hand. He takes it the way Martin does, palm up in the crook of Michael's. He doesn't feel anything out of the ordinary, other than the odd weight to him, but he shivers anyways; something passes.

And then Michael laughs, a light, fluttery thing, and he says, "Kumbaya, boys," and it makes Jon want to retract the offer just from sheer annoyance. But he can't; he Knows this too. A deal like this won't be broken lightly.

\---

One-two-three-four. 

The sound Martin makes is something like a half-snort, and he’s got no clue  _ why _ the joke hits so hard, but he devolves into laughter between them both. It’s the only way this can make sense, if they’re just - just some teenagers on a silly dare, having a picnic in a field of mourning just to prove they can do it, like they’re not playing with forces unimaginable. Martin Blackwood, new champion of the occult to bring peace to humanity through half-baked bargains for knowledge. 

“Someone’s crying, my Lord, Kumbaya,” he says through his giggles, “Oh, I can’t wait to see America after all this  _ nonsense. _ We’re - we’re going to die, aren’t we?” There’s a lilt of fear there, but the kind that flips over into a hysterical mirth.

\---

Jon doesn't mean to say it. But he does anyways, because Martin always seems to break through his filter. In between the laughter and the gravestones, he says, "It's not so bad, really."

Michael laughs, and squeezes both of their hands and says to the sky, "It is, though. It very much is so bad. Your Archivist just had a  _ choice." _

\---

The laughter dies but Martin’s smile persists as though stuck to his face, as though his eyes don’t completely betray a deeply embedded light of disorientation and helplessness as he keeps his gaze steady on Jon. 

Martin takes his hands away, and with that his connection dissipates between both Jon and Michael. His voice is strained, outside of his body. “I think I want to go home, now, Jon. I think we’re - we’re done. I want to— I need to lie down. I think?”

\---

Jon's expression falls, and he pulls away from Michael the moment Martin's hands are gone, and he gives a short, solemn nod.

Michael's grin is horrendous.

"We'll-- Well, I suppose Martin knows how to. To, you know, contact you. We'll-- we'll let you know." He says.

Michael leans backwards to pull his hat back upon his head, and his eyes are bright and terrifying and a loop of colors that make Jon's head hurt to pay attention to. "Don't keep me waiting too long, dear Beholders. I like you, Martin, I think, but don't think to betray my good-will. Or that death you're so worried about might reach its zenith sooner."

"Okay! Goodbye, Michael!" Jon announces.

\---

“I’m not giving you a reason to kill me,” Martin says almost under his breath, pulling his knees to his chest. He says nothing else after that and plans not to, momentarily falling into a mood drop that lets him accept Jon taking the reins on this one without shame. 

It’s all he can do to try and process what’s made him feel this way, caught up in it enough that there’s no effort to control the way his facial expression shifts every few seconds as he thinks nearly out-loud. It’s almost, sort of like that numb, distant thing in the aftermath of his forced house arrest courtesy of Prentiss. 

Though he’s not in danger here, he doesn’t think so, not immediately, there’s no other reference for it. He’s suddenly wishing he could teleport back to the Institute, to sit in a dark corner of Jon’s office without the realities of social interaction.

\---

Jon stands. He stands too fast and his knees protest at the motion, but he's dead certain Michael will continue to sit here and bask in their misery unless they make the first move. And it's kind of obvious Martin isn't making that move.

Michael follows suit, a fluidity to his movements that shouldn't be possible but doesn't surprise Jon either. "Goodbye. Don't wear my patience." And he steps backwards off their blanket.

It's like a spell has been broken, and Jon drops down to squat on his haunches, facing Martin while Michael all but skips back to his door in the grave. He leans close and presses a worried hand to his cheek. "We can go home."

\---

Martin is still, at first, peering through Jon rather than at him. The pause is short and he breaks it with a tilt of his head that gives Jon’s hand a better surface area. 

If he knew how his voice sounded, eerily vacant in the weeks leading up to his own isolation far forward in the future, he would immediately fall victim to guilt. 

As is, he doesn’t know. He can’t know Peter Lukas, he can’t know the Lonely beyond his own lifelong understanding, he can’t know that despite the answer being ‘yes’, it might somehow not be the answer that leads to a happier ending. “Do you ever come back?”

\---

"I don't-- what do you mean?" Jon's eyes are wide. He doesn't notice Michael leaving them, doesn't care to watch him, because Martin's voice haunts him as real as the specters that likely walk along the soft grass of this cemetery.

\---

“When you die.” His voice is strained, like he’s repeating something that took great effort to say the first time despite never saying that string of words before in his life. “Do you come back?”

\---

Jon's jaw ticks, and he looks away towards the sky, his vision whiting out somewhat from the brightness of the sunlight. "Yeah. I guess. I mean-- I wake up. It's just different."

\---

“I’m afraid I’m changing too much, how things are supposed to go. And I can’t ask you to promise you’ll come back this time. I-I-I don’t know if you can promise that. Is that my fault?”

\---

Jon pulls his thumb away from Martin's cheek and focuses back in on him, worrying his bottom lip. "It's not your fault. I'll choose to come back. I will. M-maybe I shouldn't. but. I will."

\---

“You— you can choose? I-I—  _ Jon. _ ” The little whining outburst is mostly in response to his contact being withdrawn, like he left him alone there instead of just pulling back by inches. “We don’t even know what we’re doing with Michael. Why can’t it just be _ talking _ to people? Why is it so hard?”

\---

"Hey, hey. I'm not--" He has a hard time pulling in, and it's ridiculous, this back and forth, this push and pull, of affection and touch, but Jon doesn't know what to  _ do. _ "I'm not dead. Okay? We'll -- we'll find out about-- If it's  _ possible _ with Michael."

Without the entity's presence, the door swallowed up and the tombstone back to its normal slate grey with the etchings undisturbed, the cemetery is quiet, and it's easy to focus in, in, in on Martin. His eyes are bright in the daylight, each imperceptible movement of his gaze captured by the minuscule nature in a place full of death. It keeps Jon from letting himself fall into a panic.

"Let's go home. Okay? Let's-- we can talk about it at home." Panic at home. Not in public.

\---

Martin doesn’t mind that particular scrutiny, actually. Somehow it’s comforting to be seen, so he can’t fade off into some dark unknown corner of his mind and hide there. To know that Jon sees something beautiful there, even when Martin can’t. 

“Right.” It’s flat, it’s hollow, it’s open and it hurts. He nods, and that does a good enough job of clearing it up.  _ “Right. _ Okay. I’m fine. I’m really— Fine.” 

He stands up, fast enough that his head spins with the rush of it, and kicks once at the board on his side so all the remaining tabs flip over at once. It really is a satisfying noise. “I’m adding littering to our quickly rising list of crimes, I’m not keeping these and - and the dead can play with it all.” He grimaces down at everything with finality, continues staring even as he addresses Jon. “Do you think it’s odd how easy it is for us to call it home?”

\---

"I'm not leaving the blanket." Jon says, and numbly steps back off it, shooing Martin to do the same so he can bend down and pull the blanket up out from under the games and their wreckage of a lunch.

He does it so he can think, and have time to process what all Martin is asking with that question.  _ Do you think it's odd...,  _ in their lives, can be the mundane or the supernatural or both or neither, and it's hard to sort through. 

The blanket is tossed over his shoulder and he offers his hand again, bridging their distance. 

"I mean-- I call the institute home now, I guess. But it isn't  _ really. _ It's just home because you're there."

The institute is a dark and looming shadow over his life. If Martin wasn't there to lighten it up, to nestle and cradle his aching soul in the crook of his own, it would feel more like a prison than a home. As it is... They've made it something theirs.

\---

“Oh. I get what you mean.” Martin takes the offered hand and trails along a step behind him, so Jon can lead him by that singular connecting thread. 

He sniffs. “I’m sorry. When it’s just - just Michael, I can sort of pretend he’s just a person. He’s not. This is real. I-I-I think it’s too real.”

\---

"We just have to deal with it and move on." Jon says, and looks behind himself for a moment, fielding him a dark look as he steps around graves and weaves them back towards the gravel path.

"He's-- he acts more like a person around you than he does me."

\---

“It’s so hard to manage that. I thought I could, I thought maybe it would be  _ easy.” _ Martin laughs, lifeless and sad as he slows to idly read passing stones. “I want to do the right thing. But I don’t know what I’m doing.”

\---

"We do our best, and push our noses to the statements. It's the only way forward." Maybe it's not the startling vote of confidence Martin wants. But it's not like Jon is going to  _ lie _ to him. After all, the last time he saw Michael, he was about to be murdered to mitigate the kidnapping attempt to kick start an Apocalypse.

All things considered, they haven't even begun to hit their peak of hardships.

Jon slows with Martin, not wanting to pull him too fast.

\---

“Everything is changing...  _ so _ fast, and I don’t know who I am, Jon-- I don’t know who I’m supposed to be.” He squeezes Jon’s hand, on the verge of too tight. “I’m not even sure why I’m doing it past— Saving the world, wouldn’t that be nice? If the world’s in  _ our _ hands, we’re a little screwed.”

\---

Jon tugs a little harder, trying to urge them to go faster. He'd let Martin wander slowly but-- he kind of thinks they need to get home soon. He's not keen to have another breakdown on the side of the road because they didn't moderate their emotions.

"The world will be bad if we don't try. If we don't-- we just have to try, Martin. You're not supposed to be anyone specifically."

\---

Isn’t he supposed to be Martin? Who even is that? He’s not being dramatic about this on purpose, not having some incomprehensible existential crisis for  _ fun, _ but— 

Martin breathes. At least he can do that. The world will be bad, but it’s not just yet. Jon’s still here and Jon’s not dead. That counts for something. 

The next time he speaks, it’s a little clearer. “Okay.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for this chapter:  
> \- Conversation discussing past self-harm. Nothing is described in detail.

The Institute is bustling by the time they return. Normally, Jon would feel annoyed, angry at the throng of people in the lobby, at the milling of university students around the libraries and resources, but today? After their somber morning meeting in the cemetery? It feels like a return to society. A return to humanity. 

It's enough of a crowd that the relative quiet of the Archives comes as a mild surprise, like the deafening of ears expecting a concert serenade. He keeps his hand firmly attached to Martin's the entire journey, letting go only once they return to the office, so he can toss the blanket in a corner to be washed the next time they have enough laundry to justify a trip to the laundromat. 

And then he sits on the floor in front of the desk, letting his head rest against the solid wood, and he smokes. The quiet forces him to think. And he's not sure where Martin's at right now to find the words to speak.

\---

Martin does his best to hone in on Jon throughout the trip, using the gentle pressure of their contact as a source of stability. The activity of the Archives is lost on him, head blessedly empty in the aftermath of his short outburst at the cemetery, but once the door shuts them both into the private comfort of home base he’s content to make the most of it. 

He lies down next to Jon so he can look up and watch him from there without too much effort, his shoulder brushing against Jon’s knee. “Do you need to talk about it? About… this?”

\---

Jon exhales and offers the cigarette to Martin, shrugging. "Just thinking. We've-- I mean. We've bound ourselves to something we don't have a solution to yet. It's--" He squeezes the hand he shook with Michael and looks down at it, his brow furrowing. 

"I'm-- I'm worried how this will change us."

\---

“I— It’s an agreement that’s only solid once we find a way to  _ solve _ it. If we can’t, Michael tells us nothing, and we move on.” Martin takes the cigarette with a hum of thanks, blowing smoke up into the air away from Jon’s space. 

“I think.”

\---

"Yeah." Jon says, and can't help the edge leaking into his voice. "The entity of madness and lies will just move on from a broken deal. I'm sure that'll work out for us."

\---

“It wouldn’t be broken, just on hold. He can wait. And he’s— You know, he’s technically not just  _ that. _ He’s Michael Shelley, too. That-- I think that means something.” 

Martin rests his hand palm-up on Jon’s knee, offering the cigarette between two fingers. When he speaks again, it’s with growing confidence in the space where Jon needs his voice. “Are you okay?”

\---

"I think we should maybe work," Jon says, and his voice is hollow, instead of giving him any sort of answer, because an answer that would settle Martin isn't true, and the truth is something he's not sure he could-- could ever even verbalize. Like a stopper on his brain. 

But he's not okay, and he's not sure why, because nothing really has  _ happened. _ Even Michael's previous marks on him were worse. 

At least he's on their side. 

He can't stop thinking about waking up in the hospital.

\---

Martin gives up trying to hand him the cigarette like this, with Jon clearly lost in his own head. He rolls over onto his stomach, propping up on his elbows so he can nudge his knee again to hand it off to him. “Right. Let’s work. Anything I can, erm, help with? Make it a bit easier?”

\---

Jon takes it without looking at him, and the drag he takes is like a lifeline. He shakes his head. "I don't know. I think-- I don't know?"

\---

Martin sits up properly, turns so his legs stretch out on either side of him. After a brief moment of hesitation he rests one hand on Jon’s knee and rubs his thumb back and forth a few times. Gesture of comfort. 

His question is worried, bordered slightly on insistence. “Jon?”

\---

The touch helps to keep him at least somewhat attached to the world, but it's not much. Martin rubs his thumb across Jon's knee and Jon covers his mouth with a hand, squeezing either side of his cheeks. It's another comfort. But not much. 

The heady stale incense smell of the office feels far away, and after a moment he says, "Sorry. Sorry. I'm-- sorry. I've just-- he reminded me of, um. Of a lot. I haven't. Um. I don't think I've had to think about what's happened? Is that-- Martin I don't think I'm a good person."

\---

It takes him a second to think of a way to handle this. “Oh. Um, I-I mean, this is complicated, it’s - it doesn’t feel easy, at all, it’s not, but— I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t— “ 

He exhales the jitters away, at least the kind that makes him completely incoherent. “I think you’re doing your best to do the right thing. If that - if that counts for anything?”

\---

"I-- I don't know. I chose to wake up. I chose--" He takes another drag, pulling his hand down his chin to accommodate it. "I'm choosing it again."

\---

“Okay,” Martin starts, completely out of his depth. “Okay, you chose. And you’re still here, and you’re still alive. You’re  _ here, _ and you’re okay. Jon, I-I can’t help if I don’t understand, I want to— You already get me through ten breakdowns a week.”

\---

"I don't-- I don't know how to talk about it." Jon almost gasps it, and his head feels thick and cottony and dark and full of dirt, pouring down into his throat and sitting heavy in his gut. 

"I've never-- I haven't  _ tried _ and when I do you--I don't. I'm still alive because I  _ chose _ it, and I don't want to scare you, but all I do is scare you."

\---

“Of course you scare me, you’re from the future,” Martin says with a shaky laugh. “Anyone who knows more about what I’ll do than me has me petrified half the time. But that’s - that’s not  _ your _ fault, it’s not like - I’d rather it be you than, you know, um.” 

He squeezes Jon’s knee gently, leaning forward so there’s marginally less distance. Every little bit helps. “What do you mean you haven’t tried? You try every day.”

\---

"Not everything. Not everything. There's some things-- Martin I don't know how to begin. I..." He swallows and then leans forward until they're forehead to forehead, his hair falling forward to brush against Martin's cheeks. "You don't like it when I talk about it, anyways."

\---

“What do you _ mean, _ not everything? I— “ Martin follows his first instinct to wrap both arms around Jon, holding him close. “Just because I don’t like it doesn’t mean you shouldn’t say it if - if it’s important, to you. I don’t - I don’t not like it because of anything to do with you.”

\---

"I don't like it when you get distant. You-- you fade away. And talking about what happened.... It does that. To you." His voice is so, so quiet.

\---

Martin hugs him tighter, as if evidence to his commitment to  _ not _ doing that. “I don’t notice,” he whispers, not in the distant way. “I’m sorry. I’m here. I’m staying here, and you - you can talk. Please, Jon.”

\---

"It wouldn't help. I don't think-- would it help? It just." He makes a high noise in his throat and leans into the hug, burying himself in Martin's neck. "It's never been important. What happened to me."

\---

“It matters— I’m - I’m sorry if I made you think that - that it didn’t? I don’t want that, it’s— We can try?” 

His chin rests at the top of Jon’s head, frustrated at himself, but his eyes are open and filled with concern as they look off into nothing in particular. He’s not sure what to do, afraid of screwing up and keeping both Jon  _ and _ his messy emotions away. 

“I just don’t know the right words, I don’t know if I can comfort you and - and that’s scary. The idea that I can’t help you i-in all this, and you’re on your own, it’s - you’re important. You really, really are, Jon.”

\---

"That's all I am. Important. I'm important. It's. It's important not to dwell or think or live in emotions because I'm _ important." _ His voice is getting louder and his breath is getting shallower and he doesn't know what the fuck is wrong with him past  _ this shouldn't be happening. _

\---

“What? Jon, that doesn’t make  _ sense. _ I’m telling you your - your feelings are important?” He’s scared to pull away, but he’s not sure if staying is the right thing to do, or what he’s supposed to be doing about this at all. He opts for running a hand up and down Jon’s back while he holds him, praying that it’s helpful at all.

\---

Jon jumps somewhat when he feels the hand on his back, but doesn't move. He's tense, his body held stiff and hard, and he feels pathetic, but it's getting harder to, because whatever this is, it's pouring out almost mindlessly, on instinct, and he can't even see the office anymore. 

"You're the only one. I'm meant to-- to. Move one and carry on and b-be quiet and just. Just do my job, and honestly-- honestly." He laughs now, hollow and scared. "Honestly I don't t-think they've ever been important. My  _ feelings. _ No one wants to hear the-- I don't know  _ how." _

\---

“If no one wants to hear about it, then  _ I’m _ no one,” Martin says quietly, voice tinged with a light smile. Just holding them there, together, tightly. 

He won’t cry, he won’t relate to it, because this isn’t about him. “Jon, please talk to me. One word at a time, okay?”

\---

Martin is giving him a space. An opening, an awning to walk through and lay down and nestle in like a creature in need of hibernation. He'll feel awful about it later, but for now, he takes it. It's hard, sometimes, to be broken. 

Jon takes a deep breath, and feels Martin all around him, and breathes in Martin's everything, and his scent is comforting, it's  _ Martin, _ and it's home. He doesn't deserve Martin, but Jon has accepted he's a selfish man; he'll take and kill for and die for even the smallest amount of Martin he can take. 

He speaks slowly, deliberately, evening out the emotional and confused stutter. It lowers his voice from the effort, and the normal wavers are absent. In the effort to tap into his emotions, his voice has lost them. 

"I died for six months, and when I woke up, I Knew. And I chose to Know. I could have continued to lay there unbreathing and perhaps eventually I would have been provided a funeral, but I chose to wake up in my dreams." 

He pauses, and tenses again. "And I can't Know like I did before, but I do know when I die, I will do it again."

\---

Martin is, most likely, holding Jon with too much pressure. The goal isn’t to suffocate him, but seeing as he feels like a tethered balloon in danger of floating away at the first sign of a breeze... Well, he needs that, to stay here. 

Processing this requires definitions Martin never had, emotions he’s never felt, an understanding of events far off in the future that he’s never experienced. The Martin that Jon cares about is a Martin that took years for Jon to love in the first place. 

The only word he knows enough to feel right now is  _ inadequate. _

“Do you remember? When you come b-back? People you care about? Things you did?”

\---

"Of course." It's immediate, no hesitation. Of course he remembers. Of course he cared. "I was-- everyone told me I was inhuman, a monster. But I still _ felt _ like myself. Everything just made... Sense. 

"No one wanted to listen to me, because we were  _ busy, _ and it was easy to justify, and-- and I mean. I've treated you all  _ so badly. _ Prioritized all-- this. Over you all. I don't blame you for pulling away." 

He pulls in a shuddering breath, because this is the hard part. This is the part he doesn't like to think about. The part that haunts all of his dreams. 

"I felt the same, and then I didn't. And I felt I could pull any information I wanted out of people. I could Know them. One pull of intent, and I could have it. And the dreams got worse. And there was a-- there's a. Door. I can open. To have it _ all,  _ and I'll be gone if I open it, but it feels so, so tempting, and it _ scared  _ me."

\---

“I can’t— I don’t think I can give you closure, Jon, because I-I wouldn’t do that, I can’t explain why they— Why that  _ happened.” _

Martin tries to pull any elaboration he can for some sliver of understanding that leads him closer to helping Jon through this. “Like one of Michael’s doors?”

\---

"No, it- it's. Michael's doors are a.... A trap. This is--" He cuts himself off, and furrows his brow and thinks. Tries to remember how he explained it to Basira, when she'd asked, and says as much-- "There's a door in my mind and it's just barely staying closed for want of letting an entire  _ ocean  _ flow forward. Or-- An old, erm, keg, with a broken stopper, and you know. You know at some point it's just going to flow, and flow, and flow, and flow, and the most you can hope for, in-- In either metaphor is... To keep it at bay. 

"But sometimes, sometimes the-- I can't do this yet, not quite, not, um-- Last time, it didn't happen until after I'd. Woken up. But a drop of wine, or the-- the ocean water, it'll fall beneath and drip below, or-- Or pool, under it, and I'll Know. I can Know. And I can control that, but if it breaks, the stopper, or the door, um, gets blown open and crushed beneath the water, well I never-- I never learned to swim." 

He exhales and takes another shaky drag from the cigarette, coughing somewhat on the inhale because his breathing's already messed up and he pulls it in wrong. 

"And now it's-- Even messier, because there's things I know because I  _ lived _ them, but there's going to be things I know because of... Because of It, the Beholder, and-- a-and I don't. I just. I just don't know."

\---

Martin listens. It’s all he can do. He doesn’t tell Jon he’s not making sense, because it’s not Jon’s fault. The metaphors, he understands. Bottling it up to keep in the cascade. He knows how that feels, so he clings to it. Clings to the one piece he  _ can _ grasp, so he has something to focus on and remain present. 

“So now you know enough that even if - if you don’t know how to swim, maybe this time you can be ready for when the dam breaks and - and you can have a boat. And you’ll know what to do by then?”

\---

"It's more like-- the flood rushes in, and I  _ become _ it. I become the ocean. I lose myself. A sailor hearing a siren song, but it's the water that's the siren."

\---

Martin pulls back so he can cradle Jon’s face between his hands, so they’re speaking  _ to _ each other and not just through. He studies Jon’s face for a long, silent moment, and despite the wrecked lack of composure etched into his features, Martin is still struck by the fact that he loves this man. 

“If you don’t want that to happen, I’ll help you try. Try to - to stop it, or board it up better, or anything you want. You deserve better than - than— I listened, Jon. When you asked me to, when you came back  _ here. _ I’m still listening. You’re still here.”

\---

He latches onto Martin's features, and his expression falls apart even more, eyes welling up in fat, silent tears that he knows are useless to try to blink back. "You do. You do listen. You've been listening. I don't deserve it. I don't--" Jon's voice cracks. "Oh, Martin."

\---

Martin shivers as Jon says his name, like each time it’s said in the aftermath of an ‘oh’ it holds some great, cosmic weight. “You know that’s not true.” 

He doesn’t know what he did to deserve  _ Jon. _ Of all the people to spend this time with, to pour care into and around, to cultivate something he can’t even begin to comprehend with. He’s sure he’d want it to be Jon over anyone else. It’s all too much, really. “You hate lies.”

\---

Jon hates lies, but he's also a hypocrite. A giant one. Considering how often he lies to himself, he's not so certain he  _ does  _ hate lies. But he doesn't say that. He doesn't say anything, he just presses into every part of Martin that's already touching him, and lets the tears fall. It's embarrassing, and he feels  _ childish  _ letting this overtake his afternoon, but with Martin, sometimes it's easy to just let himself feel and ignore the socialized parts of him that screams about appearing weak. 

He feels strong when he's nestled in Martin's arms.

\---

“There.” It’s soft, consoling, as Martin leaves a kiss at the center of Jon’s forehead before bringing him closer. “You deserve it, Jon. I-I wish I had all the answers you need, but I don’t, and I’m - I’m sorry.”

\---

"Don't be sorry," He says automatically, his voice rough and phlegmy through the tears. "Don't-- I love you. I love you. All of this would be easier if I d-didn't, but I do, and I-I'm grateful, because I want. I want to be human, or close to i-it, and... And I've more to lose now, and I love you."

\---

Martin tenses, fingers clinging to Jon’s back between his shoulder blades. All of this would be easier if Martin didn’t complicate things, wouldn’t it? 

He buries that ugly facet of him crying out internally. “I’m not losing you, so you’re not going through any doors unless there’s room for two.”

\---

Jon makes a high keening note in the back of his throat, and when it ends, he laughs, the sound thick through the tears, and says, "You're damning yourself for me. And-- And it's fucked up. It's fucked up, but it's romantic? It makes me feel-- It won't come to that. I'll make sure of it. But I'm-- I'm glad you'll b-be there. If it does."

\---

“I’m not  _ damning _ myself, better to have two sets of eyes on this than one, right? Working together, it’s— Maybe we can save more. Sasha’s still alive, right?” 

He hopes so. “I’m sorry I made you think I— I don’t want you to feel alone. I didn’t know— This is new for me.”

\---

"It's new for me too," Jon says, and his voice is slightly more stable, less windy and fragile. He's pulling himself from his head inch by inch of Martin's continued presence and voice. "Not used to-- I'm just used to being brushed off. So I... I probably didn't. Explain a lot, for-- All I do is scare people. Or make it about me."

\---

"That's how I feel!" 

It comes out  _ way _ too happy. He's not happy that Jon's going through that, but it's adding words to his own set of issues and that gives him more of a framework. "Every time you - you say something and I-I  _ react,  _ I worry I'm-- My problems aren't as  _ big _ as yours, you-- You're from the  _ future, _ it's... it's hard, but that sort of comes with the territory, right? You do more than just... scare me, though. I think that's obvious."

\---

Jon's next laugh is way more happy, less of the bitter, humorless thing from before. Martin is  _ funny, _ even when he's not trying to be, and it settles his nerves and reminds him that it's possible to pull himself out from this mind misery and reinvest in the world. He reaches up to wipe at his face, to wipe the drying tears off his cheeks. 

"I guess we've.... We've to be mutually more, uh, emotionally honest? With each other? It's uh, mutual. All of it, you know? I guess. Hm." He laughs again, and covers his face and says between his fingers, "God, we're ridiculous people."

\---

Martin grins, the tears threatening to fall from his own eyes through that whole outburst fading away. "Yep. We can make each other tell the truth at a moment's notice and still can't communicate like  _ normal  _ functioning adults." 

He shakes his head and takes to wiping a tear off Jon's cheek with one thumb, a little gesture of care. "I really have no idea how we manage to make any sense at all."

\---

As the panic and fear ebb away, Jon is left with exhaustion. Without Martin, it would be enough to get him to lay down for the rest of the day, nursing a headache probably. With him, there's almost a comfort to the exhaustion, because he knows Martin can weather it.  _ Chooses _ to weather it. He leans into the thumb on his cheek and smiles, love-struck and dopey. 

"I don't know. I think I manage to make sense of you occasionally. Maybe I'm just spellbound by you, though."

\---

“Really? That’s good, I’d say I make sense of what I do at about the same frequency, so - you know.” 

Martin pauses, brushing his thumb over Jon’s skin once more. “Did this help, at all?”

\---

"I-- I think? I think so. I think I was, um. Panic attack? Kind of? Or at least, nearly one. So-- Yes. Probably needed to talk to you about that, um, anyways."

\---

“Oh. Yeah. Yeah, I get it. Um. I want you to be able to say this, before it b-blows up, so, so we really should.” 

He sits back just enough to place both hands in his lap and wring his fingers. “Should learn how to talk about things better. I’ve never really had to— I’m a bit delayed with that, the talking thing. To people I care about.”

\---

Jon nods. "Always been easier to just push it down and move on. Next crisis, next, um, trauma."

\---

“Er— Yeah, it is. Was? Has been. I think— Um, this is a bad time, a really,  _ really _ bad time, but— I think soon we need to talk about— “ His hand-wringing gets a bit more obsessive. “The Prentiss...  _ thing.” _

\---

Jon latches onto the way Martin is rubbing his hands and reaches out to grab him by the wrists softly. Nervousness thrums through him, and he wants to ignore what he's saying, wants to distract, wants to change the subject, wants to say 'No, no, it's all fine, we're fine, we've moved on and processed and we're  _ healthy’. _

Or something to that effect, because he'd never be able to get that sentence out with a straight face. 

But they're  _ trying. _

"...Probably. Um. Probably. I wouldn't know where to, ha... Um, start."

\---

Martin makes no protest as Jon takes his wrists, gears working in his head to decide whether it’s a comfort or a trigger. His mind settles on the former, though he’s still staring down with focused intensity. 

“We can wait on it— I-I want to make sure you’re okay, and - and taken care of, before I— Before I just move onto something  _ else.” _

\---

He shrugs. "Guess we can add it to our ever-growing list of  _ tasks." _

\---

Martin looks up at him, then, gravely serious in his resignation. “Okay.”

\---

After a moment, Jon leans forward, and presses a light kiss to Martin's cheek. "Thank you. Um-- Thank you. You're-- Are you doing okay? After-- I didn't even ask. God. Stupid. Are you okay, from-- Michael?"

\---

“Yeah, I— “ He cuts off with a soft noise at the contact, then resumes as usual, if a bit flustered. “— Did I not seem okay? I’m fine. I’m okay.” 

He tries to pull his wrists carefully away without drawing too much attention.

\---

"I just thought I'd-- We should probably ask? Each other? I mean--" He furrows his brow, unsure if he misstepped. "Michael is. You didn't seem okay, when we were leaving the graveyard."

\---

“I was just confused about - about what you meant, about dying back there. You sort of— You explained and I’m fine now, I’m okay  _ now.” _

He tries again to separate them, Jon’s fingers closed around his wrists. He’s more up-front about what he’s doing the second time.

\---

Jon pulls back, and wraps his hands around each other, holding them in front of his chest. "If-- If you're sure. Um. I mean, if you're sure."

\---

Martin sighs with shaky relief, keeping his hands to himself as much as he wants to keep Jon from his own version of locking up. “I’m sure. It’s just... it’s that. Th-th-the wrist thing. Um— I’m fine with what happened today, I got— I was overwhelmed, but I’m not, now, with that. I just needed a - a break,  _ mentally.  _ I promise.”

\---

He almost nods and moves on, but-- there's something else there that Martin's not elaborating on. He scrutinizes Martin for a small moment, and then says, "You don't like it when I touch your wrists?"

\---

“No, no it’s— Um— “ 

Martin stops to get a little more vocal control. Last thing either of them need is to spiral. “It reminds me of something that happened, sometimes. Not every time, but, erm, it’s— I  _ do _ like it, when it’s you, some... sometimes.” 

Thoroughly embarrassed, Martin glares daggers into the floorboards. “I’m sorry, I  _ know _ we just talked about being open, and - and communicating, but this is— It’s hard.”

\---

"I know. I know it's hard." Jon says, and it's easier to direct this conversation to Martin, easier to ease something out of him than have to find ways to word his own trauma. It bolsters him, gives him some confidence back, and he sits up properly. 

"But we-- we need to set boundaries for these, um, things. Because I didn't know, and I don't want you hurting because of-of me."

\---

“I’m not hurting because of you,” Martin huffs, dejected. “It’s not... not anything you had— You had nothing to do with it.” 

He knows. He knows he’s actively making this situation all the more complicated by holding it in as his fear envelops the room, volatile and warping as carbon monoxide. There’s no way to explain it, not with his own words, not with everything he’s had stuck in his throat for much, much longer than he’s known Jon. 

“I wish it didn’t keep coming back to my mother.”

\---

"But it does, and we'll-- we should talk about her at some point, because it'll-- I think it'll help. And then. Then I'll know what to.... Avoid, sometimes.”

\---

“I don’t want to talk over you, we were talking about you, I want to be here for  _ you— _ I’m just— I can’t— I don’t want you to avoid me.” 

Rationally, it’s good that Jon wants to take his needs into account. Every other part of him is mortified. Martin covers his face with both hands, pushing up against his eyes as if that would stop the frustrated tears building up at himself.

\---

Half of him wants to pull back, to carry on, but half of him wants this to  _ happen, _ needs Martin to understand that if he wants  _ Jon _ to be open, Martin needs to too. "We're done with me. I said my piece. I won't  _ avoid _ you."

\---

His hands run down his face, the layer of separation between them instead settling again in his own lap. “Y-you know I-I worry about being... a monster. I’m sorry. Give me a minute, please? I need— Do you have another cigarette?”

\---

Jon blindly roots above him on the desk until his fingers close around the pack, and he pulls one out to hand to Martin, and then pulls another for himself. Hey, at least being a potential avatar means no lung cancer death.

\---

Martin reaches for the lighter in his pocket, waiting for Jon to pull his own up to his lips so he can light both the ends at once. He lingers close there, momentarily, and then pulls back to a more reasonable distance. 

“I can’t remember what caused it, what she said or - or what I did, but I had the idea that— Erm.” He takes a drag to stabilize himself. “I had the idea that she was right, and - and I was a monster, and the world would be better off without me. Maybe she did say that. I don’t know.”

\---

"Whether she said it or not, it's not true." He takes a drag and on the exhale and scoots closer. Not touching, but their body heat mingling, their skin aware of one another.

\---

“What I mean is— Sometimes, when you— You grab my wrists, and I remember how she - she kept me there to tell me how much of a fool I was for trying to— “ 

Another frantic drag, and the dizzy light-headed feeling helps. “I never even went to the hospital, Jon. She never took me. I-I think she was ashamed of - of me, embarrassed. We did up bandages at home and she... she made me a-apologize for it.”

\---

Jon has to look away, not wanting Martin to see the abject rage that fills him and transforms his face. He has nowhere to place that anger, to direct it, so it pours off him like a wave, and he's quiet for a while, not trusting any of the words to come out of his mouth to be  _ soothing. _

At least he knows what happens, that in some capacity, Martin will be free of her presence. But it's an evil, awful thought, and not one he can verbalize, so he scrunches his face to get rid of it. 

"How old were you?" He eventually asks, voice carefully lofty.

\---

“Twelve,” Martin says under his breath, voice aggravatingly small. At least to himself. He can sense that anger vibrating off Jon - not in any supernatural sense - by the ways he’s been forced to manage it, predict it, solve it. “I’m sorry.”

\---

"It's nothing to be sorry about." Jon says. "It happened. And I asked." He pauses. "And your mother really, really upsets me on every facet, because you didn't deserve that."

\---

“Oh.” He’s surprised, somehow. That it hasn’t gone completely wrong. “I don’t - I don’t know how to... I don’t know what to say to that. I’m— I don’t know why it felt so hard to say. To tell you that.”

\---

"It gets stuck, when you haven't said it to people before. I guess. It's-- Martin, it's not like I'd  _ agree  _ with her."

\---

Martin’s only reply, at first, is a helpless shrug. It’s suddenly very hard to sit upright and carry his own weight, as if showing Jon even the most basic of end pieces in the puzzle of his life had him carrying a thousand more pounds. 

He ends up with his head in Jon’s lap. Right now, that’s the only place that feels genuinely safe. “I couldn’t know that.”

\---

"No," Jon says, and immediately presses his fingers into Martin's hair, curling over him protectively, leaning down so that his face is not too far away from Martin's. There's still lingering anger etched into the lines of his face, but they're fading away the longer he looks at him, softening as care overtakes him. "But now you know it. That's all that matters."

\---

Martin whines, barely audible, drawn up from his throat at Jon’s touch to replace a growing need to cry. It’s not necessary, falling apart into bitter tears about how little he deserves this isn’t necessary, and if he does that he won’t get to look up with clarity at Jon’s face. He very much loves to do that. 

“I know,” he mutters, but it’s less of a dismissal and more of a revelation. “I think— I think sometimes now, with you, I keep thinking maybe she was wrong.”

\---

"I can confirm without that maybe that she was." He leans down closer, nearly nose to nose. "She was cruel, and you are her son. You deserve more. I'll  _ give _ you more."

\---

Well. That's quite the affirmation. 

Martin sniffs, because he's  _ not _ going to cry, he's already stopped himself, and that's as close as he'll get. He won't. He has no reference for what's swelling inside him, a possessive sort of love flowing off Jon and over,  _ through _ him that he's more than willing to receive. 

He has nothing to say, eyes fixed upward to meet Jon's like nothing else exists besides the two of them. No smiles, no fumbling through admissions or a grueling, tense performance to manage the movement of each muscle on his face. 

Whatever Jon will give him. He can deal with that.

\---

His hands grow tight, and he bridges the gap between them; it's not much, but it's a kiss nonetheless, and he gives Martin no room to make it something more, because it's fierce, and protective and then he leans back and away, staring down at him with the same look of possessiveness as before. 

"We'll get through all of it together."

\---

Martin’s huff is drowned out by the kiss kept out of his control, fingers twitching like he wants to grasp at Jon despite the silently outlined rule holding him in place. He comes out of it looking much the same, yet feeling... significantly disheveled. 

Confused and comfortable on his back before Jon, he breathes out his own version of sealing the deal. “I know.”


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Earning the Tim tag today. <3

Martin grabs a thick strip of wood from the ground along the way, refusing to go empty-handed as they trek further inside the tunnels. He wields it almost like a baseball bat, though he’s never been one to play baseball, sports aren’t really his  _ business, _ and shadows Jon with barely a word while Jon paves the way with a flashlight. 

He’s never actually gone down here in this life, and as much as he’d like to keep it that way there’s no way he’s letting Jon go in alone while he  _ plots _ it right in front of him. 

Gather a few tapes from a dead body, sure, yes, let’s make sure Prentiss’ companions have paid their rent while they’re at it. 

Things have changed for Martin, so very suddenly. Suddenly, he’s willing to play the role of bodyguard for his boss now more-than-his-boss in a million ways, like - like he’s willing to fight tooth and nail and, at the moment, wood for his safety.

How quickly things change. Now Martin Blackwood has a  _ purpose. _ One he feels right at home in, translating his desire to care for someone into a primal need.

Whoops.

As Martin discovers his grand purpose and all that dramatic, poetic processing he’s only good at a quarter of the time anyway, their complete lack of subtlety about climbing into a gaping hole they’ve revealed in one part of the Institute hasn’t gone unnoticed, because how could it?

Eyes everywhere, and all that.

Good old Tim, out for a decidedly stealthy smoke break amidst the precariously unbalanced situation he’s found himself in at work-that’s-hardly-work. He’s been able to keep up pretty nicely with his own research, as if he hadn’t been hired as an assistant to the Archivist at all, aside from the occasional errand, but... 

As good as that was in theory, it really just made everyone antsy. Lots of unanswered questions, a lack of ability to even make a sarcastic comment aimed at the two lovebirds now making their way through some unknown, untapped passage beneath the Institute. They were hardly ever around. Well, Martin was, but he’s cagey at best and sometimes carries around weird animals in jars or party games Jonathan Sims couldn’t possibly be playing. Fetches things for their boss, makes it  _ weird. _

It’s not fun, really, when he can’t even catch them alone long enough to embarrass them about it. Lots to it that he doesn’t get, but he’s pieced together a few things. Has to, with how little they give him.

So, what’s a man to do except follow? They’re clearly on some kind of business, and he didn’t see Martin pick up a deadly weapon, and oh, they’re  _ bickering, _ too, that isn’t hard to miss.

With a short “Huh,” Tim pockets his pipe for important purposes at a later date and slips in behind them, keeping enough distance that he might be able to catch them off guard and get a few words in. Enough of a distance time-wise that he thinks they’ll have moved onto what he  _ thinks _ might be something along the lines of office-inappropriate. Jonathan Sims being the hardass he is, he can’t imagine what they get up to, but hey, he’s been surprised before. Not that he’s really thought about what kind of hardass he is past the barest of basics.

\---

The tunnels  _ do _ feel like a strange little home, to Jon. He'd slept in them, near the end, feeling safe down there within the firm and static arms of Smirke's designs. Running his hands along the wall, etching arrows in white chalk, it's like memory lane. Martin's presence is the only thing that keeps him from following sheer nostalgia. It's a good thing; half of him can almost imagine falling back into the throes of his post-Prentiss mindset, but having Martin here,  _ trusting _ Martin, loving him, keeps him present. 

It's smooth sailing, they're clearly almost there, and then-- 

\---

Suffice it to say it all goes to shit for  _ everyone _ when he does finally get the balls to catch up fully, and they really haven’t gone in far, and for some reason Tim’s not even thinking about how this hallway couldn’t possibly be here, it’s actually all quite fascinating to the point that he’s giddy about it, about what they’ve found, about this whole thing that promises to be a *great* show, somehow.

Martin hears him first, which isn’t much of a surprise because he’s pulling up the rear, but he’s been urging Jon to slow their pace to a near-crawl out of a distant fear at the back of his mind that they’re being watched. Maybe Jon’s used to it, maybe Jon's at  _ home _ in it, but Martin is certainly not. It’s not a supernatural sort of watching, at least he doesn’t think so, but something about the way the halls move and twist and confuse in the dark has everything hard to make out fully when he  _ does _ think to look back at his shoulder, until--

Tim barely gets out a “Hi-- “ before Martin jumps, the familiarity in his voice sending a delayed signal to Martin’s brain only  _ after  _ he’s started swinging the board the first time. It’s not so delayed he hits him full force, but it’s still an audible impact of wood against a very human stomach and both of them scream for very, very different reasons, the scuffle quickly devolving into words overlapping the other’s in the dark.

“Oh my God--  _ Tim-- _ I’m sorry-- ” 

_ “Ouch, _ hah-- Okay, I need to know--” 

“--Sorry, sorry, I thought you were--” 

“--Who taught you how to hit that--” 

“Are you okay? I’m s--” 

_ “--hard--”  _

“--Jon, Jon, the light--”

\---

\--every ounce of careful energy Jon has is broken, because he wasn't expecting this, and Martin is hitting him, and Martin is stammering, Tim is stammering, and Jon is silent with white chalk held aloft in his hand like it's a weapon, and he's terrified. 

"I-erm--" He starts to interrupt, but it's not good, and it's quiet under the throes of Martin and Tim's voices, so he tries again, and lands with, "Um. Hi? Tim?"

He shines the light upon them both, twisting around to stare at them in the darkness of the tunnels.

\---

Martin is still holding his makeshift weapon, albeit rather limply, by the time Jon turns around with the light. Tim’s clutching the front of his stomach and he has to keep a hand to the wall to stay upright, but he’s not too worse for wear after the whole fiasco. 

“Sorry, boss, if I’d known Martin here was packing heat I might’ve thought twice about trespassing in your tunnel of love,” Tim gets out, wheezing through a laugh he has to finish on a sharp hiss. “Oh, yep. Yep. That’s bruising.”

Another ‘sorry’ is threatening to fall from Martin’s mouth through this, but he ends up darting his attention back to Jon instead, wishing more than anything that they could telepathically communicate.

\---

_ "Martin," _ Jon hisses as he actually sees the way Tim is hurting. There's no heat behind it, but it's said in gasped surprise.

He steps forward and lands the light on Tim, the torch bright and uncompromising in the dim light of the tunnel. He doesn't know what Tim's alluding to, not really, but luckily there's bigger things to worry about, like the fact that Martin just pistol-whipped Tim with a board. "Are you-- Tim, are you alright?"

\---

This weird, dejected sort of feeling passes over Martin at the sound of his name. Jon’s never said it like  _ that, _ but for all his worry he’s pretty sure he’s in the right. Sneaking up on people in the dark, you can’t really expect much else. 

“Right as rain, really, just give me one—  _ Second,” _ and Tim stands straight up, exhaling deeply to clear the pain. “And there we go. I’m fine! Is this what you two are working on? Tunnels to New Zealand?”

\---

"Tunnels to-- what? No. It's, erm..." He glances to Martin for backup and then back to Tim, unsure. Unsure. This isn't exactly... Sure, Martin wants him to _ tell  _ Tim, eventually, but starting with 'hello, we're in tunnels built by Robert Smirke, you know the man your dead brother was obsessed with before he disappeared' isn't exactly a good lead-in.

He hardens his voice. "You shouldn't be down here."

\---

“New Zealand, on the other side of the earth, it’s— You know, never mind! Really, if you don’t want someone barging in, maybe don’t leave a gaping hole in the stacks? Just an idea. You two are  _ painfully _ obvious.” Tim pauses, the comical lilt betrayed by something genuine. “I know you kind of forgot we were all here, but you’re not  _ invisible.” _

\---

"N-no, I suppose, um, not. Sorry?" See,  _ Martin, _ this is why he didn't want to talk to Tim. Tim pushes him off balance and leads him to stutter in confusion, and he hasn't even approached talking about anything cosmic.

"I suppose I've been--erm. Preoccupied, Tim, I apologize." He says it primly, stiffly, like a state official saying goodbye to his family. How very British.

\---

“No harm done! I figured,  _ hey,  _ must be important if they’re sneaking around the Archives day and night for weeks, and it’s  _ really _ not my business but I can’t help myself, can I? Researcher through and through, you know how it is.” 

Martin is at a loss for words, terrified of screwing this up for Jon or roping Tim into this mess in a way that ends up with him hurt. He’s already scared to death of the tunnels. “M-maybe we should...”

He’s drowned out easily by Tim getting back on track. If there even is one. “Oh. Yeah, right. What  _ are  _ you doing down here? Can I help?”

\---

"We- We're just leaving." Jon says, like it's final, and he pockets the white chalk to prove his point. Really, they've hardly  _ started,  _ but he's not roping Tim along to find Gertrude Robinson's dead body with no warning. 

"It's, it's kinda-- it's  _ really _ dangerous down here."

\---

“Oh.  _ Oh _ , I see.” 

Tim thinks he’s connected the dots, but really he’s just stepped on a wasp’s nest. Jon’s shooing him out. “I mean, we don’t have to make a big thing of it, I won’t fault you for coming here to make out, there’s really - honestly - a criminal shortage of mood-setting corners back here in the Archives. Unless you’re keeping them all to yourself, but, hey, there’s no rule that says you have to share if you found them.” 

Martin is glad the light’s not shining so much on him anymore, because he’s positively mortified. Not for himself, but Jon’s so private and weird about it all that he can’t even laugh. Were it any other situation, he’d already be laughing, but as it is he’s just worrying his lip nervously and taking a preemptive step to the side so Jon can pass back the way they came first.

\---

"Tha-aaaat's not--" He's mortified. His expression goes wide and he doesn't know how to respond and so he laughs, nervous and with no small amount of hysteria. "We're not-- we're not  _ teenagers, _ Tim, and-- and honestly? I don't-- we're not--"

Oh, he's getting nowhere with this. He gives Martin a look that says  _ bail. Me. Out. Please. _

\---

Tim grins, wide and smug and completely shameless. And filled to the brim with questions. 

Martin, on the other hand, is gaining a bit of confidence out of the fact that this could’ve been handled  _ weeks  _ ago, and they wouldn’t be having this conversation at all. It was Jon’s responsibility to clue them in, not Martin’s. And Martin just defended Jon with his life. It turning out to be Tim doesn’t negate that. 

“Oh, stop, h-he caught us, no use pretending,” Martin says tightly, trying to come off embarrassed but level-headed as he uses a free hand to gently backhand Jon’s shoulder. 

Tim lights up.  _ “Wait, _ wait wait wait,  _ seriously? _ You two— There’s no way that’s what you’ve been doing this whole time. What, are you, are you  _ exclusive?  _ That’s a serious commitment, and he’s— “ Tim makes the vaguest of gestures in Jon’s direction, and Martin frowns. “Really?”

\---

The nice thing about Tim, is that even predatorily good at pushing Jon off his feet and leaving him stammering, he talks and talks and talks and usually leaves an _ in _ for Jon to find his footing again. And as embarrassed as he is at being found out like this, he still has the fortitude to ask, "I'm  _ what?  _ Tim? Care to elaborate?"

Martin's no help. He's not going to look at him right now.

\---

"You're-- You know,  _ you." _ He gestures again, somehow more vague than the last. "You're my boss, so unless this is strictly off the record, hey, that's  _ my _ business. What's so dangerous about these tunnels, anyway?" 

Tim passes Martin, and then Jon, standing triumphantly in the darkness. "Exploring a maze? Temple of Doom?"

\---

"It's--"

Well. There's two choices here. He lies, and then Tim finds out about his lying when he inevitably sits him down and  _ explains  _ everything, potentially sacrificing Tim's trust from the get go, or. He gives him something now and their entire day gets derailed because it's  _ Tim, _ and he'll want to know  _ now. _

He sighs. His impulse is to avoid it, but. It's  _ wrong.  _ He wants to keep Tim safe, but the Eye wants him alone. All these choices.

At least the question focuses him away from thinking about why Tim thinks he's repulsive, or something. 

"It's, erm-- Robert Smirke, built these tunnels. We're. Looking for something." Brilliantly specific, Jon. Wonderful.

\---

There's a palpable shift in the air, and Martin can feel it even without seeing Tim's face head-on. Something that cuts deep, something only two of them know about and only one  _ should _ know about laid bare. 

"Smirke?" A thousand questions and comments swirl behind his eyes, and he pulls out his own phone to light up the walls. First, though, he aims the torch back at Jon. "What  _ are _ you two up to?"

\---

"There's..." Jon says the rest with a sigh. "A lot you don't know. These tunnels, at least, are-- dangerous, but safe all at once." He turns to look at Martin for a second. "He has a harder time hearing us down here, for instance."

\---

Martin hums, clutching the wood with both hands again. He wants to tell Jon to get Tim to stop, he's going too far in and much too quickly, way way way too quickly, and Jon hasn't been very clear about what exactly is  _ down _ here, so his mind's been forced to come up with all sorts of creative horrors. He  _ still  _ sometimes wakes up at a bump in the middle of the night thinking the worms are back. 

"I want whatever you're smoking," Tim says, though for a moment it lacks the light-hearted bounce to his usual voice. "So, room in the party for one more? You can catch me up on the way, right? Can't be  _ that _ complicated. Huh." He touches the wall, focused and effectively  _ not _ shooed away.

\---

"It's-- It's  _ very  _ complicated, actually, and I'm... I'm not sure you want to be... Standing for it." Jon says, pointedly, and even though he's nervous, there's a light feeling in him at the idea that he doesn't have to  _ hide _ it from another person anymore. 

"There's-- It'll change you, to know this, Tim. I'm not trying to scare you away, I just need you to  _ know  _ that I'll tell you, but it will change everything."

\---

"You're really laying it on thick, huh? I mean-- It's not  _ that _ big of a deal if you're into me like that, I get it, I do, but-- " He laughs, clearly trying to regain his pep. He'd call it that, too. " -- This isn't an insult, really, but I'm not sure if it's life changing. I've seen a lot. Tunnels, no big deal, right? Yeah. Yeah, okay, I'm interested." 

He tilts the light from Jon's face to the dark hallway, back again once, almost cartoonishly, before settling forward. "Lead the way?"

\---

Jon just stares blankly at him, not moving an inch. "This is serious, Tim," He snaps. The ferocity of it is undermined by the clear flush still lingering on his face. "This isn't a-about. That."

He pauses. "And it's not just about  _ tunnels. _ It isn't even just about Smirke."

\---

Tim doesn’t flinch, though he feels like he probably should. 

“We could just let him come,” Martin murmurs next to Jon, brushing his shoulder against him in a way he hopes is comforting. “Maybe he can— “

“He can  _ hear  _ you, is what he can do. It _ better  _ be serious if this is what you’ve been sneaking around avoiding everyone about.” Tim sighs, trying to buddy-up. There’s no other way to go about this and come out on top. “Come  _ on. _ What do you think I am, some sort of snitch? I won’t tell. Promise. Cross my heart.” He draws out the ‘arr’ of the last word, grinning into the dark.

\---

Jon's expression is grim, but he has a feeling this is the most clear  _ consent _ he's going to get. Tim wants to know. He's just going to be righteously annoying about it the entire time.

Better than when Tim hated him.

"Fine." He fields a small look to Martin. "Should I start with--  _ my _ thing? Or-- the rest of it?"

\---

“Long as you don’t start with  _ my _ thing,” Martin huffs, as if that makes much sense to anyone present. Something about Tim’s presence makes him petty. 

And Tim loves it. This is already very, very fun. Lucky day. “Can’t be that bad. Come on.” He’s just repeating himself now, but eventually he’s  _ sure _ spurring him on will work. “Spit it out.”

\---

Jon should probably be a little  _ nicer  _ about his explanation, not drop him in deep, but the way Tim insists makes him short, and he says, "Fine. No patience. I'm from the future."

He starts to walk, unpocketing his chalk to continue with the wall arrows.

\---

“Ha! Alright. Sure! What comes next?” He’s lifting a brow as he turns back to Jon, though he doubts Jon can see it clearly. 

Martin grimaces from the rear, watching Jon’s back between the outlines of light. He wonders how differently this will go with Tim. That little ugly part of him he hates is crawling back into his brain, that jealous and insecure thing, but he’s swallowing it down by being useful. By letting them talk, by reframing this as something he’s helped Jon prepare to talk about  _ better. _

\---

Jon allows himself a small, weary sigh. He'll have to profusely thank Martin later for the sheer fact that he knows most of this now and makes Jon's life much, much, much easier. He shifts his glasses to buy himself a couple of seconds.

"Let's see. The big ticket items. We've all signed up for a cult against our will, gods made of fear are trying to take over our dimension, and I am from the future because I tried to  _ leave. _ I can give you proof as you need it."

\---

"Okay," Tim continues, resigned already as he walks along, inspecting grooves in the walls with an academic interest. "I'll be honest with you, Sims. I've been panning for gold here, and you just gave me a whole  _ vein. _ If you're not screwing with me. You don't seem the type, though. Right? I've yet to see you pull  _ one _ prank the whole time you've been here, so you're either-- "

He stops walking, flicking the light back to Jon's face. To Martin, who's obscured behind him. " --Really, really good at it, or you're plotting something important that's  _ not _ a joke. And I want in. I've  _ wanted  _ in. You're both way too slippery. If you include me, I'm in."

\---

Jon raises his eyebrows, surprised. "You're accepting this fast." Despite himself, there's a level of humor thrumming in him, and he turns to Martin. "Maybe I should have told you in the tunnels, too. Atmosphere." He snorts.

"You're in now." He returns to Tim. "I'll include you, but you can't. Be. Rash. In  _ anything." _

\---

"I don't like the tunnels." Martin says plainly, blinking in the annoyingly bright light. "I-I would've thought you were trying to kill me even more."

Tim clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "Sure. Good terms, glad we talked. How's the future looking, fear gods and--" He makes another noise, cutting himself off. "Wait. Wait, hold the phone. Okay. I have one question, and that's the end of all my questions. I'd rather  _ do  _ this than sit around about it, but-- one question. Mind if I ask? Ooh, what if you already know what I'm about to say?"

\---

"I can't  _ quite _ divine what you're going to say yet, Tim. But what?" He'll have to keep Tim on-track as much as possible; he has a tendency to talk around and bounce around, and Jon doesn't have the best impulse to  _ not _ get distracted himself.

\---

"Okay. Let's see. Best way to word this-- Oh! Okay, okay. Less of a question, isn't it? Give me a name. Most important name to me. Not my name, someone else's. I want to know if you know. If you do, then I think we're all square."

\---

Jon doesn't hesitate; in a way, it makes everything easier, that he doesn't have to hide this information, or at least the fact that he  _ knows  _ it. He only needs to be careful about what happened. "Danny."

\---

Tim trains the torch on him for a long, bitter moment. 

And then he sighs. Part of it is absolutely relief. His secret he keeps close to his heart, the one that drives him to stay here. He might be closer to understanding it. Jon might do that, now that he's got him cornered enough to play the game. Part of it is fear, of course, because how could it  _ not  _ be, it's not like anyone could possibly know without knowing what wraps around the name. Like a bacon-wrapped hotdog. You're not just getting the hotdog, you're getting twice the heartburn. Or something. "Yeah." 

As if nothing happened at all, Tim turns back around to keep following the path just the same. His voice is full of the usual cadence and flair. "Fill me in, boss. I'm in now."

\---

Despite it all, Jon smiles, and fields a look to Martin that all but broadcasts 'see? I can talk sometimes!' Mostly, it's just Tim's willingness for  _ some _ answer, though. And Eye Cults are certainly an answer.

He keeps them walking. As he etches another neat arrow into the wall, he says, "There's fourteen gods of fear. The institute belongs to one of them; the Beholder."

It's almost easy to explain it all. The big things at least. Like he's giving a statement, albeit one that's moving and traveling and leaving out most of the details. He described the fears, their powers, their aims. The rituals, and both he and Martin's, as well as Gertrude's, research into stopping them. Avatars, and the messy inhuman abilities granted by giving yourself over to something bigger than yourself. Feeding. He gives Elias' rundown, and the paranoid description of him watching them makes his skin shiver.

"And then-- it's all the more complicated," Jon says, and they're a dozen branches into their journey now, the tunnels dark beneath the earth. Something comforting about the suffocation of it all, and wow, he and Martin are going to have to talk about the Buried at some point.

"Because I'm from three years in the future. I know the big moving pictures, to an extent. We've changed... Some. But some stays the same."

\---

Tim is politely, if unnervingly silent for the majority of Jon’s explanation. Watches with rapt attention as he marks up the walls, pretense of humor scraped away as he absorbs. Just a few jokes, here and there, until descriptions that vividly strike fear into his own heart stop him up again.

Three years in the future. Less than three years, and something happens. Something happens that warrants him telling  _ Jon. _ He doesn’t  _ know _ Jon.  _ “Complicated. _ Sure seems like it. Can I— One more question, sorry. Why did you wait so long? It’s been  _ months, _ and you told...  _ Martin. _ No one else? Why’s that, Jon?” 

The jokes are back, if only in a little eyebrow waggle and an upturn to his tone. If only to protect himself from the reality of some other truth, one where they just didn’t feel like including him.

\---

Jon's breath catches somewhat, and he busies himself in walking and shining the torch's light on the halls. He takes a while to respond. "If I'd been thinking properly, I-- Might not have told Martin, either. I wasn't-- He came when I still realized what had happened." 

It hurts to say, now, to even think about warring through this situation completely isolated and alone. To think about not having Martin here, with him, it's like an actual pain that flows through his veins. But it's true; if he could prevent Martin from the trauma of what's happened, he would. 

"...Knowing this. It-- Like I said. It changes you. It's  _ dangerous, _ and-- I wanted to protect you. From all of this. You all-- None of you  _ signed up for this." _

\---

Ah, so it’s not as saucy as he’d hoped. Some star-crossed-lovers-thing. This is a whole lot more sad. 

“I did, actually! That’s why I took this job. This saves me  _ so _ much work, you know, I mean— Took me a few sad, barely productive and maybe drug-addled years on my own to get to less than a  _ quarter  _ of all this. I’m amazed, really. And  _ excited.” _

Martin knows the speech all too well, about saving them and keeping them in blissful ignorance. Now, he’s nearly killed their blessedly normal coworker, who’s staring at walls and excitedly following along without any of the initial meltdowns Martin and Jon had shared together. 

Did Martin sound like that, when he first went along with Jon? Before the w-

“Oh, hello,” Tim says as he steps on something that crunches, completely unlike a living, writhing worm, but still— Martin freezes, knowing what it is, or what it was, what that might imply about their path.

\---

Jon's ready to respond, but then he hears that  _ noise, _ and he freezes, his body going stiff, and when he moves, it's to dart his hand out for Martin, needing to know he's here, he's here, he's here. He can't look at it unless he can have Martin here. 

"Don't touch it, Tim," He says, and it's almost whispered.

\---

With one hand, Martin grips the wood to the point he’s sure he might come out of this with splinters. His other arm curls around Jon’s, locking them loosely at the elbow so he can lace Jon’s fingers with his own. 

The squeeze of his fingers around Jon’s tightens to the point of pain as Tim  _ bends down _ to pick it up. 

“What, this? It’s not alive, guys. It’s a shell. Gross. See— “ He lifts the light from where he’s inspecting the old worm carcass to both of them again, their torches reflecting very, very different kinds of shocked expressions. 

It happens in the span of a second, and Tim breaks the silence first. “Ahh. I see.”

\---

"They're dead now," Jon says, quietly, but with a certainty that he  _ knows _ is true. Prentiss is dead; the Hive is dead. But the corpse reminds him, and it's hard to be reminded of  _ that, _ so crystal clear. He thinks of blood and tears and the Buried and Martin leaving him. 

"But it's dangerous. Put it-- Tim, put it down? It's disgusting." He shivers, and squeezes Martin's hand.

\---

“So there  _ is _ something going on with you two. I knew it. That’s my own superpower. I can always tell.” Tim throws it back down without any fanfare, without any charged emotion. It makes Martin feel crazy. “I have to know how  _ that _ happened. Sorry, there’s been a painful lack of office gossip without Martin weighing in. It’s just Sasha and I trying to one-up each other with the dramatics. Do I have one for  _ her, _ huh?”

Martin shifts weight from one leg to the other as Jon holds him there, neither hand free to fidget effectively. Since he can’t control it with movement it just tumbles out, a half-murmured admission that’s not quite an answer to what Tim’s asking. He’s taken it to mean when he caught feelings. Tim  _ meant  _ when they’d started getting intimate. “He— He read me poems I hadn’t finished... yet. When he convinced me.”

\---

Jon blinks and looks at Martin with a slightly dopey expression, forgetting about Tim for a second. Has Martin liked him that long? That soon? That-- his heart swells, and it helps to push away the worm-induced panic.

For his own efforts, he mumbles, "It's complicated," because it is. He's liked Martin in a confusing timeline.

\---

Martin shrinks under both Tim and Jon’s sudden eye contact, made nervous by the attention and the fear still trickling its way through his system. 

“We should hurry up,” Martin says, likely only in Jon’s earshot. If Tim talking over him a few paces away tips him off at all. 

“Not in the creepy tunnels. Got it. Plenty of prying to do later. Sorry about the worm, guess that’s— Not very funny, is it?”

\---

"Yes, well," Jon lifts the sleeve of his shirt to show the bandages on his arm. "They weren't so harmless when they were alive."

\---

"Oh! Guess not. Lucky me, I guess. No cool scars to show off." Tim shrugs, seemingly indifferent, if only because both of them clearly want to move past it. "Eh, we'll fix that some day. What's on the agenda for today, though? These hallways move around? That's not normal, is it?"

\---

"It isn't." Jon squeezes Martin's hand again, and shines the torch down the hallway. "Um. Well." He wants to keep it quiet, but in the interest of  _ trust...  _ Well.

Tim  _ is _ helpful. With the secret out, it's easier to remember past the vitriolic hatred, the white hot rage, the martyring in the face of the Unknowing. When Tim was on your side, he was useful. Amazingly competent, and crafty, if a nonstop chatterbox.

"I'm looking for a room. It's got tales in it, and, erm. A body."

\---

Martin squeezes back, content with the acknowledgment. They're going to get  _ so _ much shit from Tim the second they're somewhere safe and lit brightly enough that he can relish in the faces they make. "Not a body we know, I hope. Unless we do? Wh-- "

"Gertrude," Martin answers shortly, even though it's not his question to answer. He wants to add  _ something _ of worth to this conversation beyond a useless admission of feelings, and technically he's the one who found her in the first place, if in a different life, so. Fair's fair. He wants it over with.

\---

"Gertrude, yes. Um--" He looks to both of them. "It's not pleasant. But I need those tapes."

\---

"Let's-- " They both say it, Martin's frantic tone overlapping with Tim's friendly let's-get-to-it until they both cut themselves off for different reasons. 

This is all very, very weird, and not how any of them thought the day would go. He's not even sure why he's so worked up. Tim doesn't deserve that. Martin nudges Jon with one shoulder as they walk. "We're not going in circles, are we?"

\---

Jon taps the wall wordlessly with two fingers, the chalk held firm between his fingers. "Why do you think I've been drawing arrows, Martin?"

\---

Martin's voice is hushed, barely above a whisper. "Well, if there's w-worms and dead people down here, am I really irrational for thinking normal  _ chalk  _ might not save us from running around in - in circles? Sorry, I'm not really an  _ expert _ at the secret tunnels below the Institute just yet."

\---

Jon looks over at him and shrugs. "It's the best we've got. And it did me fine  _ last _ time, Martin."

\---

"You two really are a couple," Tim says into the darkness, loud enough to echo. Martin elects to say nothing, frowning at Jon where he can't see his face. "Ooh, widens up over here. Look familiar?" 

He steps back to allow Jon room to explore up ahead. Despite the façade of confidence that's more of a half-façade on any given day, he's not sure he wants to be the first to uncover a dead body to steal things from it. Not on day one, at least.

\---

Jon hums and mumbles a "Maybe", pushing forward ahead of Tim. It's a  _ door. _ He's looking for a door, because his life is full of them, but the opening does look vaguely familiar and something in his gut says they're close. He pushes onwards for a few minutes and--

There it is, just ahead, and his eyes alight with triumph. He walks faster.

\---

Martin’s hand slips away from Jon’s to get a better handle on his weapon, sticking back with Tim. They don’t speak, both watching Jon and the door carefully, but they’re smart enough to know safety comes in numbers. 

Neither of them want to see. Jon’s moving too quickly for comfort. Martin calls forward, an amplified, nervous whisper that travels in the dark. “Be careful, Jon.”

\---

"What else could it be? Michael? He's on our side, this time," he says, but he's not really paying attention to either of them. He remembers this door. And more tapes have him feeling _ hungry. _

He turns the knob and lets it creak open, and when he shines the torch into the contents of the room, sure enough, Gertrude Robinson stares back at them. Jon blinks, and turns to the others.

"This is the room."

\---

Ignoring the way that comment gets under his skin, Martin focuses instead on the cold fever breaking out over his flesh. If he could see Tim’s face, standing beside him, he’d know Tim wasn’t confident at all. As it is, neither of them know their expressions are pretty much the same as they catch glimpses of what’s inside over Jon’s shoulder. 

It’s Martin’s near-panicked voice that sounds out first. “Do we have to - to go in, or can you... JonIdon’twanttoseeGertrude’sdeadbody.”

\---

Jon finds himself staring at his predecessor, and he doesn't say anything for a few moments. Well-preserved, all things considered, but despite his external calm, he can feel nausea rising in his gut.

"Then stay out here? I'll only be-- I just need to grab the tapes. She's not going to  _ move." _

\---

Tim speaks for him, voice painfully normal given the situation. “Just give us a yell if you’re in danger!” 

Martin frowns in the dark, and as the echo of Tim’s sentence replaces Martin’s he realizes how hard it is for him to talk in comparison. How Tim just— just  _ speaks _ and everything comes out the way it’s supposed to. 

Tim is staying out here for Martin just as much as himself, but Martin is too preoccupied with the distance from Jon and being unable to see him clearly, powerless to help in his own slurry of emotions, to notice that’s why he’s doing it.

\---

When he finds the box, sitting behind the body as neat and wrapped up as a present, Jon feels his heart beat faster, a pleased thrill running through him. This saves  _ months _ of work, carefully pulling and prodding and convincing Basira that he's trustworthy enough to be given tapes.

Not that she was doing it for those reasons, but that's just another revelation; no suspected murder case, thus far.

He hoists the box into his arms with a grunt, and is careful not to touch Gertrude's body. Not out of any particular sense of revulsion, just-- doesn't want to leave any prints on her that  _ could _ open the case. He'll have to decide what to do with her later.

Stepping out of the room, he closes the door behind him and shoves the box into Tim's arms. He's not carrying all that back to the office.

\---

Tim takes the box with a short grunt, somehow managing to be both facetious and kind when he sounds off a teasing “Yes, sir” at the sudden expectation of pulling weight. 

Martin has his own moment to sigh in relief, and he’s hovering at the edge of the light where Jon shines it to hopefully get Jon moving faster. He doesn’t like it down here. 

Would he, if it were just the two of them? If it had just been Jon, muttering out his academic interest in the place as they walked? A place where they won’t be seen, watched, dissected, except by each other? 

Whoa, that’s weird, time to tone it down.

\---

"Okay," Jon says, and lets out a sigh of relief. That's one thing on their list crossed off. Two, really, because the worm carcass confirms they're _ dead, _ and the Institute is safe-- in the ways that it’s supposed to be-- once more.

"I think-- I think that's enough. We should probably find our way back. Follow the arrows."

\---

Martin tries setting the pace, now, eyes darting to the wall and breathing out individual sighs as he sees another arrow. Tim is too preoccupied with the box to do much else but follow, and the grim nature of their journey has him quiet, too. 

They’re getting close to the start when he pipes up, walking next to Jon. “So, what’s next on your agenda?” Before anyone can answer, he follows up with, “Yeah, yeah, I know it’s early and I just joined up less than an hour ago, but— Anything with my name on it?”

\---

"Oddly? No. We just research. Nothing  _ big, _ until we research. There are a lot of moving parts." They're close enough to the surface now that his reception must be going through, because several emails notify his phone all at once, and as he pulls it from his pocket to read, he mumbles an embarrassed, "Oh, god."

\---

Tim says nothing, because Jon's suddenly getting  _ emails,  _ and he's curiously looking over his shoulder like that's not a complete breach of personal space. Martin halts in his hurried pace to stop a few steps ahead, speaking as though this is a grave matter. "What is it?"

\---

"It's-- ugh. Our furniture is here. Did I-- oh my God. We spent so much on shipping."

\---

Martin snorts, caught off-guard by his own relief and the  _ normalcy _ of it all. He was expecting Elias. Something serious. He lets his shoulders fall from their hunched position and keeps walking, intent now on a coherent goal of his own. 

Tim, however, is still hovering over Jon. "Oh, I can't wait for the explanation on this one. What's that-- Did that say  _ mattress? _ Jonathan  _ Sims." _

\---

Jon hates that Tim can produce embarrassment so deep he automatically flushes. He clicks the phone shut to shadow his face, and says tightly, "I live here now, Tim, and the safe room didn't have any amenities. Okay?"

\---

"You're saying _ I, _ but you mean  _ we,  _ don't you?" He’s totally, totally smug. He shifts the box so he can elbow Jon a little, tacking on an "Eh?  _ Eh?" _ as he tilts his head to Martin, who's swiftly walking away.

\---

Jon glares at Martin's retreating back. He is  _ not _ very helpful today, but he can't fault him. Too many moving parts, and it's not like Jon's had the attention span today to be particularly  _ nice. _

He sighs. "Yes, Tim, I mean  _ we." _ He fidgets away from the elbowing and moves his glare to Tim, and then his gaze catches on the tapes, and the ridiculousness of the situation really over takes him and… he can't help it.

He's being ribbed for domesticity a mere half an hour after they saw a dead  _ body. _ It's so morbid. He laughs.

\---

Tim meets Jon's laughter, like this is all normal water cooler humor. Wow, this might be the best uncovered plot in all of existence. How did they think they'd get away with that? 

He's so, so glad he caught them before they started rolling furniture up to the front desk, because now instead of having to ask questions, he gets to sit there in the middle of it with the sly expression of a fox with his mouth full of bread. He's living for this. "You  _ dog." _

\---

_ "Dog?" _ Jon wrinkles his nose. "Tim, please. People move together, you know." He keeps them walking again. He now desperately wants to be above ground.

\---

Tim trails after him, his wide grin obvious in every word passing his lips. "My bad, right, right-- With their assistants, too. Filed this to HR and everything, have you? Must be good if you've been  _ bed shopping." _

\---

"I rather skipped the whole HR violation thing on account of I'm stuck here against my will," Jon says, and ignores that, well, in a normal world, he probably _ would _ have filed it with HR. If he was normal. And everything was normal. And they had to play by normal mortal rules.

\---

"Hey, I've skipped that process with enthusiasm, and  _ very _ well, might I add. So, well-- I'd say fair enough, we're all allowed a little rule violation in this business. But with  _ Martin." _ He says it with a very, very specific intonation that has Martin's face heating up from where he's walking ahead of them, because of course he can hear the entire conversation. 

He doesn't say it like he's surprised, or like he's judging him for being with Martin, it's not a slight, and that just confuses Martin beyond words. "I thought you hated each other before, honestly!"

\---

"Well, I don't." Jon says, and he doesn't know _ why  _ he's talking at this point. "And I've had an extra three years to process that."

\---

"Oh, yeah! Right-- I nearly forgot about that. Three years is a long time, Jon. Fell in love, did you?" He's not completely cruel, though, so he gives Jon an out if he so desperately needs it. "Tell me, how does all this Brexit nonsense turn out? Hm. Wait, no, don't spoil too much, let's work in symbols-- maybe an "euugh" if it's not looking good, a thumbs-up if it is?"

\---

"Tim I-- I didn't have time to read the  _ news. _ I swear, between Martin asking for lotto tickets, and  _ you-- _ I should have paid better attention." He clicks the torch off because he's not going to give Tim even the smallest chance of seeing the look on his face, flushed and yes, absolutely in love.

\---

"Ah. Must be fine if you didn't hear about it. Lotto tickets, that's smart. Hey, hey-- Do I  _ die?" _ The way he says it, it sounds comically final. Martin is staring at the ground as steadily as possible as he climbs through the hole back to reality. "That's always a great icebreaker in future plots, isn't it? Cue the ominous music."

\---

"...Indeed. Um--" Wow, he wishes he was a better liar. Why did Tim have to be so genre savvy as to ask  _ that  _ from the get go?

He doesn't even try to lie. Always goes bad for him, it seems. "It'll, um, go better this time?"

\---

Tim  _ is _ quite genre savvy, thank you. Watching your impossibly-taxidermied brother get ripped apart by clowns will do that to you.

"Oh. That doesn't sound good, does it? Ah, well. I have to know, when you-- When you can." The humor fizzles out, but it's hanging on like the faded glint of a candle that won't quite snuff out. "I'm fine with earning it all first, I figure that's  _ my _ end of the deal. But you know who Danny is, safe to say you figured out a few other things, too. Whatever you ask, I'll do, I'm here to help-- But you  _ do _ have to tell me. Fair's fair and all."

\---

"We'll... We'll work on it. Okay? It's all-- it's just a lot to sort through." They finally reach the opening of the tunnels and Jon turns to Tim before he climbs down. "I won't lie to you. It's just hard to take in all at-- at once."

\---

"Mm- _ hm. _ I know you won't. I'm not the world's most patient guy by a longshot, but, again-- Saved me a lot of work. I'm having  _ fun, _ I thought I was the only one plotting. Really. Now here you are dropping tape recorders into my lap. Showing me dead bodies. Should someone go fix that, by the way? That's  _ Gertrude,  _ not some rand--" 

He cuts off as Martin drops the stick at the entrance, loud and informal and final. It surprises even himself, how violent it is, and he mumbles a genuine 'sorry' before speaking up. "We should get the furniture. They won't know where to put it all."

\---

Jon jumps and  _ really, _ he's not sure how to ask Martin what's  _ wrong,  _ especially with Tim here, but it's difficult to quantify.

Then again, he did just show his. Boyfriend. A dead body. Could be a factor.

"Erm-- yes. Furniture. Probably best, Martin, um. I mean, macabre as it is, Gertrude isn't  _ gooooooing _ anywhere, so... We'll figure it out. I wanted those--" He gestures to the tapes, "Before the cops or Elias decided to go looking for them."

\---

“Right. Let me know, okay?” This is suddenly, palpably awkward. Tim can tell that as easily as he can breathe. “I’ll be around. Martin— “ 

He hands Martin the box of tapes, winking at him conspiratorially. Martin isn’t sure how to take that, so he stares blankly at Tim’s face until he looks away. 

Odd lovers, they are. “There. Hm. Thanks for the trip down into your secret tunnels, let’s do it again sometime!”

\---

"Yes, well, um. Tim? Can you-- start brainstorming the best way to tell Sasha? I mean, I was planning on telling you  _ both,  _ but you kind of.... Fast-tracked it?"

All of this is weird. He gives Martin a look and says, "We can drop those off to the office."

\---

“Roger that, boss. She’ll be fine.” Tim gives him a salute one can only describe as  _ stupid,  _ setting off on his own merry way. 

Martin makes his own noncommittal farewell with his hands full, but his voice is polite enough. “See you, Tim.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> Some of the discussion channel comments that make me laugh, plus the first of many amaaaazing art pieces by our honorary third author, [Wawek!](https://rpgnc.tumblr.com/)  
>   
>   
>   
> 


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, we had to have one last fun, happy, rowdy session before the boys go to the most evil place on earth-- [overly British voice, disgusted] America.

Here's the thing; Jon doesn't exactly love moving furniture around. He's self-sufficient, to an extent, but it's not like he's the strongest-- At least not yet, considering he's still annoyingly human. Really, he enjoys directing people to move things, but he's not about to do that, so he's pulled his hair up and rolled up his sleeves and is at the very least pretending to help. 

The secretary was none too pleased at having him and Martin step down to sign for the abundance of packages waiting for them, and Jon had to have a very lengthy discussion to prevent her from emailing Elias or HR about it.

But now everything is sitting outside the office, and Jon does not like sweating, but he  _ is _ , and the things aren't even in the room and they're not even built, and he finds himself glaring down at all the shit he bought and despairing at what the rest of the day will hold for him. 

"I hate needing things," He says to Martin.

\---

Martin’s in the middle of being useful and dragging the first box into the room, cranky demeanor momentarily placated by the domesticity of it all. Jon’s talking, but for now Martin’s head is somewhere else. Fond memories of ordering this, too. How could he possibly complain? 

“Do you really? I kind of— I kind of like it, the idea of putting all this together with you. Bit exciting.”

\---

"Oh, I mean-- I. I love it. Especially--" He waves a hand to Martin, like he's the reason this is so exciting. Brushing hair from his face, he breathes out heavily. "But also, I smoke, and I don't work out, and if I don't complain a little bit, I'll just stop helping. So there. That's where I'm at." 

Jon kicks a box that probably houses some of the throw pillows he'd ordered, and it scoots a meter into the office.

\---

“I smoke and I don’t work out, not really,” Martin offers sheepishly at his quiet enjoyment for the sort of gesture Jon’s doing that he usually only gives out in dismissal. This is leagues more palatable to him. 

_Den-setting._ Oh, Christ, Martin. 

Martin takes the box Jon kicked and finds it light enough to pick up, and he’s almost hurriedly pulling them all in. That restrained kind of hurry where he doesn’t want anyone to know he’s hurrying. “We’re going to have so much room on this— The bed. Our cot days are over. Ah, your chair’s in this one. Maybe we should set-- um-- that one up first. Let me just-- ” he scoots by Jon in the doorway, brushing up against him whenever he can, to continue his mission.

\---

Jon hovers in the doorway to watch Martin move, and he's struck, not for the first time, that it's such a strange, novel experience to be attracted to someone. Just watching Martin putter about and open up what will be their-- together-- bedroom and, well, office/living space, and Jon's over here with a slight flush. Been happening a lot, that. But this is new, and it's in his face, and well. Watching him work is nice, it looks nice, and he goes to open the box of pillows and runs his fingers down Martin's arm as he does so, because in this strange little space of theirs, it's easy to just do gestures like that.

Stupid, to open the pillows first, but he wants to look at them. And it saves him time before he has to figure out the hardware of building a chair. Or a bed. Or a dresser. Ugh. He has to work with nails and screws today. Why can't it just be done so he can lay on perfection and surround himself with a new duvet and also Martin? Why is he such a whiny drama queen today?

\---

A frantic shiver runs up Martin’s spine at the touch, heat settling heavy and cloudy at the back of his skull. This is much better than the tunnels. No cold separation, no demeanor forced stiff across every muscle in his body. 

Martin ignores the pillows for now, because if he doesn’t he’s not sure he can control where that’s going, content with letting Jon do whatever he wants. Most of the boxes lie scattered around the room with just a few miscellaneous rods and extra bits left out in the hall, and Martin’s fine with that. 

The door’s still cracked open but he’s not in the mental space to care, instead meeting Jon wherever he is, a little bit behind him, so he can nuzzle against the side of Jon’s neck with a soft hum. He’s not sure what’s possessed him today, but right now he feels fine, so he’s not one to ruin it through analysis.

\---

Jon leans his head back so they touch even more, and Martin is warm against him. No complaints here. No bitching here. They could just stop building stupid furniture and sit like this for a while. Jon knows how to meditate for hours, he can sit still. 

"Still can't believe.... That we're. Technically moving in with one another? It's-- Martin, how on earth did this Happen?"

\---

Jon’s a rotten enabler, is what he is. Martin hums again, inhaling at Jon’s neck. “You went back in time and got me involved. And I liked it and I-I liked you. Being with you.” 

He’s not trying to do anything but catch up on intimacy, like he’s never gotten it before and he’s starving, and both his hands are slipping up Jon’s shirt while he speaks quietly in Jon’s direction. “And I’ve-- It’s the furniture that’s new, not the living together.”

\---

"Yeah, but--" Jon has to ignore how heavy his breathing gets, the way he automatically curls into every touch, the way Martin's warm hands make him shiver. "Kind of solidifies it all, huh? It-- We're never going to get anything done if you continue doing that, by the way."

\---

“I know,” Martin sighs in self-aware frustration, making no move to separate them. “Just a minute.” 

Like he’s out of his own mind, Martin rests his lips at Jon’s neck, right below his ear. His hands keep moving, up and over his chest just to scratch gently down back to his stomach. Less overt foreplay, more very clearly trying to be as close to him as possible. He forgets to talk again, he had something else to say but— Honestly, it’s slipped his mind.

\---

It's not like he can say no to that. Especially when Martin is petting him, and it feels so good, and really, he is kind of sore after galavanting about the tunnels and carrying all these boxes, so he hums happily, all but purring, and keeps stretching in movement with Martin's hands.

\---

This, he’s right at home in. Just Jon, just Martin, the noises Jon makes and the way he’s making his heart race with how much he’s moving. 

It’s all really going to his head. Martin keeps one hand just below Jon’s stomach, fingers digging into his skin to hold him there, the other going rogue up over Jon’s side and avoiding the spots on his ribs he knows jolt Jon out of it. He’s back to burying his face against Jon’s neck, taking in every part of him he can reach. He doesn’t even need to read a statement for this. Training wheels no longer needed. “I like the sounds you make.”

\---

"I've never made most of them, before," He kind of gasps it out, because he's lost in this for the time being. Successfully pulled right out of his head and into his body.

\---

“I like that too,” Martin mumbles up against Jon’s ear, and there’s heat to it in a decidedly very Martin way, polite and quiet and just a little bit shy. 

Flush against Jon’s back, he ruins the sweetness in his tone with a carefully-aimed bite to Jon’s neck and fingers scratching down Jon’s chest with a bit more emphasis on his nails than the first time. They’re both so warm, and Jon’s so close, and he’s so, so happy with that.

\---

" _Easy_ ," Jon gasps, but he doesn't want to say it. He'd love to continue. Maybe. But they can't, and it's not the time, and he'll probably actually die if they do anything in this furniture while it's still unbuilt.

\---

Oh. Martin’s not sure why that gets a whine out of him, but it does. It’s the voice, it’s definitely the voice. He licks over where he bit as a sort of half-apology, but his hands are still moving. 

No more scratching, just moving. Fingers splaying over Jon’s stomach, at one hipbone, he’s thinking about giving him a little ‘sorry’ but decides against it, because that would be a lie and he’s trying to do that less.

\---

Jon gives themselves another minute. Okay, that's a lie. It's definitely two and some change, but who's counting really? Certainly not him, as his body is an electric livewire and he's perilously close to saying 'fuck the furniture' and meaning it in multiple ways.

But someone has to have control. And decorum. And-- Oh, Martin runs his nails down his sides, and he almost whimpers, "You're incorrigible," and lets him do it for a little while longer before being forced to remove contact all at once. It almost kills him, he thinks. But he knows if they linger, they'll keep going, and keep making excuses, and keep being one, and as much as he would love an excuse be that forever, they can't.

\---

Martin thinks he might actually get away with this for one blissful second, when Jon’s words teeter along the edge of coming undone, and he’s just about to hold him steady by both hips to solidify that plan—

He’s too shocked to make a noise, standing there at the center of a mess of boxes with Jon just far enough away that he can’t touch. Kept entirely inside is one agonized _uuuugh._

Despite himself, Martin laughs, flushed and giddy and contact-drunk. “Oh. I-I got carried away. Um. Furniture.”

\---

"Furniture, um, y-yes. Christ, Martin." Even so, he sits there for a moment, his skin hot and heat pooling in him, because yes, Martin got very very close to distracting him, and he needs a moment. A moment to quell the thoughts and instincts within him that Martin very rudely awakened in him for the first time in his life just a few, ahem, sessions ago.

\---

The most painful part of this is that he can’t touch Jon. They might just get back to it, and that’s not what they need to do, even if it’s what his body’s telling him he needs to do. 

“S-sorry, you’re just— you’re really warm,” he stutters out like that’s an acceptable excuse, and moves around Jon-- orbiting-- to grab the rest of what’s outside and drop it over a probably-related box. And then he shuts the door. Stands there for a second with his back against it awkwardly. Yep. Yep. Back to work. 

He gets his hands busy with the box for the bed, because that’s the most pressing thing for the night, gaze fixed down at it while he tries and mostly fails to slow down his breaths.

\---

Jon, for his part, isn't as inclined to immediately get back to work. Hypocritical, but there's something-- Engaging. About watching Martin move on. When he drops the box for the bed, he laughs, and says from the floor, having leaned back with his arms splayed out behind him, palms down to the floor, "You're acting like someone's died, Martin."

He pulls himself up into a sitting position and smooths down his shirt, trying to angle it back how it should have been before Martin mussed it up. "I-- I mean, I suppose Gertrude's done, but-- You know what I mean."

\---

Martin chances a pathetic pout in Jon’s direction, somehow surprised that Jon’s watching him and can absolutely see a glimpse of it in the second it takes for him to turn his head back down to the papers he’s pulling out of the box to pore over the instructions. 

“I-I’m not acting like someone’s died, and I can’t set this up out here, I need-- bedroom,” he mutters, strained and high, shoving the edge of the packet between his teeth to keep all his other words bottled up as he drags the box towards the safe room.

\---

Jon works on removing the other pillow from the package, and just watches Martin slowly push the box into their bedroom-- and when the safe room has become a bedroom in his mind, no one knows-- and gives a small hum. "Yeah. Probably easier to set up there."

\---

Martin gets to work on the floor, busying himself with potentially the most intensely focused bedframe-building mankind has seen before. It's not exactly easy to escape into, but he's trying to be good now, and it's very, very hard to do that now. All he wants to do is keep touching Jon, and the cold wood and metal pieces he's touching make it worse, but he's still silently looking between the manual and the various interconnected pieces because he's not messing anything else up today.

\---

Jon unboxes everything else and breaks down the trash, and after he gets everything sorted-- bedding inspected for any stray threads, pillows the same, they all pass his seal of approval-- he gets bored because he's not going to build anything. So he finds himself drifting into the bedroom and sitting down away from Martin's hardware building, pursing his lips at the way he's building it.

There's so many comments he could make. But he doesn't, because Martin's got it. He tosses a throw pillow at Martin's head when he gets bored enough. "Going well?"

\---

Martin, somehow, doesn't notice Jon's watching him for a good while. You'd think he'd feel over-watched after their swift exit from the tunnels, but he's a bit caught up at the moment and he has a damn good excuse for trying to control himself. 

Something soft hits his head and he makes a surprised and vaguely scared noise muffled by fabric before it falls to his lap. "Wh-- Yeah. Yeah, yeah, yeah, it's going-- It's going fine. Why..." He's about to complain, to whine about it, but instead an instinct to be petty kicks in. One second he's squinting his eyes in Jon's direction, the next he's grabbing the pillow with one hand and lobbing it back at Jon without another thought to keep him back.

\---

Jon is surprised but... So too, something feels like maybe this was his intended intent. Some kind of domestic physicalness without it turning into.... Earlier. Even if he is distracting Martin again.

The pillow hits him hard, and his hair flies into his face, and wow, if this is how it's gonna go... He pulls his hair tie out, because it's useless to have it tied back if he's going to be hit in the face, and he throws it back, aiming for Martin's face.

"I'm bored," He says simply, and it's childish, but he has never been allowed to be childish and carefree with anyone in his entire life.

\---

Martin knows by the way Jon moves that he's not done throwing things at him, but he's still caught up in watching his hair just the same. Damn you, Jon. Damn you and your stupid, terrible hair that's getting longer each time Martin remembers to appreciate it properly. 

He catches it the second time, prepared despite the distraction, and pulls it slowly down from his face with both hands. At first, his look is one of awestruck confusion. It morphs into something else very, very quickly. "Jon," he starts, as if he's at the very end of a short fuse. "Take your glasses off."

\---

Jon blinks rapidly, and wants to ask 'what why?' but before he opens his mouth, he finds his hands already complying with Martin's orders, folding the glasses and reaching behind him to place them gently against where the wall meets the floor. God, he's excited to have a nightstand.

"I didn't mean-- are you angry?" He asks, because he's never seen this look before, not properly, and he's afraid he's misstepped.

\---

"You're bored, and I'm building us a bed to - to sleep in, and if I ruin this pillow by - by smacking you with it, that's your fault, not mine," Martin huffs, high-strung, getting up from the floor with the pillow in one hand like he's been forced to make a terribly lethal decision. "I-I'm not hitting someone who's unarmed."

\---

Jon leans back on his hands, looking up at Martin in vague surprise. "You're taking this very seriously," He says, but there's humor laced into his words, a sense of comfort dwelling in him.

\---

"I could mercy kill you, if that's what you're after." It's the same tone, but he's matching that comedic undertone-- Of course he's not going to kill Jon, it's a game. They're playing a game. And Martin needs to get his frustration out somehow.

\---

Oh. So this is one of their...bits. Jon grins up at him, and it's sharp. "I'd like to see you try, Martin."

\---

"Sure, Jon." 

It's placid, toneless in an attempt to be genuinely scary. Martin's given him a chance to defend himself, so he can't feel too bad hitting Jon upside the head with the full force of a pillow. It's just a pillow. Not like he'll break his neck with it. He couldn't. That's definitely not possible.

\---

Okay, look. He's surprised. For a second, his body tenses up-- this is an attack, someone is hurting him, someone wants him hurt, someone wants him incapacitated, he's going to be taken, he's going to be stabbed, he's going to be scratched-- but he pushes it down, down, down, because... 

What's the parlance? 

It's on. 

He falls backwards and pulls the pillow from his face, and his hair has gone all staticy. His own lobbing is bad, he's always had shit aim, so he throws it hard in return, leaning forward as he does to go on his knees and hands like he's ready to fight.

\---

Martin lets him take it, thinking maybe Jon’s going to actually hold on to the thing, but then it’s hitting him again and by the time it hits the floor he’s giggling, watching the way Jon’s stance goes animal-defensive. This is so stupid.

“Jon, have you ever been in a pillow fight before? I’m— “ Martin searches for another one, and he has to leave the room for a second but it’s fine, he has the only weapon, and he comes back quickly with two. He tosses one to Jon before he can think about it. “— You don’t just let somebody take it, i-it’s like a sword.” He looks at the unfinished board, then back to Jon. He’s suddenly shy all over again. “I have to finish the bed. I don’t know why I just handed you that.”

\---

"I've never been in a pillow fight, no," Jon says, and he sits up on his knees with the pillow held between two hands. He feels confessional, here, and he has no idea why. Maybe it's just Martin. Maybe he's just staving off the panic of the metaphor of building furniture with his boyfriend after they saw a body in the tunnels. Who knows. Uncharted territory, etc, etc. 

"I was the kind of girl who'd bite. And also didn't have any friends. And didn't like movies." He wrinkles his nose. "There's rules of conduct to this?"

\---

“I didn’t have many friends, I-I think I was a pity invite to most sleepovers,” Martin confesses in turn. “I— Usually you don’t go for the face, but I don’t... really mind, um...” 

He trails off, clutching his own pillow as a mirror image. “You’d bite?”

\---

Jon shrugs. "Yeah. People weren't friendly. It was the only way to, erm, get bullies to back off. Freak who'll bite and scratch gets laughed at and shunned, but they don't get punched, you know."

"I won't hit your face."

\---

“Oh. I mean— Yeah. They won’t? You - you already did, um. I don’t - I don’t really want to hit you anymore.”

Well, he does, but...

Martin, get your head out of the gutter. Jon’s talking about his troubled youth. He’s conflicted now, enough that all he adds to that is a flustered, “The bed?”

\---

Jon lowers the pillow and gives him an exasperated look. "Yeah. The bed." He throws his pillow one last time to prove some sort of point, but he's not actually sure either one of them know what that point is, really. No harm. It's just a pillow. And he's not just some bullied kid.

\---

“Hey, watch it— “ His mouth starts, but his arm operates on different rules where he’s got to have the last childish word, and he tosses his own pillow at Jon’s face. Just one last time. It’s so addictive. 

He sits back down in the mess of his own making, resigned and frustrated all over again. He keeps fucking up. He’s not sure how to stop. “I-I just want to make sure I get it done, I want— I just, you know.”

\---

He shrugs. "I know. I'm-- I'm not mad, Martin. I'm actually. I'm actually having fun. I didn't mean to, ah, distract you."

\---

“You do that just by existing, Jon,” Martin says with the barest hint of laughter, piecing together another set of parts. “I’m just - just doing this so I don’t end up with my hands all over you. I’m - I’m trying to do that. I’m having fun. Tooo much.” He doesn’t mean to give that so many ‘o’s. Not at all.

\---

"Well," He says, and stands, because he's going to be that shithead today. "don't let me. Keep it going, Mr. Blackwood. I'll build the uh. Nightstand. Or whatever. Ugh. I hate building."

\---

“You can build it in here?” It’s dejected, his tone, depressingly so. What’s wrong with him today? He can’t pin it down. He hates that. “I-I— You can help, or, I mean— t-talking is fine, I’m sorry. I don’t want you to leave, that’s - that’s... the opposite. I don’t want that.”

\---

Jon steps to the edge of the doorway, and he squints at Martin, and he's not good at this, but he's not an idiot, either. "Are you-- Martin. I'm having fun. Are you-- are you okay?"

\---

“What? Oh, you just— It sounded like you were leaving. I thought you were— Upset? Why are you asking me if I’m okay?” 

Martin’s not defensive, genuinely confused. Somehow that’s far more worrisome. Usually he knows what’s bothering him, to some extent.

\---

"I'm not upset. Just-- oh my god. I need to get better at casual flirting." He runs a hand down his face. "I wasn't-- I just thought it was. Funny. All of this. I didn't mean to make you think-- I'm sorry, Martin. I mean, I was going to leave. To get a box. And come back here?"

\---

“Oh. No, no, Jon— Don’t be sorry, I-It was funny, I just... yeah. I didn’t know you were... flirting. Um, I’ll be here.” 

He turns back down. At least this has instructions, so he can’t make that weird. Unless he’s completely inept. He knows he’s not.

\---

Jon leaves to get the box instead of responding, because sometimes it seems they stutter each other into loops that needs distraction to interrupt. How Michael would laugh.

He pushes the box because he doesn't feel like carrying thirty pounds, and after a few minutes, gets it to a comfortably empty spot in the bedroom for him to start unpacking it.

\---

Martin lets him, but it doesn’t feel good. The quiet isn’t weird, per se, they have plenty of quiet moments of peace together without his brain working up a storm trying to justify it. 

He’s nearly finished with the frame by the time he breaks the silence. “Feeling better, about Tim? That’s one down, right?”

\---

"I-- I do, honestly." Jon pauses in taking out the wooden shelving pieces, holding one aloft halfway in, halfway out of the box. "I forgot that he's-- he's good at breaking the, erm, tension. It feels good to have him on our side. Considering how hard I fucked up last time."

\---

Martin’s standing to push the cot unceremoniously out of the way so he can move everything as Jon talks. “You got a second chance for a reason. He likes you. You’re good at all this when you— When you’re not worrying about it. You talked for a while. You didn’t fuck it up, that’s for sure.”

He smiles at his own work. Then he aims it at Jon. “I think we’re ready for that mattress. We did order sheets, right? You— You certainly asked what my preferences were.”

\---

"Um. I hope so. I better have." He gets up immediately to go rifle through the boxes frantically until he can produce the sheets. Duvet and blankets covered and folded earlier, he'd forgotten to check sheets, but they're readily accounted for, and he pulls them from the box triumphantly.

"I think the mattress has to-- Um? Unfold? From the box? I heard about it on an ad once." He calls from the main office.

\---

Martin’s already inspecting the next box, vaguely horrified. But— He manages, as usual, holding most of his panic inside. He has quite a bit of panic to store inside him. Jack specifically wants this thing set the hell up, so it’s awesome to imagine Martin rolling it out over the frame and staring at it in bewildered excitement with a pair of scissors he used to cut the plastic open while it inflates, and then stop imagining it.

“Wow. How did we ever sleep on a cot? How are we still alive?” 

He’s stupidly happy about this.

\---

Jon stands with his hands on his hips, and they haven't even gotten everything set up, but the bed is enough to make this a bedroom and he leans into Martin's side as he watches it inflate, something hitting him deep that screams of possession. "Ours." He says, and it's not a response to Martin, but it might as well be.

\---

Martin’s dutifully kept his hands to himself in his self-imposed mission, but he’s sick of it now and just wants to touch. Before he knows it he’s got a hand on Jon’s back, resting between his shoulder blades, and they’re standing there like two proud parents and that’s  _ weird. _

Almost as weird as what Jon says that has Martin glancing down and Martin’s brain releasing some sort of chemical it’s never felt like releasing before. When he finally has the vocal control to speak, a little delayed behind  _ Ours _ , it comes out unnecessarily serious. “I think we should put the covers on and take a nap.”

\---

"It's-- It's like four in the afternoon," Jon protests. And then thinks better of it, because he  _ is _ tired from all of that, and he  _ does _ want to touch Martin, and he  _ does _ want to try out their bed. "... Okay."

\---

“That’s within normal nap range,” Martin mutters as a stage-whisper, finding the sheets where Jon’s left them and tossing him a few of the pillows. They’re playfully tossed, of course, if thrown roughly, because at the end of the day he thinks he deserves to get a little bit immature.

\---

"I guess." He pauses, amused. "Are you a  _ napper _ , Martin?" He opens the back of sheets and starts to lay them out over the top of the mattress.

\---

“Does— Does that mean something else, or— I’ve napped in here before!” Martin helps with the sheets - it’s much less of a pain that way with two people - and feels like there’s a joke flying over his head that he’s not getting.

\---

"No, I mean-- like when your life isn't shit and you have a normal, erm, schedule to it?" There isn't a joke; Jon is just curious, and flying high, and his eyes are sharp, and he likes to know little things about Martin that don't necessarily come up during their extremely painful day-to-day.

\---

“Of course I nap, I-I just used to do it in the stacks so I’d hear someone coming,” Martin says as he smooths out some of the last wrinkles in the sheets, propping his head up on his elbows over the mattress to look at Jon. He’s got to stop being so sensitive. How’s he supposed to properly enjoy Jon’s company if he’s reading too far into things?

\---

Jon snorts, and smiles at him. "You know, I shouldn't find you slacking off so endearing. But I do, somehow. Maybe it's because I work too much." 

He pulls the sheet over the corner of the mattress, smoothing it out. He appreciates Martin helping him, but he will be going back over the entirety of the sheet placements the second he can shoo Martin away.

\---

“I don’t slack off excessively, I just know when I need a break. That’s - that’s not a crime, I get it done.” He’s embarrassed, but in a... good way? He’s glad Jon never caught him before he was this version of Jon. His Jon. 

_ Ah.  _

Martin starts organizing the blankets, picking up a few scattered pillows on the way, trusting that if he’s not setting up as neatly as Jon likes that he’ll fix it up after him.

\---

"Uh huh. Speaking of, I want to finish the rest of the furniture when we wake up from the nap. I don't want boxes everywhere when we wake up tomorrow morning." See this? This is easy. Tasks and scheduling and appointments. God, he sounds like Elias.

Jon makes work of moving behind Martin to adjust his work, tilting the sheet just so, a pillow like this, the comforter pulled tauter and neater.

\---

“Let’s set an alarm? We can order takeout and— “ Martin watches Jon flit around after him each time he does it, but as he’s finishing up with the comforter Martin sneaks a kiss to the side of his face before moving on. He can do little gestures of comfort, he needs to. He needs to check in. That’s a normal thing to do with people you care about. 

“You’re fretting. As if we’re not knocking half this stuff out of place just - just getting in bed.”

\---

"Yeah, but--" Okay, Martin's right, and his train of thought gets skewed for a second when Martin kisses him, his hand flying to his cheek.

He steps back from the sides to stand at the foot of the bed, and he takes it in. "I just want to commit it to memory."

They did a good job, if he does say so himself. Regal, almost, but not too gaudy. Blacks and golds but soft somehow. Mature. The sham pillows and throw pillows adorn the headboard, and he knows he has a goofy smile on his face but he can't really help it.

\---

Martin gives him a solid minute to soak it up. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t thoroughly enjoying seeing it all come together just as much, but right now he’s more about applied enjoyment, so.

While Jon’s standing there, Martin undoes his shoelaces because that’s not a source of conflict he wants right now, and rolls onto the bed with his face pressed almost entirely into the nearest pillow.  _ Oh Christ it’s comfortable, _ really how are they still alive with functional spines. “Commit this to memory.”

\---

"Oh, I am," Jon says, and a second later, he repeats Martin's action, pulling off his shoes and falling next to him, pressing his face deep and actually allowing himself to feel comfort for once.  _ Oh _ , it's soft. Oh, he's very excited to wake up without having to be in pain for the first hour of wakefulness while he turned and stretched all the kinks out.

He reaches out and laces their fingers in the gap, and turns his face sideways so he can smile at Martin.

\---

Martin takes his hand gladly. It’s his turn to watch, and he does that with the same level of enthusiasm, filing this away as a moment he’d like to come back to if given the chance. 

“So we have a plan, and we have a-a good block of time. Justifies a nap, in case you weren’t convinced just yet.” He pauses, moving close enough so he can rest his forehead up against Jon’s. “I— Thank you, Jon. For this. A-all of it.”

\---

Jon presses in close, and takes in all of the miniscule details of Martin's face. Freckles and scars and wrinkles and the way his face moves and the shape of his lips and the intense, insane scattering of color in his eyes, and then he closes his own, committing this. He wants to remember this.

An anchor. They're going to need them.

"Thank  _ you _ ," He says. "For giving me the excuse to learn interior design." And what he means by that is,  _ I love you, I love you, I love you. _

\---

Martin wraps an arm around Jon’s side as he closes his own eyes, descending into a fit of childish laughter. 

He manages to speak just fine, after a second. “You’re welcome, I liked watching you learn.” It’s teasing, just a little bit, but he’s not poking fun at Jon. It’s true, a hundred percent. “Thank you for rescuing me from my shitty worm-filled flat.” Of course, what he means by that is  _ I love you too, I love you too, I love you too, I love you too. _

\---

"Wow." Jon says, and he doesn't know where this good humor comes from, and his voice doesn't quite latch onto humored timing well, but it's a joke nonetheless. "I guess Jane Prentiss was an ally all along." And then he giggles.

\---

Martin’s eyes open again, just to stare blankly into Jon’s face. “An - an ally?” 

He squints, as if trying to understand, even though he’s pretty sure he does. He tries to joke back. “I mean, we didn’t start kissing u-until after I was forced to move in.”

\---

Jon laughs again, pressing his forehead to Martin's even harder. "Even more to thank her for then." He doesn't care if it falls flat. He's in a good mood for once.

\---

“No more Jane Prentiss,” Martin says sternly, completely ruined by his smile. He meets the pressure long enough to temporarily sate his need for it, then pulls Jon closer so he can rest the side of his face into a pillow and surround himself with Jon’s hair. He sighs, a little loud and a little obnoxious. “If I wake up early from a dream about peaches and worms, I’m not letting the alarm sound off.”

\---

"Mm. No. Just dream of me." He laughs breathlessly and all but nuzzles against him, and he wasn't tired, but now is so comfortable against Martin, it's easy to let his eyes slowly close, content to bask, and sleep, and trust.


	23. Intro to America

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skipping ahead a bit into the first stretch of Jon and Martin's American business trip. Accompanying art by our wonderful friend,[Wawek!](https://rpgnc.tumblr.com/)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the time they touch down, Jon has managed to get in two naps, reorganized his carry-on bag thrice, and is four complimentary drinks in, because really, what else is there to do? It’s a long flight, after all, and there won’t really be too much time for them to just… bar hop, in America. 

It’d taken a little more than two weeks to fully plan the trip. Three, to get Elias’ blessing to pass it off as a work expense. They could afford it, between the two of them, but it was better to make it very, very clear to Elias that they weren’t just fucking off for god knows what doing lord knows what.

That meeting-- several of them, in the end-- hadn’t been the most pleasant, considering the way Jon and Elias dance around each other, but a consensus was inevitably reached. Artifact collection was a business trip, as was the potential interviewing and finding of two hunters that would bolster the archival records. Two dangerous hunters, one of which wasn’t even known as one based on her records. 

Along with it, he’d haggled for a few days extra leave-- don’t worry Elias, we’ll use our vacation time for those days-- for… Well, essentially mental health leave. Which was easily allowed, once Jon gave a run-down of the literal years of archival organization they’d managed to accomplish in mere months. 

No word of time travel, but they all knew. No word of Elias’ plans, but Jon had the unsettled feeling every time they spoke that Jon’s… Development was pleasing to Elias.

And in the meantime, between planning, was statements, research, planning, more research, Tim all but demanding to help-- Which, as Jon suspected, was good help, he had a wonderfully keen eye once he knew what was going on-- and. Whatever it was that Jon and Martin had found themselves doing, wrapped solidly around one another.

One more meeting with Michael before the weekend they were leaving, and another reminder of their deal, and they’d begun to pack.

There was something so… Utterly pleasing about ordering a set of luggage that the two of them could share. Jon’s excuse was that it was going to be easier to find their luggage in the airport. The reality is, it was just one more thing that sent a shiver down Jon’s spine to realize it was  _ our _ luggage.  _ Our _ clothes.  _ Ours ours ours. _

The landing on the tarmac jolts Jon from the pleasantly tipsy mediation he had been coasting on, and his hand flies to Martin’s shoulder, giggly from the rum. He’d never particularly… Cared for flying. It was something he couldn’t control, at the mercy of the pilot. Maybe it’s why he’d never particularly cared for the Vast, or found himself tempted by any of their statements. There was nothing for him in the sky but a great bloodshot eye, threatening to open its gaze in his dreams. No thank-you. 

He’d dreamt of it, his first nap. They’d been in the air for a scant hour and a half, and he’d fallen asleep against Martin, and he’d woken with a jerk, because the horizon of America’s shorelines was being watched, and he was upon it, the sand of the beach trying to swallow his bare feet. It had watched, unblinking, as it slowly descended down the horizon, like the sun itself, and he’d been trapped, the chilly breeze of the ocean trapping his breath as much as the sand wanted to swallow him up. In the distance, he’d heard the braying howls of some starved creature.

And he’d woken up and absolutely had not spoken a word of this to Martin, and had ordered his first drink, and had decided that instead of sleeping, he was going to have a good time and Party somewhat, until he passed out again on his second drink and thankfully didn’t dream again, the Atlantic looming below them, thousands of miles deep.

Jon jostles Martin again, because he’s got those ridiculous headphones on, and leans over him to look out the window. Martin had demanded the window seat, which Jon was a-okay with, but now he peers out from under the shades at the tarmac of PHL, the sun just rising to grace it with a pinkish, dewy light.

\---

Martin struggles against joining the rest of the passengers in consciousness with a shove of his face into the jacket he’s used as a pillow and a buffer for the vibrations of the plane through their flight. He growls out a discontented throat-sound even as his eyes open to Jon breaching the space he no longer considers solely his to peer at the sky.

His own journey was dreamless, though his sleep had been periodically interrupted enough for him to settle into a routine of tracking the motion of clouds below the plane before passing out again. That alone was a good enough reason for him to insist he wanted it, but it’s also a matter of temperature. He’s always had a habit of moving his knuckles, sometimes even the flat of his palm, over the cold glass whenever he felt too stuffy. People tended to mind their own business on planes, but that did nothing to ease the packed-like-sardines sensation. At least, not the way touching a thin veil between the suffocatingly wide sky and their little metal tube did. 

He’s not been on many planes. Especially not to America. He’s relied on Jon for a significant amount of the planning, relied on him for a whole lot more in the weeks leading up to this. Martin has settled into a comfortable alliance with Tim, with everyone, really, except Elias. Mostly for Jon’s sake, though he won’t say that, as technically Jon’s sake is incomprehensibly intertwined with his own, now. They’re a team, and Martin thinks they’re a good one, all things considered. He’s excited for this trip. Excited to see where Jon takes them, what they’ll get up to in their search for a few important artifacts. Meet a few important people. Catch some great sights.

They both need this. It’s a combination of work and vacation, a productive break, that satisfies both of them and leaves Martin at ease. He’s felt that a lot more. At ease. Relaxed. Jon is a comfortable weight over the anxiety deep in his chest. One that keeps it all from pouring out. He’s panicked less, his stutter has improved, and he feels— Genuinely, he feels clear-headed. Present, in a world that’s not as terrifying as he thought. At least, not in the way he always imagined it was. People are less scary, monsters— He can deal with monsters. Has dealt with monsters, and pretty damn well. 

“Morning,” he mutters as he sits up, his body protesting at the first significant amount of movement he’s made in hours. “I was expecting much worse, I-I think I slept through most of it. Wow.” His eyes train on the people now standing up around them, gathering their things in a rush, and he presses closer to the side of the plane. “Lots of people here.”

\---

"I know," Jon says, and maybe it's the fading drink in his belly that keeps him talking, as he too pulls back and stands, stretching from limb to limb to get the pops and aches out before they have to walk through the terminal. "I can feel them all. It's-- ha-- It's weird." 

His first trip to America was not a fun thing. It was miserable, spent sick and shivering when he tried to sleep, nauseous and achy and hungry. Hadn't learned to pack statements, yet. He'd made sure to pack plenty, this time around, filed in neat little manila folders separated by entity in one of their suitcases. 

The plan is to rent a car, so that even if they are forced somewhere remote, they can keep the majority of their belongings packed with them. There's a paranoia about keeping everything locked away in a hotel room. Even if he plans on treating them to hotels as often as possible. Just a precaution. No more bus rides across state lines for Jon. 

He pulls on a pair of sunglasses he'd shoved into the front of his shirt, and reaches out to help Martin to his feet, shouldering the backpack that had constituted his carry-on.

\---

Martin’s entire body protests stiffly. He makes a strained face at Jon as he stands straight up, though it’s not exactly at Jon, and hoists his own backpack over his shoulder. He keeps the coat around his neck, and it’s Jon’s, that’s an important distinction here. Helps him sleep, smelling him. Sounds weird when he puts it like that. 

He’s very normal. Some of the statements Jon’s packed away are a shared meal. They’re both very normal. 

As they’re making their slow escape from the plane, someone’s bag is close enough to Martin that it jostles him a little from the back. He’s not grumpy, and Jon’s the only one paying attention, so he’s got no problem breathing out a quiet and vaguely annoyed, “I can feel them too.” And that’s all he’s got in him as he rubs the bleary sleep from his eyes, a few of his fingers looped around Jon’s backpack to tether them together.

\---

As they're nearing the front of the plane, Jon looks behind him and smiles. There's energy thrumming beneath him. Anxiety or excitement, he's not sure. Both, really. But it's all made easier with Martin to bounce off of. "I should have woken you up a couple hours ago. You're all groggy now, and it's no fun, and it's not like any of the bars are going to be open at this time of day. Ugh." 

See? That is normal. Normal couple. Normal holiday couples.

\---

“I’m not groggy,” Martin huffs down at him, clearly groggy. He amends that quickly, because he’s gone and given himself away with three words. “I’ll wake up, I’ll wake up.” 

He spends some quiet time doing just that, until they’re walking through the first part of the airport and he tugs on Jon’s backpack. “Did we pack water? I can’t remember.”

\---

"Erm, uh--" He reaches around behind his back and has to do a ridiculously strange stretch to get around the width of it, but he manages after a near comedic amount of time to produce a plastic bottle. He'd been bitchy about that, wanting their own bottles, but airport regulations and all that.

He'd absolutely complained about the taste of the plastic water for at least two minutes.

"Drink it all. Get it out of here," He says, and passes it off to him.

\---

Martin complies as though it's an order, finishing what's left. His mouth's dry from the flight and he's not brushed his teeth yet, which isn't ideal, but Jon's leading them on a mission out of here so he's not aiming any more whining in his direction for now. 

The second they pass a recycling bin he drive-by drops it off, and now he's properly awake to experience the horrors of American airport lobbies. "You're leading us to baggage claim, right? I-- You look like you know where you're going."

\---

"Yeah, it-- I've never been here? I landed in Chicago, last time. O'Hare. But I think--" He gestures down where many of the people seem to be heading, and he wrinkles his nose. "It's that way."

\---

"Follow the masses," Martin adds thickly, their surroundings a general blur of activity and color he's largely uninterested in. He'll like it outside much better, where their environment isn't set to function primarily as a transitory space. "Ah-- Up there." 

He tugs on the loop to herd Jon off to one side, where he's pretty sure their luggage is about to start spewing out. He promised he wouldn't complain, but conversational complaining doesn't  _ really _ count. "It's so bright in here."

\---

"It's  _ morning, _ Martin," Jon replies, but he pulls his sunglasses off and wordlessly hands them to Martin, because he's sleepy and no fun and doesn't get a kick out of airport chaos, evidently.

He takes them to the turnstile where luggage is slowly being spat out, double checking the electronic board to verify it’s their flight that's being attended to. And then he waits. And smiles, and looks at Martin, and says, "We made it."

\---

Martin wears them, completely oblivious to how silly they look on his face. "I-I'm not talking about the light," he adds too late, "It's all painted white. Not really--  _ Friendly?" _

He is fun. He promises. He's awake now, too, though he wishes he was at the point of tipsy Jon's coasting at. Ah, well. They can hit up a fantastically American liquor shop soon if Jon wants him there. Martin's content with however it all ends up, honestly. "Wait, we made it? I thought - I thought we were still in the plane. Look at that. Time really flies."

\---

Jon shoots him a look. "Well-- We still have to get the car rental. You're taking care of that. And check into the hotel.  _ Hopefully,  _ we can stay here for a while." 

He pauses. "God. I took you to America, and of all places, your first impression is going to be  _ Pittsburgh. _ Ugh."

\---

"All I know about it is that intro from the-- What's that show, I don't... remember. And whatever a cheesesteak is." He's quiet for a moment, letting his lack of knowledge sink in. "We can always... go somewhere else. I can take care of the rental, it sounds-- Easy. Any - erm - any preferences, on that?"

\---

Jon snorts. "No. I don't really care for cars. Though I guess you think I'd drive an Impala. And you’re thinking of Philadelphia. The other ‘P’ named city in Pennsylvania."

\---

"Well. I just think-- I think you'd look very attractive driving one. That's all." 

Martin stops talking for a minute, watching the luggage slowly rotate. "Oh, there we are." He detaches from Jon to take the initiative on lowering it off the belt, managing to get it all in one go.

\---

Jon follows behind, to offer support in case he needs it. Luckily, he doesn't. Jon spent  _ all night _ packing and unpacking and packing again to fit everything into one suitcase to save on money. Not that they  _ needed _ to, but it's also easier to just have one big luggage container to keep track of than... Multiple. Jon has a tendency to get distracted, and Martin has a tendency to forget to care, and he wants to keep their stuff as contained and readily accessible and easy to grab as possible. 

"I'd need my license for that, first. And anyways, seems I  _ have _ a driver now."

\---

"There's one perk of caring for a-a sick mother. _ License. _ And technically you only need a license to drive if they-- If they catch you driving  _ badly, _ really, so. Um. Let's go. Where first?" He grips the handle of the suitcase with one hand and ropes his fingers back into the loop on Jon's pack, smiling at him through the sunglasses. He looks like a complete fucking fool.

\---

He might look like a fool, but Jon is utterly and completely doting as he leads them through the airport. He means to look at a map and figure out where the car rental place on-site is, but distracted as he is by Martin, he just ends up... Walking. Gets them where they need to go, though. Turns out Jon takes them down the right paths, down the right escalators, like he's been here a million times before. 

"Get us whatever  _ you _ want," Jon says, and untangles Martin's hand from his backpack, reaching to grab the handle of the suitcase.

\---

"Mm, if you're sure." There's a hint of mischief there, but he's really not going to do anything too rash. Jon knows that. Jon knows plenty of things, including things he shouldn't know about sometimes, and that's fine. Totally fine. 

At least he can't predict what'll happen on this trip. They never got to do it, the first time. The life Martin never lived, never experienced. He wonders sometimes if it's buried in his brain, like this is some collective consciousness sort of reality, but it's not. 

He has a lot of time to think about science-fiction-esque fantasies about what all this means, when he's quiet. When he's working on menial tasks. Things like that.

"Where should we meet up?"

\---

"Hotel. Text me when you're on your way. I'm going to uber there to check us in. Saves time." He leans forward and quickly pecks Martin on the cheek. "Don't drive on the wrong side of the road."

\---

"I won't-- I  _ won't, _ Jon. I did... I did my own research, before we came. I'm-- Okay." He leaves a quick kiss at Jon's jaw to rip the band-aid off, and sets off on his own mission.

\------

It's a standard hotel by every stretch of the word. Fancy enough lobby, the kind that tries to  _ seem _ more expensive than it really is, with modern placements of furniture that are rather garish to Jon's eyes. But then again, he's always been one to like more antique, decadent looks than the coldness of Modernity. 

He checks them in, and their room is ready, so he's able to quickly pull all their luggage upstairs and even begin to unpack some of it. The essentials at least; bathroom stocked, and folders pulled out and placed on the desk, and phone chargers plugged into the wall. He's  _ nice _ like that. And yes, Jon takes a moment to marvel at having a bathroom with a shower  _ attached _ to their room. No more awkwardly timed trips to the gym. 

When he's finished, he changes into something not tainted by the airport, and then drifts down to the lobby to wait.

\---

Martin is gone longer than he might've been if he'd actually gone to the rentals at the airport, but he had the urge to be  _ thrifty, _ so he's-- Well, not late, since he caught Jon up with a few messages that allowed him some extra time to set up in their room, but he's definitely gone longer than he'd like to be. With keys attached to his belt he's a strange combination of disheveled and proud, but it's fine, it's all fine.

He lights up when a brief scan of the lobby gets him looking, and thus walking, at Jon. He's still wearing the sunglasses. He'd probably hate them if they weren't Jon's. They're Jon's. 

"All done. I lived, is the miraculous part. This-- I can't wait for nature. I think the architecture here is  _ growling  _ at me."

\---

Jon had occupied the brochure rack, plucking the few tiny touristy things in the city that possibly looked interesting, and when he hears Martin, he turns and smiles, waving with the brochures. "Just got to find Gerry and, er, we can go somewhere, uh, nicer. Car to your liking?"

\---

"Right. Um-- I think? It's fine. It's a Chevrolet. It's black. They called it something  _ stupid, _ what was it-- It was spelled wrong."

He shrugs in turn, because he wasn't paying much attention. Things on his mind. "And it's a little more complicated than... walking into a  _ library _ and grabbing him off the shelves, isn't it."

\---

"We can  _ check  _ where he was left but-- when I was here, last time, Hunters had him. Don't know when they, erm,  _ acquired  _ him." He cocks his head towards the elevator, urging him to come with.

\---

"Well. I'm pretty-- I'm pretty decent with breaking-and-entering, I think, I-I mean." Martin's not  _ that _ good. He just has one of those faces where he can get away with walking around looking lost, most of the time. He keeps pace next to Jon, letting their shoulders brush when he can. "We'll have to... check that out. This is real stuff, isn't it? Actual-- Genuine  _ danger, _ right?"

\---

"I've broken into places before. Won't be hard," He says, and presses the button for up. "and... Yeah. It's. It's actual danger. Hunters aren't..." He grimaces. "Hunters are dangerous."

\---

"I'll throw out a guess that we're spending our first night here  _ plotting." _ Martin shoots him a softer smile than the one he usually wears when he looks at Jon for too long. "I-I want to do it right, I don't-- Maybe we can slip out of it without anyone getting hurt."

\---

"We can hope. I-- we have to _ find _ them, first. Might take a while. I was here..." He thinks, pursing his lips. "...two weeks? I think?"

\---

"Ah. Well, I trust you. We can... scout? It's like an _ actual secret mission,"  _ Martin says with a short laugh, lowering his voice over the last few words for emphasis. The elevator opens and he waits for Jon to take the first few steps out. He doesn't know their room number yet, anyway. "I kind of can't wait. I-- We'll be... okay, right?"

\---

"I mean-- We'll try, won't we? We'll--" He gives kind of a breathless laugh, and then digs the second room key from his pocket, a card that's light green. "This is, uh, your room key, by the way."

\---

"Oh. Thank you." 

Martin takes it with one hand, burying down his fears for the time being. Into his wallet it goes. "I think-- um. Are you jet-lagged? That's the phrase, right? I'm exhausted and I-I slept all night. I don't know if that's...  _ normal." _

\---

"Probably." Jon shrugs. "Definitely a possibility. I mean, we're-- What. Five hours behind? Maybe, um. Sleep, and a statement when you wake up? Might help."

\---

"I'm not sleeping more, I'll-- I'm fine. I'm just... checking in? I'm awake." Maybe he shouldn't have pocketed it so quickly, because now he just wants in as fast as humanly possible. "I'd  _ like _ to get the work part of this trip done with so we can...  _ go, _ but-- I didn't get a, erm, a copy of the  _ itinerary." _

\---

Jon slides his card in, opening the door and pulling himself just inside to angle the door open for Martin to properly enter the room first. "I mean-- It's rather up in the air, right? I-- I did as much planning as I could, but, um, it just depends on when we  _ find _ it." 

He pauses, thinks. "We're, um, a couple years too early for me to know where everyone is."

\---

Martin passes the threshold, taking in what Jon's done with the place in his absence. He's a lot more productive than Martin had been, for sure. He holds the door open so Jon can let go of it, not that Jon  _ can't, _ but-- It's a gesture. "Oh. Right. Can you-- Would be  _ nice _ if our book had a tracker on it. Or-- I mean, do you have any... contacts?"

\---

Jon grimaces. "Not, uh-- Not really. I mean. That's why I want to find Gerard. He's...  _ something,  _ at least." He hasn't told Martin that he burned Gerard's page, the first time. It complicates things. He wants to convince Gerard to  _ stay, _ this time.

"If we-- I mean. If we keep working on statements, I might be able to... Ah, bolster my abilities. More intuition."

\---

"Right. Okay. And you're - you're  _ sure _ about that?" He isn’t judging, not in the slightest. That would make him a massive hypocrite, wouldn't it? Jon's sort of eased up a little on the becoming-a-monster talk, and Martin selfishly thinks it might have something to do with  _ him _ in the mix, but that's a bit narcissistic. He tries not to indulge it too much. Either way, he's just gauging confidence, because that's important if they could be in actual, physical danger.

He hasn't forgotten the worms. The blood. It feels like so much time has passed. He's stopped bothering with bandages, now, but it's not like the reminders went anywhere. Real consequences.

\---

"They're--  _ somewhere _ around here. All of them. It--" He sits heavily on the mattress and mulls over saying it, but he might as well. Now that they're  _ here. _ Now that it's real. Now that it's a possibility. "I was, um, kidnapped. Last time. That's how I found it all."

\---

Martin's face heats up, raw embarrassment creeping up along his ears. "I thought-- When you brought that up I thought you were joking."

Christ, he was such an insensitive  _ prick _ to Jon when he first showed up. "I'm sorry. Let's-- How did... um..." He tries to regain composure. "How did they find you that time?"

\---

"You thought it was-- I've brought it up-- Martin, I've been kidnapped more than once." He blinks rapidly and then kicks off his shoes so he can push himself up higher on the bed and sit cross-legged, breezing past the fact that so much of his history is still _ unknown _ to the one person who knows him. 

"I don't-- I don't actually know. She just. Found me. Kidnapped me, and-- There was a cop, from Chicago, who was tailing me. He wasn't a cop. He wasn't a person. I mean, as far as kidnappings go, it's not the  _ worst _ I've been through. I was on a bus to Pittsburgh. Turns out they had the book. Don't know if they have it yet."

\---

Martin moves as Jon talks, plugging in his phone where he's set up their chargers - It  _ was _ very nice of you, thank you Jon - and untying his boots until he can get them off without having to sit down. With where he's at currently, and with Jon still going, he thinks it might be rude to just hop into bed next to him, so of course, being  _ normal _ and all, he gets on his knees at one side of the bed with his elbows propped up on the mattress. Just watches him there, one shoulder just about touching the nightstand.

And when he's done talking, Martin starts with another genuine, "I'm sorry." He can't dwell on it, though, he refuses to. They need to plan and work together on this. "You won't get kidnapped this time. We'll-- We'll work on this together, right?"

\---

"Yeah. Of course, Martin, I mean-- I'm not going to keep you _ out  _ of this. I'm going to need your help, anyways." He leans across the bed, until he's nearly laying down, just propped up on one elbow enough on his side to face Martin, his feet just barely flush with the end of the bed. 

"It's-- It's different, is all. I'm still wrapping my head around it. It's like-- I have these memories, of this place, and I have the circumstances of  _ now, _ and the contexts sometimes... They sometimes run together, in my head, and I can't remember if I should be worried  _ now  _ or if it was  _ then, _ or if I should be panicking because of what  _ happened  _ or what  _ will, _ and it's-- What I mean, is. Um. I brought a lot of notes. To sort through."

\---

"Notes.” 

Martin continues. “When we first started talking, you had a journal. Did you ever, maybe, um, think about using it not just for... for work? Like-- Like processing, how things are different? Sorry, that sounds..." He laughs quietly, using the crook of one elbow as a pillow for the side of his face. "It's silly, but... But they still happened, you know? To you. I can't expect you to… I-I can't see in your head, but it's not like the memories  _ disappear _ when we change something, so... We've really meddled. Maybe meddling is what we're supposed to do. And it can end... it can end alright."

\---

"I use it for work. That's all there is." He says, and shakes his head. The softness of his face is betrayed by his words. What a strange juxtaposition of emotions Martin produces in him. "No time for anything else." 

He has to say it simply, or else he'll ramble, and worry Martin, which will worry himself by proxy, and then he'll feel guilty. He leans up a little, propping himself up taller. "I was sick here, the first time. It's why I've brought so many statements." Back to the big picture. To the facts. "We'll be careful."

\---

"You have time for me, and I'm not work." Martin sinks down a bit, not for any  _ bad _ reason, he's just consciously relaxing. The last thing he needs is to be tense. "Am I?"

\---

"No. No, you're--" He shakes his head, and smiles and doesn't say  _ you're me being selfish, _ but he thinks it. "You're not work."

\---

"So you can write it down for  _ you,  _ Jon. I can give up an hour of attention so you can do that, it won't kill me." Martin's own smile is lax, happy that he's gotten the answer he knew he'd get if he phrased it like that. It  _ might _ kill him, actually, but he just thinks that to himself. The room is filling up with secret thoughts. 

Huh. That's... Martin, thinking that. Weird. "It might be... good for you? If you're not so focused on - on  _ work, _ you might find something you didn't know to look for. I don't know."

\---

Jon shrugs noncommittally, the smile still soft. He's not going to do it. He's not a statement, and he's much too busy. But he also doesn't want Martin to worry. "I write down what's important."

\---

"And what do you think you are?" 

Martin doesn't mean to compel it. Something about sitting this way and smiling up at him, the way Jon's so  _ open _ but  _ not-- _ It's dawning on him over the course of several seconds that he doesn't like when Jon's not saying something so simple, something right  _ there. _

\---

Jon feels his lungs fill up with air against his will, preparing his mouth and tongue for words beyond his reckoning, and his eyes grow wide, and he sits up straight, criss-crossed again but facing Martin this time, utterly focused. 

"What happens to me is important. If only as a caution to others after me. Me? I'm just-- I'm just Jon, I'm just-- The work is important, not me, not specifically. The research, the organization, the findings. They channel through me. That's important. I don't-- I don't know if it's a smart idea for me to be important."

\---

The stare Martin levels him with is the closest his eye contact has ever gotten to  _ piercing, _ but it's with love. 

"Jon," he starts slowly, his mind helpfully drawing up the image of a gentle downstream current. "In a thousand years, when they figure out how to use tape recorders again so they can study us, I don't want them to hear your voice and never get to see who you are. I think they should know."

\---

"I leave enough behind, Martin."

\---

"If  _ I _ was alive in a thousand years I'd want to know who you are, I'd want to ask you questions. I'd wonder why you didn't leave more behind." Martin isn’t pushing, at least not combatively. He's not quite breathless, but that's as close as a descriptor can get to the way he's fixed on Jon like an interrogation lamp trying to produce comfort.

\---

_ "You _ would." Jon says, and doesn't elaborate much, because it's hard to speak, and hard to keep the good mood, or really any mood, when it's so, so easy to fall away right now.

\---

"Isn't that enough? I'm part of the world you're trying to save. You're part of mine. I want your voice, and - and if I'm enough, if  _ my _ world is enough, so are you."

\---

Jon leans forward then, and he takes both of Martin's hands in his own, and bridges them all together, meeting them in the middle wrapped on either side of them like a tent. He won't be able to explain this right. And his emotions are pounding, deep-set things that ring in his ears and unbalance him. So the touching is necessary. Anchors, anchors, anchors. 

"You are more than enough, Martin. But I won't make this about me. I can't. It already  _ is, _ to a certain extent. I won't-- I don't. I  _ can't _ let that overtake me."

\---

Martin’s hands move and bend at Jon’s will, neither pulling away nor adding his own flair to it. His voice is steady,  _ serious, _ lost in something beyond him. Possessed by poeticism at the worst of times.

“Then I’ll make it about you.  _ I’ll  _ start buying tapes, and  _ I’ll  _ start recording poems, I’ll make sure I say your name, and I-I’ll say you’re with the Magnus Institute and - and... And in a thousand years when they figure out how to use tape recorders again so they can study us, they’ll have a million  _ more _ questions that they can’t ask. And they’ll want to ask  _ you,  _ because you’re the only one who can - can answer them.”

\---

Jon is very still. He doesn't know what to say. He blinks rapidly at Martin, and his head falls some, hair falling to the mattress.

What he doesn't say is:  _ they won't care, because he'll have been a monster. _ what he doesn't say is:  _ this doesn't end with Jon's name being nicely spoken.  _ But he thinks it.

He doesn't say any of it, because he has nothing to say out loud that won't worry Martin, and so instead, he leans forward and kisses Martin, soft and gentle and in love, and when he pulls back, he says, "Okay." He doesn't agree. But he won't take this from Martin.

\---

“It’s not okay,” Martin whispers, after letting him do  _ everything. _ “I care about you right now, too. I-I want to know you without having to pull you apart. I don’t  _ like  _ doing it— I...”

Martin presses his face into the mattress, a little too hard, because he doesn’t know what else to do. Takes his hands away from Jon and puts them over his head to tangle in his own hair and stay somewhere dark so he won’t keep pushing Jon into something he can’t accept.

\---

Jon pulls back, and he's  _ confused.  _ Confused about where this came from. Confused as to why it's happening now. Confused about what to do.

"I don't-- I don't know what you're asking Martin, I-I.... I don't understand."

\---

“I can— I can tell you’re just  _ saying _ okay,” Martin starts, muffled against the sheets, until he forces his head up enough for conversation. “I don’t need powers for that. I want— I want you to want to be important? Not just— Just— Sometimes I wish I could just  _ project _ to you. My thoughts, w-what I see.”

\---

"It's-- I  _ understand. _ I just. I just don't see the, erm, the point of-- I'm not some kind of, of  _ hero,  _ Martin. I'm just. Doing my job."

\---

“Is loving me your job? Is - is sitting here and kissing me your job? Is planning to go to parks with me your job? It’s— You’re a  _ person, _ your job is to just— Be alive, I think.”

His grip on fistfuls of his own hair in frustration at himself veers close to too-tight. His forehead falls to the mattress again. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to lecture you. I-It wasn’t— I hadn’t meant to be so serious.”

\---

Jon's job isn't to be alive, because he's given himself to something bigger. He's tried to gouge his very eyes out to become a person, and was punished for his insolence. He has  _ died,  _ and come back in the name of something more, the name of something that consumes him, and consumes him and feeds him as it feeds from him.

He wants to console Martin. But he refuses to outright lie to him.

Ugh. The decor of the hotel room is so abrasive he realizes, as he's pulling himself from the bed to stand, to pace, frantic residual energy flowing through him all at once in a burst of nerves. Bright and garish and so, so fucking modern in all the worst ways, and he wants to kick the bedframe just for daring to exist in his line of sight right now. 

And. Then the dam breaks. 

"Don't-- don't  _ do _ that. You-- you're taking whatever-- whatever issues I have and making me feel  _ guilty. _ Because. Because now you have me wondering if I'm lo-loving you wrong, and now I want to apologize to you, over and over and over again until we both f-forget about th-this, and it's not  _ fair. _ It's not. It's not fair. You keep moving what we're talking about. I won't-- I can't k-keep apologizing for things I don't know how to  _ explain!" _

\---

“You’re not  _ just Jon, _ you’re not just your  _ job, _ I... I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to say, I’m not using that to  _ guilt  _ you, I’m just— I’m trying to show you examples of... of ways you’re not just— You can’t just  _ be _ your job... “ Martin can barely breathe like this. “I don’t... I just love you. I’m not moving anything on purpose. I’m not - not asking you to  _ apologize.” _

\---

Jon lets out a shuddery breath and collects himself. It's not fair to just yell about this. "You make me feel more human," He says, slowly, quietly. "If you were just my  _ job, _ I wouldn't have-- if  _ I _ was just my job, I wouldn't have... Done everything we have, together. Okay? I'm not--  _ just _ my job. But I have to focus. We'll-- we'll have our proper  _ break _ after all of this."

\---

“I-I know. I’m sorry, I’m— I’m really,  _ really _ not trying to ruin this. Focus. Right. Right, right— Yeah.” Martin nods, lifts his head once again and leans back so he won’t be tempted to do it again. “Can I— Can I get in bed with you?”

\---

Jon huffs. "Go ahead, but I… I'm going to do more unpacking." He's top restless, now, to lay down He needs to work some of this energy out, or he'll lay down and spiral his thoughts to oblivion and get a migraine. Viva first day in America.

\---

“Okay. I’ll, um— okay.” Never mind that, then. Martin stands up, knees protesting, and now he’s not sure what to do. He doesn’t want to leave, he feels  _ safe _ with Jon, but he— He’s fucked up enough, Jon deserves space if he wants it. “Anything I can do... now? R-research-wise?”

\---

"Martin," Jon says, and reopens the suitcase where he has it laying on the floor near the balcony window. "You  _ just _ said you were tired. If you want to lay down, lay down. I'll be quiet."

\---

“I’m not tired, I’m  _ jet lagged,  _ and I just wanted to touch you.” Martin deadpans it, and— It’s petty. It’s stupidly, stupidly petty, and it doesn’t even feel good, but he puts his shoes back on in silence, and he walks out of the room without another word. Anything to keep himself from something far more immature. A walk, maybe.

One of those days.

\---

Jon feels a fluttering panic for a moment and wants to go after him, to apologize, to fix this, to-- not feel like he's severely fucked up, but he doesn't. He's annoyed, for one, and maybe it's not a  _ terrible  _ thing for them to be out of each other's hair if the _ first  _ thing they did once getting a hotel room was-- was that a fight? He doesn't know.

He watches him leave, sighs, and returns to unpacking.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ah... Nothing better than landing in America and immediately having a lover's spat.

Martin copes well. 

In an unfamiliar country with unfamiliar people, he finds that it’s not very different, all-in-all. Sometimes he forgets, now, that most of his time is spent with company and his old routines don’t play much of a part in his rapidly changing life. 

He still knows how, though, once he starts the motions. He sort of hates himself right now, and usually he’s not one to drink away his sorrows to the point of being without some control, but there’s a bar connected to the hotel and he’s hurting and for a while he’s too ashamed to head back to the room. Martin doesn’t want space, but he thinks Jon might. 

The lack of contact itches. Burns, almost. To the point that distracting himself is the only option. And… Long story short, that bar turns into his temporary base. He starts off alone, but the sort of lonely that comes with no noise and no fleeting conversations with forever-strangers doesn’t hit the same. 

A few drinks in he texts Jon as if on autopilot. His fingers are stiff as he taps the letters. It’s a simple  _ ‘down near the lobby, love you’ _ and he thinks twice before deleting a question mark at the end, but he does and it goes in his pocket without another glance.

He’s not sure how long he’s down there, but it’s long enough for him to develop that specific kind of confidence. Long enough for him to have made someone laugh just enough to get offered a seat at their table. Small group, friends at some layover that’s stretching on too long making the best of it all. Something to do with weather. He forgets those details, because he’s latched onto the man directly across from him. Not consciously, not at all, but he has, and now they’re talking, and all the noise is winding down around them. He’s aware enough to know he’s getting tunnel vision, that he’s not just talking, but it feels good. 

Bending forward over the table with the side of his face pressed in one palm, eyelids heavy, it’s a reflex he’s yet to learn to control just right. Martin’s listening to him rattle on about planes, of all things.

\---

Jon is content to let Martin wander. At least while he's still cooling down. It's not that he's mad, and it's not that white-hot thick, belly-deep rage that sometimes overtakes him and causes him to say and do the awful things the Beholder demands is his right and obligation, but he's still-- annoyed. Annoyed in a way that's unproductive, because he's mad at  _ himself _ , and he's pissed off at Martin, and it's all over just not fair to either of them. 

He just has to get it out of his system. So he organizes, and unpacks, and puts their clothes away in the dresser. And then he busies himself in laying out their folder, getting a system set up so that when they do finally sit down and plan, everything is in perfect order. His first thought is,  _ Oh, Martin will be proud _ , and isn't that just indicative of everything? That's when he realizes he's calmed down enough, and he steps into the bathroom to look at himself-- Disheveled, hair flying wildly, features as usual too severe and too grey for the age he's supposed to be, and he sighs. 

He flicks the lights off and drifts to the nightstand, where his phone is, and sees that Martin has texted him, about an hour ago. Nearly two hours after he left. Has it really been nearly three hours? Maybe he got stuck feeling the aura of the statements in his hands, in his mind's eye for longer than he thought. Jon chooses not to think about it, though.  _ Unproductive _ , he thinks again, and then rakes his hair back and pulls it up so he doesn't look like a complete insane person when he goes downstairs. 

Because he's going downstairs. The drink has long faded, and the energy in him is gone, and he's really rather hungry, in the normal human way, and so he slips on glasses he didn't even realize he'd taken off at some point (Was he seeing? Has his prescription changed that much?), and descends into the lobby.

\---

Martin’s not aware of Jon’s presence, supernaturally or otherwise, too honed in on what he’s doing. The man he’s talking to shakes a bit with the alcohol in his blood and what Martin’s drawing out of him. Keeps talking. 

“I know what the statistics say. I’m more likely to get mauled by a dog and all that dumb shit. I swear to God, man, but I think about it every time we take off. Fucking layovers.” 

Martin hums in response, content with none of his friends paying them too much mind. Like it’s a blind spot for them. His own voice is soft and steady. “Are you waiting for it to happen again?”

“Yes. How am I supposed to not do that? The worst part is I don’t even care until I put the seatbelt on and the engines start. And I just go,  _ Fuck _ , what if it happens again? Maybe I won’t even live if it does. And nothing even happened, nobody even noticed. I just sound paranoid. I’m not fucking paranoid.”

\---

Jon isn't sure how or why, but when he reaches the threshold of the Hotel bar, his stomach churns. He doesn't notice Martin at first, because there's such great fear billowing from one corner of the establishment, and he finds himself stepping closer. He gets several feet before he does see Martin, at the epicenter of that  _ taste _ , and he quickens his pace, the unconscious hunger turning whip-like into a whole new kind of fear instead. 

A fear that's confirmed, when he gets close enough to hear, and he latches onto the man Martin is speaking to's face and hears his  _ fear, _ and feels the ripple of intent, compulsion, need filling the air, and he hisses, "Martin," in greeting, because what else is he supposed to do? 

He can feel bad about the hypocrisy of his anger later; for now? He knows this is bad.

\---

Martin definitely absorbs the tone, that’s for sure. But taking it in is his limit, his focus only shifting the tiniest bit. Like watching something from your peripheral, where he’s still mentally fixed forward. It doesn’t stop him from turning to look at Jon with his face flushed with warmth and his easy smile turning genuine. He waves a bit, like he’s ushering over a particularly good friend. “Hi, Jon!”

He hasn’t forgotten where they left off. Both with Jon and his new friend. But he’s not doing anything wrong, not really. “This is... “ He scans the group one at a time, but they’re not paying much mind. “Leslie, Philip - It’s with one L, not two, but that doesn’t really matter if you call him Phil - Anne, and— “ He turns back to the man across from him. “Charlie. They’re, uh, they’re waiting for their plane. Charlie— He was telling me about a— “

He squints, remembering. “— We got to talking about, you know, spooky business, and— What was it exactly?”

Charlie starts up again, words falling out of him with an easy wave and no hesitation despite the gravity of it. “My shitty work had me flying out to main site a few years back. And like, like halfway through I’m sitting there and the plane starts turning upside-fucking-down. Nobody says anything but you know how gravity works, shit’s flying, bags are hitting the ceiling, I get a headache from my blood all hitting my brain and I look around and nobody’s even batting a fucking eye. Lady, your hair’s upside down and you’re still flipping pages in your shitty book.”

\---

Jon blinks. He's drawn in, and he wants to sit, and he wants to ask, and ask, and  _ ask _ , and feed, he can feel the hunger in him now like a vice wrapped his spinal cord, and it takes every ounce of self-will for him to instead clasp a firm hand to Martin's shoulder and field him a very, very stiff smile indeed.

"Excuse us, Charlie, I need a word with Martin for a moment," and he tugs somewhat on him to urge him to get the fuck up.

\---

Martin doesn’t struggle despite his confusion, the only indication he was tethered there being the unsteady motion to get on his feet he can’t attribute to drink.

Martin mumbles a light-hearted sorry in Charlie’s direction while Jon urges him along. Being the good sport that he is, his new friend shoots him a little understanding nod. Goes straight back to drinking, but he’s slow on the uptake for joining another conversation. 

Martin pipes up once they’re out of earshot, wide pupils offsetting the genuine concern. “Jon, are you okay?”

\---

_ "No," _ He growls, and pulls back away from him some, to give him a long, searching look-over. The bar is loud, but Jon only has ears for Martin's stupid actions right now. "You were compelling that man. You-- You were taking a statement from him."

\---

Martin steps back at the first word, properly cowed into a brief silence. Lucky he’s got a couple of chemical buffers up and it doesn’t toss him into an anxious panic. Thank you, drugs. Natural and otherwise. 

“He— They walked up to me, Jon, I... we were talking. I didn’t— I didn’t come down here to do that, not on - on purpose.”

\---

"You still can't-- Martin, that's. You  _ fed _ from him." Some of the instinctual anger abates; how could he know? How could Martin have possibly known when Jon was too much of a coward, too embarrassed to explain in any detail his own sins? "It's-- You just." He sighs, and puts his palm on Martin's chest. "We shouldn't. It's addicting."

\---

It's so, so hard to keep his face neutral, might as well be the Olympics of face journeys. He still sounds distracted despite his efforts. "Um. I forgot how gross that phrase was, er--" A little laugh slips out, and he's quick to try and wipe away the rest of them before they can follow suit. " -- He's drunk, I mean, s-sometimes you just have to talk about something, it's not a formal thing, not--not like recording... " He inhales sharply, not to slow down but to try and fail to control his smile. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, just-- The way you said that, it sounds like-- It's making me think about those detective books, like a-a work affair. _ We shouldn't. _ " 

He can't quite stifle the next ones. He knows Jon is completely, totally serious. "Sorry."

\---

"Oh," Jon breathes out, and all at once drops his arms, huffing out an incredulous breath. "You're proper wasted." He's pretty sure what he wants to say next will fall on deaf ears, but he says it anyways. "He's going to dream about you now, probably forever. Terrifying, awful dreams. Because you fed from him, and he didn't even give you his permission. Guh. Now I need a drink. Christ."

\---

"But he... did? Here-- Look, I'm not - I'm not wasted.  _ Proper wasted, he says _ \-- Jon. I sat down here alone. One of them came up to me, we started talking, and i-it was like, 'Oh, you're not from America!', 'No, no, I'm on - I'm on vacation and business', 'Business? Like what?', 'Well, I'm an assistant at a paranormal research I-Institution'," Martin takes a breath to get something in his lungs, and he's still smiling down at Jon.

"And then they were saying ' _ Our buddy Charlie's upset because we have to take another plane and he freaks out' _ , so being me, I end up saying something like ' _ What's wrong with planes? _ ' And he-- He just looks at me and... we've been talking about planes for at least half-an-hour now."

\---

"Right. And then you fed from him. I can-- you know I can tell, right? Martin, I'm not just. A-accusing you to be a--a  _ dick _ , I can feel it." His eyes widen some. "I want nothing more than to go speak to him myself right now. To feed. You--"

And then he kinda laughs some, because it's ridiculous. Martin gets.... Gets this  _ way _ after a statement and he's done it in public.

\---

Oh, Martin knows that. Now that he's out of the black hole of conversation, he knows what he was doing, but it's like breathing. It's not conscious until it is. He's fixated on the least relevant detail for now, though. Not on purpose, certainly, but fixated nonetheless.

"Jon, I'm  _ begging  _ you to come up with a new phrase. Leeching works, maybe?" He might be  _ proper wasted _ , he might have taken half of a statement, but he can confirm he's flustered. Martin shakes his head to clear it away. "I-I'm just saying I had permission and nothing I did w-with him is-- I don't want to call it that. It's... weird, Jon. I don't know him... like..." The laughter comes back, and he knows he looks like an idiot, but he doesn't care. "... Like that."

\---

"It's what it's called," He says stiffly, and then turns on his heels and walks away from Martin to go to the bar. He is not dealing with this until he has a drink and some shitty American barfood.

\---

Martin stands motionless in the lobby. Inside of him there are two wolves. One tells him to pitifully whine out Jon's name and set after him. The other one wants to do the same thing, but has the physical capability of keeping the more embarrassing part inside. 

He trails after him without a word, because his only options are really just-- Go back upstairs and sit in lonesome shame about something he hadn't meant to do and really doesn't regret either way, or work on making amends. He does speak up, once he's at normal conversational distance again. "Can... Can I sit with you?"

\---

"You're going to, because we're going to eat, and I don't want you taking statements from people." Jon doesn't jab a finger in his face, but spiritually? It's there.

He sits at the bar and picks up a menu, and looks. He just needs to relax and he'll be fine. He's not mad at Martin, but-- he knows it's not the best time to impress the severity of what he did. Even so, as he's reading the menu, he says, "You and the other girls in the office had to have an intervention for me. Well. Less you. But you took the statement and gave it to them to..., ah, confront me. Because people were complaining. Right awful dreams, about me because I--" He raises his eyes from over the menu to look at Martin." --fed from them."

\---

Martin sits politely beside him at the bar, and doesn't throw a fit about how he's left his own drink back at the table he's evidently not allowed to go back to. Mostly he's just looking at Jon. Easy to forget about most other things that way. He wishes he could've found out about the plane, though. He'd been invested.

Again, he's hearing everything. Committing it to memory for a different time where he's more capable of being serious. He loves Jon so, so very much. It's almost as gross as the whole 'feeding' thing he just recoiled at again. "Me... and the other girls?"

\---

Jon blinks and lowers the menu, thoroughly caught off guard. "Uh. Yes? The people who worked in the Archives? You, though I didn't, um, see you really much, Basira, Daisy, Melanie. They weren't, ah, pleased to know I was taking statements. Because it's n-not right. Is what I mean."

He blinks. "Why'd you say it like that?"

\---

Martin tilts his head. Not at the list of unfamiliar names, or the fact that he held an intervention for Jon in another life, but to one specific sentence his brain is stuck on. 

Maybe he  _ is _ wasted. “I’m a girl?”

\---

Jon frowns. "Um. I don't think I can answer that for you, Martin," and there's all at once a laugh bubbling up out of him, his features smoothing out into humor. It’s just so absurd it cuts through the parts of him that are upset  _ immediately _ .

\---

Martin’s only response to that is a ‘Hrm.’ He can’t talk back. He likes Jon’s laughter too much. Not really his area of expertise, so best leave it alone. 

“You’ve taken statements from me and I only have good dreams about you,” he starts again, deciding that’s a decent enough recovery.

\---

Jon shrugs. "I don't know. Maybe I haven't traumatized you." He says it as though that’s not a blatant lie. 

\---

Destroyed any evidence of that one by shattering it against the wall. 

Martin twitches. 

That’s not Jon’s fault, it was the worms. He sounds subdued as he reflects on it. “I’d still like it if you straddled me.” Oh, Christ. He said that out loud.

\---

Well. Call that a successful way to distract Jon. He pulls the menu back up to hide his flush. "Right. Um. Maybe later. Is that what you got out of that experience?"

\---

Martin is mortified. “No, I— No, I’ve never thought about it like that before.” 

The worst part is he’s not lying. Martin talks to the ground, since Jon’s got a paper shield. “I might be drunk.”

\---

"Might?" Jon all but squeaks. He immediately flags the bartender over and orders a cocktail-- gin, because Martin is drunk and gin always gets him nice and crocked fast-- and some food, just an arrangement of appetizers that sound disgustingly American but novel for a Martin who's never been.

\---

“I’m sorry I didn’t know I was eating someone when he told me he hated planes.” Martin half-mumbles through it, sneaking fond glances at Jon where he can. He’s so methodical about everything he does. It’s intense. How someone could manage to intensely hold a menu is beyond him.

\---

"Hm." Jon slowly lowers the menu and pushes it across the bar. He waits to speak until he's handed his drink and takes a slow sip from it. "I guess you're forgiven." He’s calmed down enough to joke about it, all but docile in his awareness that Martin won't really be conductive to talk seriously to, right now.

He takes another sip. "It wasn't even a good statement. Just the Vast, from what I heard."

\---

Martin waits longer than he has to. Just to make sure Jon’s actually content to let it go for now. The tension between his shoulders starts to dissipate, though, once he finally lets it. 

“I guess? Um, I was mostly just entertained by how much he swore. I thought it was funny.  _ Fucking planes.”  _

His accent isn’t very good. Martin snorts. “Sir, I hope you’re not.”

\---

That does the job of fully letting Jon let it wash away. He snorts around his drink and laughs, and then laughs some more, because it's ridiculous, and they're laughing about a poor man's trauma, and god doesn't it just make their earlier argument that much more ironic.

"Terrible. Terrible. I'm glad you had fun down here, for what it's worth."

\---

Martin’s heart threatens to burst. His laughs are a better force of motivation than horse spurs. That’s a new one. He’ll have to remember that one. What rhymes with spurs? 

“Purrs.” Smallest of pauses. “I’m having fun now. I just had to cool off. What I mean isn’t always -um--always what comes out.”

\---

"I usually understand you," Jon says, and now that he's over it, he leans with his elbows on the bar and looks at Martin with utter, complete love and adoration. "Normally. Purrs?"

\---

Martin’s surprised at the sudden change in Jon’s demeanor, blinking down at him like he’s physically shooed off every thought whirling around in his head. “I— “ 

He shuts his mouth, then opens it again. “I was finding a rhyme for ‘spurs’. I don’t think it... counts. They’re both purrs.” He hums low in his throat for comedic emphasis.

\---

"I see." Jon pauses. "See, when you say things like that, I wish I could read your mind. Because sometimes you say things that just surprise me."

\---

“Good luck getting in here,” Martin says thickly, sticking his tongue out at Jon between his teeth. “Half the time I spend watching you is for brainstorming couplets.”

\---

"Couplets. God. You're going to read me more poetry eventually."

\---

"If-- Do you want me to?" Was he allowed to do that the whole time? Off-the-cuff? "I was afraid of being... " Martin scrunches up his face. "Overbearing."

\---

"Wh-- sharing yourself with me? Of course. Martin-- it's not overbearing. It's something you care about and I love."

\---

"What do you want me to recite right now?" He says it in one breath, like this is life-or-death.

\---

"Right now?! I--I don't know. Anything. What you want me to hear." His eyes are wide.

\---

Martin's about to speak when the invasive sound of plates hitting the counter between them both makes him jump. The bartender's not paying either of them any mind beyond the basic courtesies, and there's certainly... something potentially edible put in front of him. "Um," he starts, scattered. "M-maybe when we get back upstairs."

\---

Jon snorts. "Better. I don't want to listen to your poetry while I'm shoving, um--" He looks at the plates and grimaces. "- _ -Buffalo wings _ . Into my mouth."

\---

"I know a - a few things. Dickinson. Crowley, you know that. Poe. Keats. Um, weirdly-- The only Shakespeare I can ever remember is a Midsummer Night's Dream. Plath, Baudelaire, um--  _ me. _ " His last word is a mere whisper as he hesitantly swipes up some of the sauce with his thumb to try it before he commits. It tastes fine. "This looks messy."

\---

"Well. I want  _ you. _ Of course. I've read the rest. I was an English major, you know." He watches Martin swipe the sauce, and his vision pinpricks. Who knows why. "It is messy. Americans are messy."

\---

_ "You're _ messy," Martin titters, delaying the process of actually picking one up to try. It's easier to take an upbeat jab at Jon than succumb to nervous anticipation. It's actually intimidating, remembering that Jon has a degree in what Martin only ever did to escape the world into another one just as scary, just as lonely. Just as sad. Lot of pressure there. He wonders what Jon would be like as... a... 

He clears his throat. "Ah."

\---

Both of Jon's eyebrows hike up. "Oh?" He asks, because that's a  _ look  _ that's been given to him, and it's not the kind of  _ look _ that befits him shoving spicy chicken into his mouth.

\---

"I'm just having..." Martin squints at his own wording. "Thoughts. I'm thinking. I-- " He makes the mistake of getting stuck on Jon's eye contact. Evil man. "About the - the idea of reciting things to you, and you have a-a degree, that's-- Um, that's horrifying, but, I mean, you - you know the academic side of what we do-- I just did it for fun, but I don't really... know... what it's like, learning like that, and - er - thaaat's..." 

He's never drinking again. Martin's not laughing, because now it's too real. "I-I'm very attracted by something hypothetical here that has everything to do with you and is also very vague and I have no idea what it is."

\---

"I'm all ears if you figure it out," Jon says, and despite Martin's very sexy revelation-- non-revelation?--, he's saying it around a mouthful of garishly orange-colored chicken. His eyes are wide though, and he's clearly listening, and he's obviously paying attention, because-- It's a lot. 

Whatever it is Martin's working through, it's a lot. "Don't know how me having degrees is hot."

\---

Martin's not hungry. Looking at it was enough for him. "I like learning from you. With - with you. Being your... assistant." Each word is torturously grated out. He imagines it's what fighting a compelled question feels like. "M-me quoting poems from memory in our bedroom is like a performance review but weird. N-not bad weird. Please make me stop talking."

\---

Jon lowers the food in his hand and desperately claws for a napkin. Martin had such a habit of utterly disarming Jon, seemingly with no conscious effort on his part. "You-- well. Explain it to me later. When we're alone. Not here." He's willing to listen, willing to-- to entertain it. But not in public. He's eating.

\---

It’s not necessarily a command, but it’s close enough for Martin to justify working very, very hard to shelve it. 

He busies himself with one of the loose napkins, running his thumb along the edge of it while Jon eats. Mostly so he doesn’t stare, and so he’s preoccupied. He’s determined to not get put in the doghouse. Looking at anything but Jon seems to be working, since it’s all naturally mind numbing in comparison. He finds it easy to be politely quiet once the flow of conversation doesn’t remind him of time as a concept.

\---

Martin goes quiet, and Jon is several drinks behind to protest too much, so he just busies himself in eating and pounding his drink. At one point, he feels the pinpricks of sickly sweet fear and turns to watch the gaggle of Martin's new friends leave, and for a moment, it's almost like he can  _ See  _ the cloud of trauma hanging over the man named Charlie. Black and thick, inky like it could drip all over him and consume him, wash him away, eat him.

And then the vision is gone, and he turns back to his plate swaying some in the barstool because that's never happened before. Never. He grabs Martin's hand and continues to eat, because he's scared and doesn't want to say anything about it. Unless it happens again. No need to worry him.

\---

Martin tracks Jon’s vision to the group he never got to give a proper farewell to. Martin doesn’t see the Eldritch traumatic waves Jon sees, not in the slightest, but there’s a pull nonetheless— Sometimes, you can just tell when someone has to get something off their chest. 

He brushes his thumb over Jon’s knuckles, clearly confused but bright-smiled against Jon’s tension nonetheless. “Jon, were you Eye fucking my new friend?”

\---

"Wh-wh. What? N-no. No. Martin?" Jon blinks rapidly and finally actually thinks about what happened, and the food slips to the plate. "No, he-- I can just feel his Story. Th-thaaat's all."

\---

Martin sneaks a quick kiss to Jon’s temple while he stumbles through justifying it, then sits upright again. 

His grin turns dangerously smug. He repeats Jon’s own words back at him, thankfully without any impression. Just teasing. “ _ It wasn’t even a good statement.” _

\---

Jon scowls and rolls his eyes. Prick. "But it still exists. Weird to feel them already when I haven't--" He cuts himself off and finishes his drink, giving a short shake of his head.

\---

Martin pulls Jon’s hand up to his face to press his cheek against it, not bothering to ask him for elaboration. “At least he’s leaving.” He pauses, making a disconcerted face that’s a combination of several vague emotions. “I think they forgot about me.”

\---

Jon gives a half-hearted shrug. "I pulled you away. I didn't look happy. They probably cut their losses."

\---

Martin sighs out something like a laugh against Jon’s hand. “It was sort of funny.”

\---

"Oh, was it now? I'm funny when I'm distressed now?" Oh how hard it is to hide the shit-eating smile that threatens to undermine his tone.

\---

“No, I-I mean it was funny that— That they didn’t know. They probably thought it was a-a normal couple’s spat. Not about— “ Martin is in physical pain. “—  _ Feeding _ off fear.”

\---

Jon laughs, and finally stands, brushing his free hand down his shirt and then flagging down the bartender to pay off their bill. "Don't know why that word bothers you so much. It's what it is."

\---

Martin is as straight-faced as he can be. “It’s gross, Jon.”

He’s not about to argue, though, because Jon’s doing a whole bunch of things at once and it looks like they’re leaving. “Are we leaving?”

\---

"Unless you want to stare at the rest of the bar while I eat another thousand calories." He hands the bartender his card, and shoots Martin an amused look.

\---

Martin stands up, somehow feeling unnatural standing over Jon. Through all the motions, he’s still got a dedicated hold on Jon’s hand, though, so that’s awesome. “I stared at enough of the bar, I think?”

\---

Maybe it's the drink in him. Always makes him a bit more loose with his words, and bitchier. Not his phrasing, but-- he's been called it enough. "Oh, good, and here I thought there was a cranny you haven't stared daggers at yet."

\---

“I— “ Suddenly flustered, Martin’s voice dips into a defensive tone. “I thought staring at you while you ate would be rude, Jon.”

\---

"Oh, well, you've been rude all day, why stop now?" Jon asks, and each word is layered in humor, he's joking, but his jokes are always spoken so flat.

\---

“Forgive me for wanting to end the day on your good side,” Martin returns waspishly, but he’s tugging Jon’s hand gently along and away from the bar.

\---

Jon laughs after him, and maybe he should have let Martin finish that statement, because now he's just ornery. It'll work out, though; he'd planned for them to not get too much work done their first day anyways, as they settled in. He can have fun. Even if he's spent most of the day thus far very much not having fun.

\---

Martin does some quick processing as they walk, thankful that his brief feeding offsets the alcohol that might be making his head spin and his gait unsteady right about now. A unique kind of crossfaded. “I think it’s a-a different kind of pressure,” he starts as they’re nearing the elevator, “You know, like - like you can analyze my poetry as an academic. That’s— I mean, it’s horrifying. But I like it?”

\---

"But I like your poetry," Jon says after him, and cocks his head. "Why would I-- you want me to?"

\---

"I don't know yet," Martin admits. "I think I think the aesthetics of academia are - are more attractive than what it's actually like. Maybe. I'd imagine if you - you built up a curriculum, you would have a very - um - interesting paranormal history class. Not - not bad interesting."

\---

Jon cocks his head. He's a bit adrift and it takes him a second to wrap his mind around what's happening. "Are you-- are you fantasizing about me being a professor?"

\---

Martin waits until they're fully in the elevator, alone, with the doors shutting around them before he squeaks out a skittish "Maybe."

\---

Jon looks at him for a beat. And then bursts into laughter, nearly curling over himself. Not at the fantasy itself, but the-- the absolute preposterous image of him actually teaching. Sure, he puts on the affectations sometimes. Maybe a little too hard, all things considered. But. "Martin, the most I've done is TA. And I was _ not  _ good. I'm a horrible teacher."

\---

Martin tightens his grip on Jon's hand as he listens to him laugh, but it's not like tensing up. He's not stressed in that way. "You were also a lesbian. Things change."

It falls out before he knows what he's saying, and he blinks as he very, very briefly wonders if that's okay to say. Probably. "I think it's different if you're... um... If you're m-mine?"

\---

Jon blinks at the first statement, and he's gearing up to say something very sharp in return, when Martin continues and completely derails Jon's very clever remark about the necessitation of degrees for teaching, and the absence of one to make out with women.

But he doesn't say it, because he's squinting at Martin again, and he feels so utterly out of his depth, because nothing he just said makes any sense. "I-- you. It would be a lot of work to, um, set up a curriculum, and-- what would I even teach you? Martin? I don't have time to learn this?"

\---

The elevator opens, and Martin stares at Jon in utter disbelief before taking a few steps forward. "Jon." His voice nearly cracks, so he takes a second to compose himself. "I had-- I had this revelation because you already h-have. S-sort of. Reading statements. P-plotting together. Telling me how to do things right, what - what not to do." 

His blush is spreading and this is all very new, as far as personal disclosure both to himself and to Jon goes.

\---

"I- I mean. I suppose. I guess. Why are you blushing? It's just-- teaching? I'm." He pauses, and squints again at Martin and then his eyes go wide, and he, too, flushes. "Are you. You."

The elevator closes behind them. Jon whines, " _ Martiiiiin _ . Just explain yourself. Please?"

\---

"I'm trying," Martin whines back, every ounce of him thrumming with nervous energy. "You-- It makes sense, I just never r-really thought about it like that. You know how a-a long time ago you did that-- that serious, um, voice I really liked and that's the first day we kissed, wasn't it, I'm just... fantasizing. That's all. About... you. Rules? O-orders.  _ Jon _ I'm so sorry."

\---

"You want me to order you around?!" Jon asks, kind of incredulous, and then it pops out, "I already do that. I mean. Not like that, but. Oh my God, Martin."

\---

"You asked me to explain Jon you're not helping." It might as well be one long word for how he says it, because Jon's really not. He doesn't want to stutter through this, he already is, and he's never consciously questioned this before. "I don't know if I like it because w-we haven't... done that. A-and then that day I almost killed Tim with a strip of wood and then we set up the furniture and you said - you said  _ 'Easy' _ and I thought, _ 'wow, okay! _ ' but you didn't mean it that way... um." They're in front of the door now, and Martin wants to turn invisible. "I think it's all related."

\---

"... I see." Jon says, and opens the door with the card, sliding past Martin's frame to do so. It's probably not.... The best response, but he's rather at a loss of words entirely right now. And he needs to think. And process that.

Because his first impulse is to decry the notion outright. It's to think of how easy it is, sometimes, to just tell Martin what to do, how much it pleases him that he responds. And well, Jon is just bossy and demanding, but--

But he's right. That day, with the voice, and how when they're intimate, how much pleasure pools in him when he takes control. He likes it when Martin does, needs that, he thinks, but he'd taken that as a given. Of course he'd like Martin to take action, take control, treat him nice. He just didn't anticipate liking to take care of Martin in this way.

Jon kicks off his shoes and immediately climbs into the bed, blinking widely at Martin. Takes his glasses off, even, because they haven't been focusing his vision right lately at all.

\---

Those two words hang ominous and paralyzing in the air for Martin to the point that he's hardly moved at all by the time Jon's settled at the bed. Both his own hands wring together behind his back, as if sparing Jon from his fidgeting is somehow important. 

Standing there awkwardly, not sure where they stand right now, he finally pipes up. "I-- Am I invited?"

\---

"Martin," Jon starts, and it's exasperated, and worried, and full of so much. "You're always invited."

\---

"Right. Right." Martin nods through the first word and moves on the second, leaving his own shoes behind to sit on his knees on the bed next to Jon. Their only point of contact is one of his hands barely present next to Jon's side. "This-- This isn't about me thinking something you do is attractive, is it? You sound-- I don't know. Uncomfortable?"

\---

"You-- Martin." He looks away. "You have to-- even when I dated I don't really think. I've never felt attractive before. You're the first-- first person I believe who finds me attractive. So it just--" He puts his hand on Martin's knee. "It just takes a bit to think about. Yeah?"

\---

“Oh.” It’s a sigh, one of relief and understanding and somehow frustration, too, because— Well, Jon should feel attractive, because he is, but Martin’s somehow glad, in this terribly attached way, that he’s the one who noticed. The one to make Jon feel something he’s never felt. The first person. Big title, isn’t it? 

He doesn’t want Jon to feel unwanted. Not by anyone. To deal with that, deal with how being unwanted destroys a part of yourself that deserves to live. It’s... complicated. While Jon’s never felt attractive, Martin’s never been  _ attracted _ , to anyone beyond surface level. Physicality. 

He’s never gotten to the point where he gets to play around. 

Martin stops having the drunken face journeys alone on his side of the bed and elects to have another one into Jon’s eyes. For all the deep internal dialogue, nothing much has changed outwardly. “Well, I mean, you just are. I’m not— It’s not a complaint, but, you know, when I’m not around you I still think about you, and I can be very creative. On accident, usually. Um. You can think about it now, if you want?”

Wonderful job, Martin.

\---

Jon watches him for a while and then takes Martin by the shoulder and pulls, making both of them lay down on the bed, facing one another. "Okay," He says, and then he says it again. "Okay."

It's just so novel. And it fills him with something he's never felt that Martin thinks of him, is thinking of him, wants to think about him.

Then he squints, picking up on the wording. "What do you think about?"

\---

Martin hits the bed before he has time to question it, making a vague noise of half-protest as the side of his head meets the nearest pillow.

Martin doesn't really have much choice in not looking at Jon through this. It makes him humble. 

"Well-- That, for starters. The, um, the professor... thing. I-I think about-- It depends on-- On what's going on, where I... where I am. Jon, this is embarrassing."

\---

"I want to know. I want --" He sucks in a breath, and makes the revelation that he likes this. Likes that Martin thinks of him. Fantasizes about him. "It's not embarrassing. I like it."

\---

"I like when you order me around, it's sort of - sort of fun, w-when I know I can just not listen, but I want to, for you, um. It's-- It's like a game? I think? Since I obviously know you... you care about me. Most of them are just vague s-scenarios, usually you're just-- You're kind of-- " Martin's face is hot, and he doesn't feel very sexy admitting what are essentially just non-admissions, he's never had to talk about this before. Not with someone he likes. 

He barely avoids a voice crack as he finishes. "-- In charge."

\---

"Huh." Jon says, and keeps watching him, curiosity and a smile gracing his features.

He's never had someone who liked him in charge. Quite the opposite really. The thought doesn't leave him with the same kind of revulsion that most sexual concepts do. Nervousness, sure, but less of an abject negative response. Curious.

So he tests the waters, and leans forward, enough that he can take Martin's cheek in his hand, and he says, lowly, "I am in charge." Pause, in case this isn't where Martin wants to go. "Usually." It's a test, and it has all the nervous tremors in it borne of being unsure. But he's trying.

\---

Martin's not sure it's possible for his blush to grow any wider, but his smile can, and it does. He finds his voice, too, not so much growing in confidence as giving encouragement. "I know." 

His hand reaches Jon's side, sliding his thumb comfortingly over his hipbone. He feels that, with four words, Jon's broken an emotional barrier that's separated them from one another all day. Given them a chance to forget about - about everything else.

\---

Jon's expression sobers some; this is a strange conversation, and he wants to level out his own curiosity into understanding. "I don't want-- I'm not like. A bitch about it, though. Am I?"

\---

Martin snorts out a laugh in surprise, squeezing his hand at Jon's side on reflex. "What-- In my fantasies, or in practice? I-- Either way, I don't think the answer is yes, unless you want to be, for - for fun, but I don't think-- You're not when you've done it before."

\---

"Okay, good," He says it fast, all in one breath like a sigh of relief. "I just know what's going on usually. Is all. That's why I'm-- bossy." He thinks. He's pretty sure he's being stupid and psyching himself out now.

\---

"You do know, that's sort of exactly why it works." Martin tilts his head up best he can against Jon's hand on his cheek, but the angle doesn't give him much to work with. So he settles for keeping his focus on Jon himself. His tone is playful, a little nervous, and what he ends up saying really is just... a testament to their whole relationship, isn't it? "Boss me around."

\---

"Okay." It's permission granted. He brushes his thumb along Martin's cheek, and then squints. "I don't know what to boss you around about. At least.... At least right now. Too tired. You've not given me a reason to boss you around. We're not doing anything."

\---

“You could keep lecturing me about how I shouldn’t chat with random strangers until they open up about their deepest fears,” Martin says with a short laugh. “Sorry, that was— Bad joke.“ 

His hand at Jon’s side slides up to his ribs, up under his shirt. He’s not completely sure, but judging by how warm his skin is, he’s pretty sure his own hands are cold. Sorry, Jon.

\---

Jon gives him an acidic look and doesn't deign it with an answer. It  _ was _ a bad joke, and he hates that it still makes him laugh a little, his sides shaking in the repressed sound. Martin is cold, though, and the laugh falls out anyways, higher pitched and frantic in shock. "Maaaartin," He says, and wiggles like he's trying to get Martin to move.

\---

Maybe he wouldn't be so bold at any other point in his life, but right now he's doing quite a few things he usually wouldn't dream of pulling off in reality, so. Martin uses the hand at Jon's side to nudge him onto his back enough that he can use the weight of one palm on the mattress to hold himself just over Jon. They're chest-to-chest, but he's bearing most of his own weight on his hand instead of his body.

"Jon," he says, like he has no clue what he's doing, and moves his fingers higher up his ribs and back down, barely touching.

\---

Jon lets him, because Jon is under the impression that Martin is about to be nice, and sweet, and romantic, and kiss it all better, and so he blinks dumbly and with expectation up at him. For all of two second it seems. He barely gets out the first syllable of Martin's name in response before he's being _ tickled _ , and all thoughts fly out of his head. 

He's a very ticklish man. Martin already knows, has already played this trick on him before, but Jon always forgets until he's holding back laughter and trying to wiggle away, his legs looping over the back of Martin to try and get him to stop. " _ Ohmygodknockitoff, _ " is all he manages to gasp, because if he keeps his mouth open any longer, he's going to laugh, and then Martin will just tickle him harder, and he'll squeal, and he'll actually, probably, die.

\---

Martin sits up slightly so he can freely use both hands, resting his forehead against Jon's. His other hand joins the first on the opposite side, initially not doing anything specific to set him off-- Mostly so Jon doesn't get to jolt away on either side. 

"Or  _ what?" _

\---

"Or-- Or nothing, oh my god, Martin, I think you're evil." And yet he doesn't Really try and leave. He likes it when Martin's this close. Maybe he  _ is _ a madman; there’s no reason not to try and squirm away, but he’s taking in Martin’s everything, and his body is a livewire and he  _ doesn’t _ , because he’s stupid. 

\---

"Nothing? Oh-- Right, right, Jonathan Sims, man of initiative," Martin starts, taking a moment to feel the fabric of Jon's shirt against the backs of his hands, "Would sit back and do nothing while I tortured him." He squeezes the soft part of Jon's sides below his ribs as he finishes. Maybe he is evil.

\---

_ "Stooooop _ , Martinnnn." There must be something wrong with him, because he probably would just let Martin do whatever he wanted with him. What a strange revelation. It kind of sobers up his face for a moment, enough so that he's not even really feeling the way Martin runs his fingers down him. Martin has so swiftly become his reason for... Everything. Wonder what that says about him.

\---

"Not very convincing," Martin breathes smugly, just inches away from his mouth. He's loving the contact, the lack of thought outside the moment they're sharing, every movement and sound and just everything Jon is doing, has done, maybe even will do... He doesn't think he's evil, certainly, not when it comes to their relationship, but Jon's absolutely changed him. 

Given him a purpose, really. Not in the sad, depressing way where he'd needed someone to throw him into anything that gave his useless life worth. Maybe a little. Not entirely, though. Applied purpose. Martin's always known he had one somewhere. Right now, it just happens to be doubling down on his efforts without restraint, determined to hear more of that easy laughter he can't get enough of, the kind he's causing with his hands finding whichever spots they can at Jon's sides that draw more from him.

\---

The tickling rises in intensity, and Jon's slowly losing composure. Okay, not slowly. His laughter gets higher, and his attempts to instinctively pull away get more frantic, but Martin's keeping him penned in here, and he's in love with this man, so very, very in love, but he certainly hates him in this moment. 

Still. He's going to let Martin have his fun, until he runs his hands down his ribs in a way that make something akin to a laughing shriek burst from his lips, a sound he absolutely hasn't made before, and it's mortifying, so mortifying, and he slaps his mouth shut. 

And Martin's still going. 

He's nothing but base instinct. Nothing but pure reaction, and he doesn't mean to compel it, doesn't mean to pull from the depths of his belly a demand so full of authority it will hurt to ignore it. His voice is shaky, but it's firm, and the air shimmers, and the words taste like iron shackles. 

" _ Get off the bed right now, Martin _ ."

\---

Martin's about to give up, he really is. He's gotten plenty out of him and being this close is too good to let go to waste. Kiss it better, make amends all over again, smooth over the mischief with something that's more of a dialogue than a silly, childish display of affection. His mouth is right there, after all.

His breath chokes off just short of Jon's mouth, hands halting stiffly mid-motion as static fills his ears so deep he doesn't hear it except as a vibration settling deep into his brain to shoot violently down his spine. He only has time to shiver, one tiny piece of his mind in control enough to focus on what Jon's actually saying and  _ like it _ , before a static radio signal takes over his every muscle. He's pulling away from Jon, trying to brace himself on the edge of the bed, miscalculating the distance in the vertigo. It's clumsy, unfocused outside of a single-point focus, and he plants one hand with all his weight intended to rest behind it into thin air. 

Naturally, he ends up on the floor to one side of the bed. The impact makes him dizzy, and he knows on some conscious level he's not really hurt. Somehow he's still laughing, despite the profound confusion still wracking his brain.

\---

Jon immediately sits up and claps a hand over his mouth, wide eyed and scared in a way that comes on so suddenly it leaves tremors running through his skin.

He didn't think he could do that yet. And he really, really hadn't intended to.

"Are you-- Oh, God. Martin?"

\---

Martin blinks open his eyes a few times in quick succession, thankful that it clears the last bright bursts of compulsion clouding his mind. 

He finds Jon sitting up with genuine horror, and he doesn't like that one bit. Martin rolls squarely onto his back, and he's still giggling. "I take back-- What I said, about convincing. Wow, what was that?" He's not really alarmed, or concerned beyond a preoccupation with alleviating Jon's own, content to recover from the breathless jumpstart into action. That might have to do with his current level of sobriety, but he's clear-headed enough to know that wasn't natural. Obviously. He'd have to be completely insane to not think so.

\---

"The-- Uh. It's. I just. I compelled you. I... I'm so, so, sorry." This isn't just a truth-compelling. This is something  _ deep _ , blood-rich and powerful and forced, and he's only done it to a few people before, and each time he had been far, far too angry to care. He'd had a hard time caring about much more than his own missions, then. Everyone around him made it all the easier to do. 

Now, though? He can't believe he just did that. Didn't even think about it. It just Happened. And Martin's on the floor laughing like he doesn't realize what Jon just did.

\---

"It's okay, I-- " Martin inhales sharply as he sits up, aiming a lopsided smile in Jon's direction. "I deserved that. Can I... " He realizes too late that he's dizzy, shutting his eyes against it until it goes away. Internally he hasn't had much time to process. It's like hitting your elbow in front of a group of people where the pain flies up your arm but you're just numb to it, because there's people, and you're being watched, and you laugh, and it makes it... go away. "...Do I have permission to get back on the bed, Si-- Sims?" 

Well, this has made him weird. Or was he already like that? Eh, most likely both.

\---

Oh. The way he's said his name has something deep in his belly flaring up, but it also kind of feels like nausea and anxiety, and wait. Wait. 

Jon sits up a little straighter, and slowly lowers the hands from his mouth and squints at Martin. He's not taking this seriously at all. He's being-- Was this sexy to him? Oh god. He has about two seconds to process the fact that he's about to panic before it hits, and he starts to scramble off the bed. 

"No." He says, and then flees to the bathroom and locks the door.

\---

"J--"

Oh, Christ, what just happened? He was trying to lighten the mood. Jon.  _ Jon come back it was a joke _ . He even fixed what he was going to say because it felt like laying it on too thick. Martin calls out Jon's name, and it comes out mostly intact, and he's gotten himself upright enough to rest his elbows on the bed. He covers his face, finds it several degrees warmer than his palms, and tries to quell the growing panic in his own mind. "I'm so sorry. It w-was a joke. Jon." 

He sounds so pitiful whining his name out like that, but he's not about to go and back Jon into a corner in the fucking bathroom.

\---

"It's not the joke, Martin," Jon whines through the door, and then he clamps his mouth shut and leans over the sink and pukes up all the alcohol and food he  _ Just _ put in there, and it's disgusting, but at least for a second his brain shuts up and focuses on the awful, bodily heaving, and then he dry heaves some more after there's nothing more left in his belly.

He runs the tap and slides down the cabinet below the sink and curls over himself, knees to his face and cradling the back of his head with his hands, and he's terrified. Thoughts swirl and linger and manifest as clouds, and he thinks of Annabelle Crane, and he thinks of the Stranger, and he thinks of himself and what this means, and he's never given himself the space to run through the implications of what he can do, but it makes sense doesn't it?  _ Doesn't it?  _

The Ceaseless Watcher, categorizer, Silent Judgement in the most Foucault way, and of course it would include control. Of course. And Martin was laughing, and joking, and thought it was okay, and what if Jon did that to him? What if Jon forced his will into Martin's brain and has changed him. Permanently. Would Martin be okay with any of this if he hadn't hand-fed him statements and all but--

Fuck. Martin even said it himself. Jon taught him this. Jon molded and built Martin like wet clay, and now he's messing with his mind, and oh God. Oh God.

\---

Martin waits, giving Jon the space he thinks he needs to take a breather. He perks up at Jon's voice through the door, ready to engage... until all at once, with a sound that sends him briefly back to a bar several months in the past, any sense of comfort left within him turns to ash in the wind. Martin immediately pushes up with both hands from the edge of the bed and to his feet, rushing however quickly he can without adding any more fear.

He hesitates at the door, wills himself to stay still and not pace. "Jon, please. You don't have to open the door. I just--" He's stuck between accommodating every need Jon could possibly have and needing him there, but he can't have either. He doesn't finish whatever stupid sentence he was about to shove in Jon's direction.

\---

"No," Jon says, and his voice is thick and scratchy and muffled from his arms. He almost leaves it at that, but he continues, because he's stupid. "You should hate me. You really shouldn't be laughing."

\---

Martin stares down at the gap separating the door from the floor as Jon's voice passes through it, trying to soak in anything he gives him. Once he's had a few seconds to think about it, as clearly as he can, he feels like-- Like he's not at the right height. He lowers his own body to the floor outside, pressing his back to the wall beside the door.

"You..." He's not frustrated. Exasperated, a little, but not at Jon. His voice is soft, serious. Not stern. "You say that, but you - you never had someone to talk this through with, the first time, when-- " When you were alone. "When you... Jon, I'm here for you. I'm sorry I laughed. I didn't-- I didn't know it was like that. But you can't tell me I should hate you."

\---

"You should. I'm turning you into a monster, and I'm treating you like this. It's not fair. It's not." He feels tears well up in his eyes, and he sniffs. "I'm so selfish."

\---

"You're not the only person deciding what I should and shouldn't do, Jon. O-or feel. I'm-- I wouldn't be here if I-- You're not-- You're not treating me-- " 

He stops, because he can tell Jon's about to cry, and he desperately wants to comfort him as much as he desperately wants to not cry, either. He's noticing how tense his shoulders are, and he doesn't bother relaxing before he speaks.  _ "Stop it. _ You're not turning me into a monster, Jon. You should ask me what I think before you decide all these things a-are true. In your head. It doesn't give me a chance to help, to - to say anything."

\---

"You don't know how it's going to end." Jon all but snaps, and he's angry, so angry at himself and he's kind of angry at Martin, too, but that's not fair, so he's just getting more angry at himself.

He lifts his head from his knees and uncurls, wiping at his eyes furiously. He won't cry.

\---

Martin does snap, his voice taut and sharp. "No, Jon. You don't know how it ended then, and you don't know now, and you can't predict this, any of this, because this is our world. Not where you came from. We're changing it, together, and at this point I know - I know as much as you do, and we're still learning more. I-I-- " He softens up, forces down his own tears, because he is frustrated now. "I love you."

\---

"I-- I love you too. I. I'm sorry." His mouth tastes tacky, acidic, and his chest feels thick with unshed tears. "I'm just--"

He lets out a shaking breath. "I'm just. So scared. All the time. And I've always been scared. But it's harder, because now I'm scared for someone, too. It's. Not just about me. It was easier when it was just me I was ruining."

\---

"You're not ruining me, Jon. You're not ruining you, either. I-I'm not ruined, I'm a person. I didn't feel like one, and now... I do." Martin sighs, tilting his head up so the back of his skull hits the wall and closing his eyes. "We're a team."

\---

He's quiet for a long time, and the silence through the door is echoing, vast in its space. The only sound is the running tap. Eventually, he breaks it, and says, "Your optimism always surprises me," He says, and slowly leans forward to unlock the door, sitting back roughly on the ground.

\---

"I hope some day it doesn't." Martin sniffles, and doesn't immediately move when the door clicks. He rises slowly, not asking Jon whether he can come in, because he's doing that. He's decided that. 

Jon is on the floor, and Martin follows. Not because he has to, not because he's compelled to. Because reaching over to stop the tap is what he wants to do. Because easing himself down to brush shoulders with Jon on the tile without another word is something that comforts him.

\---

Jon rests his head back into his arm again, forearm splayed over his knee and forehead digging into the meat near his elbow. It hurts, because the scars are still fresh, but it helps from keeping him breaking down entirely.

He lets Martin come near but he doesn't say anything. How can he? He's said enough.

\---

Martin doesn’t force him to do anything but exist. Now that he’s been let in, he’s determined to make the most of however he believes might bring Jon to a place where he’ll actively accept comfort. 

One of Martin’s hands moves to run over Jon’s back, rhythmic and predictable. He speaks evenly, and somehow he’s not surprised that he’s able to. “ _ Yearling wolves meet fields of daisies, winter shock survived, uneasy— Living, earning being lazy.” _

He’s not watching for Jon’s reactions as he looks forward. Not petrified of judgment. He thinks to ask if he’s allowed to keep going, but he’s done asking questions for now. He wants Jon to come back because he wants to engage.

\---

Jon goes still when Martin begins to speak, a subtle jump in his skin that's nearly a flinch but not quite. But he's lulled almost immediately; the intonation, the movement. This isn't something to be scared of.

He's no yearling wolf, but he's content, happy even, to indulge in the fantasy of it for a moment. Nothing too solid, nothing too deep; realistic fantasies are painful, especially ones he knows are unattainable.

But Martin's voice is soft, and the verse is sweet, and Jon lifts his head slightly, just enough for his eyes to peek over his arm and look at Martin.

\---

Without looking, the subtle sound of fabric shifting and muscles working beneath his hand tell him Jon’s perked up a bit. Martin stays fixed at the wall. He won’t screw this up. Won’t stutter. 

_ “They do not ask the cosmos if they have a right to take this space. Taking what they know, with wisdom, carefully excised, from earth’s sharp and soft embrace,” _ he pauses, unsure if he’s too on-the-nose with this one. He thinks Jon might not care.  _ “The stars, as blinking eyes, merely watchers on the lives.” _

He’s not done, he thinks he still has one part left in him, but as valiantly as he’s fought off the nerves you can’t quite permanently will away performance anxiety in thirty seconds.

\---

Jon really does love Martin's optimism. He wasn't lying when he said it surprised him, but it's not a bad thing. It's comforting. Martin, for all that he is, looks for and chooses to see hope, and goodness in people. Manipulates the perspective to something less.... Horrifyingly depressing.

He loves it, because he can't do it. Cynicism has always run thick as blood through his veins; even as a believer in the supernatural, paranoid skepticism is his primary weapon of choice.

Martin's poetry is so beautiful. It lilts, and fills Jon's ears, and it lulls him, a bull placated. A dragon slept. A wolf switching its howl to match that of its partner. His smile is small, but it's genuine where he rests on his arm, and he's swaying slightly.

\---

Martin can’t help but laugh, just a little, at his own nerves. It’s not like he speaks his own poetry into life very often, except maybe when he’s alone, but that happens far less often now. 

“ _ — Of yearling wolves, with wit, and humor, who love for just the sake of loving… Have not just eyes, to pierce the night, _ ” He tilts his head to kiss Jon’s temple. “ _ But with their maws, a voice. To speak of wonders— Joys felt beyond sight.”  _

And near-instantly, he’s flooded with heated embarrassment.

\---

"I love you," Jon says and his tone is juxtaposed against the way his voice scratches and grits, the way the bathroom smells of stomach acid and pain, the way he doesn't, and probably will never, believe in anything as much as Martin does. But it's okay, maybe. It's alright to be made up of juxtapositions. It makes everything all the more fluid. All the more likely for one of those rare happy endings to slip in under the floorboards and make a home within them.

"I'm--" It's almost a sorry. He cuts himself off with a huff that's almost a growl, and instead says, "You're right. I shouldn't just assume what you're feeling."

\---

“This is all new for me. I’m still— I’m learning how to tell you the truth. Not - not like I’ve been lying, but I don’t always have the - the words.”

Martin pulls back to look at him properly, smiling despite his embarrassment. “I couldn’t be half as hard on you as you are on yourself. In your head. Maybe someday I’ll— Maybe someday we’ll be able to show each other how we really look.”

\---

"Maybe." He thinks of the moment in the bar, today, the oppressive, inky black torrential downpour threatening to push down onto Martin's victim's back. He almost says something about it, but banishes it. No more cynicism today. It was a one-time occurence. A trick on his eyes.

So he talks about something related, but not quite the same. "I think my eyesight is getting better. My glasses... The prescription is wrong. I see better without them."

\---

“I don’t know enough about prescriptions to help, there. Really, I think mine’s getting worse.”

His smile drops for half a second, thinking over how that might sound. It comes back quickly, once he’s thought it through. “And before you - you start, you don’t have eye powers sapping my vision into yours. I’m just stubborn about getting checked.”

\---

Jon manages to glare at Martin, but it's weak and without any malice. "I wasn't thinking that. You ass." He pauses. "We can set up an appointment for you once we're in the land of free Healthcare again."

\---

“Fine,” Martin sighs petulantly, and squeezes Jon once with a hand before standing up. He extends it again as an offering. “Let me— Let me know what you need, okay?”

\---

Jon slowly takes it and grunts as he stands, swaying a little from the lightheadedness that fills him. Empty stomach will do that. Ugh. "I'll just. Clean up, and-- erm, honestly, I could probably use a nap."

\---

“Probably. I think we both need that. A nap.”

He doesn’t ask to join, it’s their bed, but he does pause to give Jon a chance to articulate anything else he wants to say.

\---

It probably shouldn't be easy to push everything that had been bubbling up back down. But it is, especially now that they've got something resembling a schedule. He sways slightly and blinks, and carefully pushes it all deep into the dirt of his mind, buried. He steadies himself against the doorframe. "And then-- statements and research. I'm Hungry."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments are loved and appreciated~! We hope you're enjoying the beginnings of the America arc; things are about to get very, very intense. ;)
> 
> -Michael.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys kidnap a ghost.

Martin double-laces his boots in the dark, teeth clamped down on a portable flashlight aimed down so he can see what he’s doing. The hilarity of it - an unfulfilled action on the floor of a safe room now realized - is lost on him with how preoccupied his mind is. He’s honed in on the mission at hand as if his life depends on it. That might be true, all things considered, but he doubts he’s getting shot by a security guard for attempting a break-in at the evidence storage of a local police station.

A special sort of calm has overtaken him, overtaken  _ Jon  _ if their mutual silence is anything to judge by, and as he stands up he finds his own movements calculated and silent in the space between the empty station lot and the alley beside it. It feels  _ good _ . To do this with Jon, to communicate in gestures and touches without much of a sound at all. They’d parked the car a good distance away, had scoped out a way back that wasn’t painfully obvious through a hole in a chain link fence that winded through an abandoned, overgrown lot. 

It was all rather thorough for such a stupidly simple job. But to Martin it’s serious. Checking shadows and glancing over his shoulder is a form of meditation with instant reward every time: a sense of safety reaffirmed. They’ve got this. 

The past few days had been far less tumultuous than the first, though not without their own unique hurdles. The morning after the first day, Martin had ordered room service for a Jon that had slept hours upon hours past a nap. He’d also intercepted it before they found the door and told them the truth: Jon was asleep, and he didn’t want the knock to jolt him out of it. Martin had taken the food in himself, and had set about trying to amend things in the way he imagines healthy, well-adjusted adults do.

They planned, they researched, and through it all Martin grew more and more protective. Everything in America is new for him. The sounds, the sights, the people, places, everything about it kept Jon a magnetizing presence that kept him close beyond love. He felt inseparable despite the numerous times they’d split off to work on their own agendas. But that’s the thing, really, their agendas were just as-- if not more-- inseparable. They were working towards the same end, here. A bit of physical distance didn’t make him feel that far away, only because he knew what they were both doing to… some extent.

With no shortage of miscommunications, confessions, confusion, they grew ever closer. 

Now, they’re here.

Martin positions himself beneath the window they’ve chosen for their wayward book rescue, throwing a look to Jon that might be a smile. And then he laces the fingers of both hands into a stable surface so Jon can step up with one foot and reach.

\---

Jon has never, really, had an accomplice before. Under the cover of darkness, this feels profound. America, the first time he'd been, had been a lonely, isolating experience, the only thing keeping him going the preternatural hunger to stop the Unknowing.

It's different, now. The Unknowing is a non-issue, to an extent, their goal is to save someone, not hunt for information, and Jon has Martin.

Martin, who somehow manages to pull him out of every dark and oppressive thought, who balances and protects and lightens and heals, even as the two of them descend further and further into the Eye's grasp.

And he'd been oh-so very amusing when Jon had listed the break-ins he's done over the years, levity broken in the middle of research.

Now, it's with no hesitation that he climbs up onto Martin's hands, and hopes he's light enough not to hurt him. For a police station precinct, it's terrifyingly easy to break into the locks; he'd been worried about security measures, with the big bad cops of America. Seems it's unfounded. At least for this sleepy precinct.

Jon almost loses his balance when he huffs out a silent laugh; something so very, deeply funny about a book this powerful being left in such a dump like this. "Almost," He whispers down to Martin, and keeps his hands steady as he gets the lock broken.

\---

Martin stabilizes Jon's legs on either shoulder, oblivious and uncaring to the dirty shoe prints he's leaving behind on Martin's coat. Jon's not too heavy, and he can hold a pretty decent amount of weight if it's balanced, anyway. Facing away from the wall, Martin gets to keep an eye on their surroundings with the same dedicated focus, and it's a comfortable place to be despite the circumstance.

Cops-- the threat of getting caught trespassing-- don't feel like a threat at all. They aren't, not the same way an _ apocalypse _ is. That's one of the perks about his growth around Jon. Things that used to scare him and send him into fits of anxious paralysis mean nothing to him now. Now all that matters is the silent excitement at Jon's voice above him. All that matters is giving one of Jon's ankles an encouraging squeeze. All that matters is he has faith in Jon about this. All of this. Even when Jon has no faith in himself.

He shuts his eyes for a few sustained seconds. Just listens for the first sign that Jon's made it in, ready for the satisfaction it'll bring them both the instant it does.

\---

He lets out an excited and relieved sigh when he finally wrenches the locks open, and starts to slide the window upwards. It's a bit... Well. Rudimentary, at best, but it'll do the job.

At most, he's hoping some bored cop will realize their lock is broken months down the line. And who's going to miss a dusty book that's been sitting for nearly two years?

Not that they  _ know _ it's here, but there's a rising tumultuous feeling in Jon's gut that it  _ is _ . Better than nothing. Better to start here than tracking down two deranged Hunters and hoping for the best.

He leans forward as much as he can while still balancing on Martin, looking inside the window frame to see what he's working with. It's a small room, unlit and full of shelves and labels and well, it's got to be the right room.

"Can you lift me higher?" He asks, because he needs just a few more inches of clearance to scrabble into the window's frame.

\---

Martin sighs in tandem with Jon's own noise, opening his eyes into the dark with a supportive grin he can only hope Jon feels up there.

It's easy to comply. Martin straightens up, not realizing he'd been bending a bit to support Jon's weight. He plants his feet more firmly on the concrete, and it  _ does _ make a difference. "That good?"

\---

Jon just hums in response and starts climbing. He's not  _ the _ most agile or strong man in the world, but he's always been strangely adept at climbing into weird spaces. He's just older now. And his knees creak a little. But he manages it, and takes a break once he's in the window, shifting to turn and give Martin a small smile.

"Wish me luck."

\---

Martin almost tells him he doesn't need it, but that's not as helpful. His response is a look upward, his whisper just loud enough to carry up to the window. "Good luck, Jon."

He sets his own motionless patrol up outside, figuring Jon will find something to climb back over once he's found what they're looking for. He's good for that. Martin never loves it any less than he did the first time he learned any of this about him.

\---

It takes him a while to clamber down into the room, but once he does, he makes quick work of orienting himself fully and comes up with a plan for searching.

The thing is, it's unnecessary. It's so damn _ easy. _ He's drawn to a shelf immediately, something sharp in his eyes and heavy in the atmosphere and as natural as the marrow of his bones. Blood electric.

Good thing, too, considering by the time Jon rushes over and pulls through bags of evidence, weapons and phones and the like, he finds it nestled far in the back of a storage container, clearly long forgotten. The storage container has cobwebs from where it sits against the wall, and Jon grimaces as he opens it. He's wearing gloves, of course he is, he'd rather not have  _ another _ warrant for his arrest, but it's still gross.

But the book is there. And what should be  _ gross _ to him about a book bound entirely in human skin is lost on him for want of  _ relief,  _ and excitement, and hunger, so much hunger. What a book. It's more than just Gerard. It's more than just it being a Leitner. The magic, the knowledge of this, it curls deep in him, and he knows it's Right for him to be the carrier of this knowledge.

He grabs it, closes the container and turns around, crossing the small room and saying as loud as he dares-- not much--, "Got it, Martin!"

\--

Martin stands with his head mostly empty for as long as Jon takes. Much nicer to work with sounds and sights, not complicating things with all his messy thoughts. 

It’s like he’s activated from his own trance when Jon calls down, and he draws his attention back to the window. “Right— Drop it down, I’m ready!”

\---

Jon takes a few moments to figure out how to clamber up to the window again, pushing a table as quietly as he can do the wall. By the time his head peeks down through the window, his nose is wrinkled. "I'm not throwing it." He says, and starts to push himself onto the ledge, grunting. "Just catch me."

\---

“Fine. Go slow, straight down— I’ll get your sides.” He shoves the flashlight into one pocket so it faces up and gets both hands ready. He can’t help but imagine this as a crude bastardization of some fairytale. Oh, Rapunzel.

\---

There's a conflict. Jon doesn't want to throw the book, but he also needs both hands to do this. It's a small enough book-- maybe two inches thick-- and he makes a horrible decision. He slides the book between his teeth and braces himself up onto the window, elbows cocked on the sill. He twists around to slowly lower himself, his muscles straining.

\---

Luckily for all parties, the window isn’t that high. They might both be on the short side, but it’s not like he’s jumping down from several flights. They would’ve brought rope if the building was taller. 

Martin tries to support him how he can, and just when it seems like Jon’s struggling to hold up his own weight Martin gets both arms around him above the waist. He pulls back first before down-- the last thing he wants is to scrape up Jon’s elbows-- and quickly gets him to the ground. 

Once his hands are free, he grabs the flashlight again and trains the light on Jon’s face. He grimaces as soon as he makes the connection.

“You put that in your  _ mouth?” _

\---

"Well I wasn't going to  _ throw _ it," Jon says with derision after pulling the skin book from his mouth. He takes a moment to straighten up, uses a free hand to wipe at it, the book secured under his armpit. "That would be ridiculous."

\---

"I caught  _ you, _ didn't I?" All in good fun, though, Martin's not sure he wants to touch it anyway. 

Backing up a few steps, Martin finds the relative ease with which they pulled that off is somewhere between hilarious and sad. So much work for something this important. Buried in the depths of a depressing little police station, unread and unused and unwanted. This really gives him a lot of respect for America. Torturing books in solitary confinement. "We should go, they might have-- Silent alarms, maybe?"

\---

"Doubt it," Jon scoffs, but he starts walking forward anyways; he's excited now, and wants to get somewhere with light so he can _ read. _ So they can have this deed under their belt. He feels adrenaline fluttering high and active within him.

\---

Martin reaches out for one of Jon's hands, lacing their fingers together as he moves. He bypasses the side lot with cover, feeling confident that they really  _ can _ just walk out of here in plain sight and get away with it. "So, what's the plan? Do we-- Do we talk to him tonight? Um, we've spent so long  _ talking _ about just getting to this point. Past that, bit more vague, isn't it?"

\---

"Bit more vague," Jon repeats, and squeezes their hands. "We could-- I mean. I think I'll just expire in the hotel room if I don't sate my curiosity, you know."

\---

"I mean, you know he's not really  _ going _ anywhere, Jon," Martin teases. "He can't-- He can't hear us in there, can he?"

\---

Jon blinks and pulls it out from under his arm to look at the cover. "I-- I don't think so? I think he has to be Read, to be, erm, conscious? I don't really know how it works. Only spoken to him once."

\---

"Maybe by the end of the week we'll know something helpful? Ghosts. Real thing, huh." He sounds ridiculous, saying that, but mostly he's just struck dumb by the fact that they're walking out of evidence storage with this. Maybe they kept it around to freak new employees out, or something. Maybe they had drugs. 

Weird American drugs. Martin snorts to himself as they round the next block, knowing they'll be coming up to the car soon.

\---

_ "Hopefully, _ a ritual. And pray Michael isn't lying about knowing about the Watcher's Crown." Jon hopes so. As fun as this little holiday might be, he's getting sick of running around so damn aimlessly trying to decipher it all,  _ while _ still saving and preserving some sort of better future.

\---

"He's not. Why would he even know what it  _ is _ if it was completely random? I don't-- He's not lying about that. Maybe-- Did you ever ask... Gerard about the Crown? Anything like that?" 

Martin sees the car and picks up their pace a tad. He unlocks it with the keys at his belt, weirdly comforted by the lights flashing towards them.

\---

Jon has to hurry his steps to keep up with Martin, being practically pulled along. "He-- ah, not much. Gertrude knew of it, but he didn't. He--" Jon thinks, and pulls up the conversation from two years ago and two years in the future, squinting in the dark. "I think he mentioned he wasn't listening to her. Too busy beating up Jurgen Leitner."

\---

"Oh? He must be charming." Martin doesn't really say it with any specific tone-- Neither particularly interested nor disinterested. He separates from Jon once getting in the car necessitates it, and he opens his side of the door that still feels really,  _ really _ wrong to drive to climb in. "Anything we need to do to, er-- Plan? Throw him a party? Can-- He can't eat, right?"

\---

"I don't--  _ think _ so? I mean, he couldn't smoke cigarettes, I doubt that incorporeality extends kindly to  _ food,"  _ Jon says it while dipping into the car, and once he's seated, he holds the book to his chest and feels like for once the universe gave him something  _ easy. _ No kidnapping just to get scant information. Just doing a good deed.

"Mostly just want to convince him not to die. But. If he insists, at least we can put him out of his misery."

\---

“He can’t eat or smoke, of course he wants to die,” Martin jokes, but— Well, considering how guilty he feels for saying it about halfway through, it falls flat. 

He starts the navigation on his phone and braces both hands on the wheel. “What about... What about the other people in there?”

\---

"I..." Jon blinks. "I've never had the full book. Not longer than was necessary to take Gerard's page. I... Imagine they'd want to die, too. I suppose we could... Ask them."

\---

“I’d like to. Maybe some of them would like that. To be listened to. I’m assuming to land yourself in a skin book isn’t really a-a pleasant process.” 

Martin thinks as he drives, slow and careful and defensive. “So they can feel pain.”

\---

"I think it's more... The absence of pain? The absence of anything. Painful... Uh, existentially, to be like that. You're supposed to be gone, and yet you're not, and your final, uh, physical moment was one of having your skin flayed off."

\---

Is that worse? Existential questions to ask yourself as you drive like a senile grandpa on the road so you can concentrate on flipping your brain backwards for navigation. 

Martin makes a repulsed little noise. “Right. Um. Do you want to play music? I think maybe skin book conversation is on hold for now.”

\---

"Are you--" Oh God. What a question to ask  _ now.  _ Jon probably should have asked this ages ago. Not after his boyfriend watched him put dried human flesh between his teeth during a heist. "Martin, are you squeamish?"

\---

Martin taps the steering wheel idly, procrastinating the question. “I don’t... like...  _ skin? _ I-I’ll touch it. Just not - not now.”

\---

Jon shrugs. "Whatever you're comfortable with." Maybe once, a long time ago, he'd be a little more grossed out, too. Things change when you've held your own rib in your hand. When you've actively fed on the gruesome and gore to sustain yourself.

\---

Without music, Martin sits in the silence for a few minutes. Once they’ve made some distance, though, he pipes up again. “I’m not squeamish. Just - just so that’s out of the way. I think I have a-a pretty _ reasonable _ threshold.”

\---

Jon, who has taken to looking out the passenger window to avoid flipping through the book and accidentally summoning someone in their backseat, jerks when Martin speaks, and he drags his fingers through his hair to recoup. After a moment, he purses his lips slightly and says, "I mean. No doubt. It's not-- I think maybe  _ my _ threshold is the unreasonable one. On account of the whole not-hum--"

He cuts himself off. Martin doesn't like it when he talks about that. "On account of, uh, everything. Hard to be so grossed out when your lungs are filled with mud for days."

\---

“Or pull worms from your own flesh. Or your— “ Martin tenses momentarily, then adjusts and forces himself to relax. “ —Your partner’s. Jon, I-I know you said no to keeping a journal for you, but, um, you can talk to me. About that.  _ Mud, _ about...”

This pause draws out longer than he’d like it to, but it still makes it out. “Not being human, and everything.”

\---

"It all sounds so preposterous out loud. And sad. And you don't really.... You know, like it." Jon returns to looking out the window, because it's easier, and it gives him something to watch that isn't Martin's stiff features.

"And it's a lot, is the thing. All the--  _ things.  _ I've been touched by."

\---

“You never asked me if it was okay, to- to say it. You just assumed I don’t like it so much you can’t say it. O-out loud.”

Keeping his eyes fixed to the road, he’s not looking at Jon. Can’t see the way his pose reflects something that resonates within Martin, all too well. 

“You really think I can’t handle something that sounds preposterous? We just  _ stole _ a book of human skin from a police station in Pennsylvania to talk to a  _ dead person.” _

\---

Jon begins to drum his fingers on the surface of the book, thinking. He's quiet for a long time, the silence stretching between them like a physical presence of Jon's creation. Martin's right, of course. It's just hard. Hard to get over himself. Hard to admit it. Hard to acknowledge  _ this  _ encounter, specifically, for ways he still doesn't quite understand. He doesn't know why his mind pulls there, to the Buried, sometimes. Maybe because he willingly let it compel him. Maybe he's just drawn to it.

The Buried could probably stop him, even if other entities would have a harder time. The Eye can’t see him, there.

"You've read about the coffin." He cuts through the silence quietly. "I went into it." There. It doesn't sound so... Stupid, when he just says it outright and also doesn't elaborate.

\---

“I believe you,” Martin says with a smile intended to be comforting. “But it’s more about what happened  _ there, _ right?” 

He’s not certain this is appropriate driving conversation, but. If he gives Jon space to avoid it, he might, and then— Then it’s Martin’s fault, that he couldn’t get the words out.

\---

"'Forever Deep Below Creation'", Jon quotes himself. His grip on the book is suffocating. He hopes the ghosts can't feel it. "I saved who I set out to save. Don't know how long it took. Days, maybe. I-- I mean, I can only assume. I dream about it. And-- when I space out, sometimes."

\---

Martin nods as much as he can. “Yeah. I, uh— I get that, actually. Places that... They’re sort of the default place you go to when things are- are bad.”

He sighs, because he’s barely good at this when his focus isn’t drawn in separate directions. “Sorry. I don’t know if relating helps. I-I can’t  _ presume _ to know it’s like that, but, you know.”

\---

"It--" He's not sure if it helps either. He certainly doesn't like that Martin  _ can  _ relate. But. At least it's not just him that's gone to dark places. "I guess it does."

He pauses. Martin wants him to be open. To be honest, now. "It's, uh. Why I get-- a bit odd? You know? About my ribs. I removed two of them, when, um, well, I needed an anchor. Didn't work. Um. Someone else worked. But I got used to that feeling. They're back now."

\---

“What, that’s why you're sensitive? You’re probably just as ticklish with or without missing ribs.” 

Martin stops, turns to glance at Jon however long he can justify. “Wait— How’d you get them out?”

\---

"Uh. I. Had a favor with the Boneturner. He can, you know. Manipulate the body."

\---

Martin waits to reply, eyes wide in thought as he pulls into the lot to park. “Jon.” He finds their spot and turns the key until the engine shuts off, turning so he can face him. “Do you think something-- Someone like that could help? With Michael?”

\---

For a second, he assumes Martin is so utterly mad at him for going to Jared Hopworth, that he's lost the ability to drive. Oh, God. He's going to be lectured. He gears himself up defensively, taking a deep breath in. Truly, though-- he's done a lot worse than mess with Jared Hopworth. Even if that sacrifice was meaningless in the end, when it was Martin that pulled him out of the Buried. But still. Still, he's--

Oh. They're just in the lot to the hotel. And--

And Martin's voice hits, and it's not upset, it's  _ curious. _

"I-- I don't know." Jon says, and blinks, letting the thought run through his mind for a second. He forces his body to relax. "It-- would Jared Hopworth be able to manipulate  _ souls?" _

\---

Martin places a hand against the back of the passenger seat, a stand-in for Jon’s own back as they sit beside each other. 

“Is— I mean, it’s more his brains, than anything. If— I don’t know if souls are part of it. Do you think the Spiral still has it? Somewhere? The body.”

\---

"The-- I think it _ is _ the body. I think that's-- just what it's done to Shelley's body." He leans closer, his eyes narrowed in thought. “Maybe he could... Extract it. Put it somewhere else."

\---

“But he’s more than just a  _ body.  _ The doors. That’s the part of the Spiral that - that’s where it comes from, right? Michael’s body is an image, he’s not Michael under there. It’s just a template. Maybe that’s not really Shelley.”

Martin finds himself leaning closer as Jon does the same.

\---

"So. It-- Hm." Jon blinks a few times, his pupils moving wildly as he jumps from one thought to the next. "You think the real body could be... Somewhere in its guts? In the hallways? It could-- that's how it works sometimes."

His voice goes a little faster as he thinks out loud. "In Helen's statement. She found just the right mirror to escape. It's very funhousey. Almost Strangery. It plays reality tricks on you. And that's when it's trying to  _ hunt  _ you. If it was cooperating...

"I mean, we could probably change  _ its _ reality if it believes enough. I mean that's what these rituals are, aren't they? Just... Intent."

\---

“Yeah. Yeah, if he’s helping us find him, then maybe we could pull him out. Pull them both apart. If he’s— Well, intact. He might be. We haven’t asked Michael if he’s... the details, he might not know, either. It’s a start, though, right?”

\---

"Yes, I-- I mean. It's more than we had." He slowly smiles, his brow still kind of scrunched. He feels  _ excited, _ like he always does when he's found a lead.

\---

“It  _ is.” _ Before he can give it a second thought, Martin presses his lips to Jon’s in a short kiss. “Sorry. I like watching you plot.”

\---

Jon pulls back after the kiss, but it's in pleased surprise, the small smile turning into something flattered, flustered. "You came up with the idea," He kind of purrs.

\---

“I didn’t know it was a good idea until you made it one,” Martin says with a small shake of his head. He pulls on the door handle to step out. “Let’s go inside, we can— I’d rather keep talking in there. Driving makes me, um, anxious.”

\---

"It does?!" Jon climbs out and closes the door firmly behind him. If he knew this, he could have at least told Martin he was doing a  _ good job _ or something-- something that could mitigate the  _ anxiety _ .

\---

“Roads are different here.” It’s strained and a little defensive, but Martin is still having fun. He locks the doors and clasps the keys back on his belt as he walks.

\---

Jon follows behind Martin, walking quickly and quietly at his heels. "Yeah. But-- you drove fine." He really wasn't paying attention, but he didn't find any concern in the journey, either.

\---

“I know, that’s from the death grip I had at the wheel. My fingers are still tense.” 

Martin slows to match Jon’s pace, keeping their conversation of the normal human variety. Not of skin books and body snatching and coffins that traumatize you. 

Just a regular gay couple.

\---

"I mean-- is it  _ that _ hard? It's just the other side of the road? Right?" Jon says with the confidence of a man who owns a license and knows how to drive, of which he possesses neither.

\---

Martin shoots him a glare from a face flushing with embarrassment. He figures that’s a perfectly acceptable answer to those questions, and chooses not to say anything else until they reach the elevator.

\---

Okay, maybe it  _ is _ hard. Jon stands corrected via such a transparent glare, and stays quiet through the elevator ride. Without the distraction of conversation, though, his attention drifts back to the book, a small jolt of anxiety running through him.

He'd been so limited before. And he knows Gerard wants to _ die, _ but if they could pull off a ritual like Michael's-- Hell, tearing Daisy away from the Hunt, or at least Burying the Hunt in her, all but confirms these magics and rituals are fluid, changing, intentional things-- who's to say they couldn't do more? Unbind the book? Unlikely, but worth a conversation.

\---

Martin is comfortably basking in their mutual silence, but he’s learned to tell now when Jon’s mind is buzzing with ideas. It’s a different kind of silence. Growing up the way he did attuned to him to that sort of thing. He’s not too pressed to bring Jon out of them, but by the time he’s a step ahead of Jon and unlocking the door he decides he’d like to. 

“About the place you go to, what we were talking about before— You’ve been having less nightmares, at least, I-I think. It  _ seems _ like you’re sleeping better.”

\---

Jon pauses at the threshold of the hotel room, jolted from his experimental thought exercises about rituals, and has to look at Martin's back for a solid ten seconds before his words manage to process. He's doing that a lot lately.

"Uhm, I mean, yeah, I sleep better." Having a mattress helps. Having a Martin helps more. "Not as alone to... To stew in my thoughts, anymore."

\---

“Yeah. You-- You just mentioned dreaming about it. I wondered whether my being there helped at all.” The door opens and Martin pushes it open, propping it for Jon with one foot so he has both hands for shoving the card back into his wallet.

\---

"I remember them less, now. At least-- erm, those kinds of dreams. The memory-dreams. Those fade. Easier to just focus on you, when I get up in the middle of the night."

\---

“Oh! Well. That’s good.” 

Martin wonders how many times Jon’s woken up without Martin awake. What things he might know about him that he most likely doesn’t himself. It really is much more comfortable from the position of watching, not watched, isn’t it?

“So, are we... tonight? Or... later.”

\---

Jon walks to the small kitchenette in their suite and sets the book down gently on the marble countering and thinks for all of two seconds.

"I'm putting a pot of coffee on."

He looks to the slight disarray of their space, folders and statements laid out over the bed from where they'd researched, and Jon's hackneyed notes he'd scribbled in their breaks about possible ritual ideas. Those will need to be updated.

He looks back at Martin, and there's a hunger in his eyes, sharp and acute. "Best to do seances in the dark."

\---

Oh. That’s an odd, unidentifiable emotion. He might be overthinking it, but Jon’s got this intense, purposeful air about him now, one that makes Martin want to  _ do _ something. He’s not sure what, though. Spurs again. 

He’s never done a seance. “Um, should I clean up? Do-- Do we even have... candles? Do you need those?”

\---

Jon snorts and turns, puttering about the kitchenette getting the coffee ready. "In a normal seance, perhaps. If that made it more real to you." He gestures to the book with one hand, as he's filling the coffee pot with water with the other from the sink. "I just have to read his death. He'll come."

But-- it is true that there's such a  _ look _ about the hotel room. Couldn't hurt to have a little more ambiance.

He dumps the water into the water tank, and then gets the filter and coffee in. When it's on, and boiling, he turns to Martin fully. "Best have some candles anyways."

\----

Ghosts. Seances. Martin shifts on his feet, unsure whether he should feign any sort of confidence or just be himself. 

Ugh, fine. Obviously there’s a correct answer to that. 

“I don’t want him to think we’re deranged,” Martin starts, almost  _ prissy _ as he starts clearing off the bed and the scattered mess about the room. “It’s our first time talking to him. It’s— First impressions matter, p-probably even to dead people. Still people. I’ve never done a seance. I think it matters more if  _ he _ likes candles, not me.”

\---

"Well I don't know if he likes  _ candles, _ Martin, I just thought it'd look nice. It's not-- I mean, last time I summoned him, it wasn't exactly the  _ Ritz." _

He steps forward to the counter, and turns the book upside down, flipping it backwards to the last page with text on it. The words, only black, stare at the ceiling, waiting to be beheld.

\---

“Don’t read it yet,” Martin whines, because he can  _ hear _ Jon moving the book around and he’s not done stacking things on the nightstand. “If you have candles, I’ll light them. I don’t exactly keep any on hand.”

\---

"Just getting it ready. There's candles in the nightstand. Put them there this morning next to the weird Bible. Sometimes hotel rooms smell weird." He takes the book, still open, and cradles it by the spine as he comes to the main room, and sets the book down on the desk opposite the foot of the bed.

\---

“Oh, so you get to put weird things in nightstands.” He’s making his way over there regardless, pulling the drawer open. Candles retrieved, he sets about placing them around the room. Aesthetically, it’s not bad. 

Martin pats down a few of his pockets before his smile fades away. “Do you have a lighter? I can’t find mine.”

\---

"Candles aren't weird." Jon scoffs and digs into his pocket to retrieve one, tossing it over to Martin once he gets a grip around it. Considering he has a-- oh, what did Martin call them. Partner?-- now, who also smokes, he's had to resort to mass buying them on Amazon, considering how quickly they seem to lose them, these days.

\---

Martin ungracefully catches it, but he catches it nonetheless. With the bed cleared off, the walkway clear of clothes, and the candles lit, Martin steps back from the scene to reach one hand out to the light switch. He hovers just short of flicking it down. 

“You’re  _ sure _ we’re ready? Nothing you want to plan beforehand?”

\---

"I mean, unless you've a solid 'anti suicidal pep talk' up your sleeve, I'm not so sure there's much to prep. It's a bit-- last time I just wanted his information. This time's-- I mean, it's a bit more altruistic? In all honesty. So I wouldn't know how to plan." He steps closer to the book, blurring his eyes purposefully so he doesn't start prematurely reading.

\---

Okay. That makes sense. Without drawing out the complaints, Martin shuts off the light. He crosses over to where Jon has the book, a candle giving off just enough light that Martin can peer over Jon’s shoulder to see the words, then to the angles of his face he can make out in the low glow. 

“This is a very good look on you.”

\---

"The dark?" Jon turns to him and snorts, and the candlelight plays on his features. He blinks a moment, and then snorts. "He's going to find this all so dramatic."

\---

“Not the _ dark, _ Jon, you know what I mean. If he doesn’t like it, the candles were your idea.” Martin places one hand over Jon’s shoulder, connecting them physically. Content with that, he turns back to the book. 

“Ready when you are.”

\---

Jon watches Martin for a long, long moment, and his expression slowly steels itself.  _ Somebody  _ as an anchor, indeed. He nods, and the look in his eyes once he focuses down on the grisly pages of the book is one of trepidation, fear, excitement, ravenously overtaking him and his voice into some semblance of a manic whirlwind. 

The darkness of the room is ridiculous, but it helps to focus him, helps to create the right atmosphere, helps him fall into the rhythm. The dark conceals, yes it does, but so too, does its atmosphere sometimes, perversely, create a sense of safety in Jon's bones. Sometimes, to be unseen, unknown, is a breathless gift under the constant surveillance of the Great Watcher's appetites. 

And so he reads.

"...His consciousness faded in and out like the tide. He tried to refuse their drugs, though for what purpose even he could not have said."

In the still darkness, the only light flickering flame and the whites of Jon's eyes, so stark when they catch upon the candle's dance, his voice carries, and the book grows warm where his fingertips touch the pages. He imagines he wouldn't be allowed to stop reading, even if he tried, but it doesn't scare him; Jon's certain he'll always continue onward, always read, even at his own detriment. 

The book begins to shake, thunderous and rumbling and static-fire sounding in his ears as he reads, and by the time he reaches the end, he's sure his own hands shake with it. 

"And his only thought was to cry out for his mother. But with the last vestige of his stubborn will, he refused. She would not claim his last moment. He was silent." 

"And so Gerard Keay ended."

The candles flicker and then snuff out in a wave of gusty, mildewy wind. For a moment, all that can be seen is hundreds of glowing green little eyes, crudely hanging in the dark stillness above the book, blinking in and out of view as though there is movement. And then all is dark once more.

\---

The grounding cadence of Jon’s reading voice only cements the idea in Martin’s mind that he was gifted uniquely with a style of recitation meant to captivate. It keeps the fear at bay, the kind wishing to gnaw at the sides of his composure until there’s nothing left. 

At the last few sentences, Martin grows curious at the mention of something he feels he can understand without any of the details. But he won’t let that distract him, won’t let vision of his own mother wrap around what he and Jon have created together. 

Martin shuts his eyes and makes his only focus Jon’s warmth where his hand still grips his shoulder tightly. He can smell when the candles go out, little strings of smoke dissipating into every corner, but he refuses to open them. In practice it’s a different world entirely, to live through the paranormal. To not just be a second hand witness. Martin’s still working up to it. 

When the silence stretches on, Martin starts to wonder if it’s gone wrong. He hadn’t imagined any specific way for this to go, but the unnatural silence compels him to speak. 

“Do we wait?”

\---

"Wait for what, exactly? Lights? What a fascinating concept, " Gerard Keay says, and leans forward, and he can feel the pages of his Book calling to him, tying itself to him, collaring him close. He's corporeal, but it's a tarnished, subdued thing, icy cold and distant, so distant. 

The only warmth he can feel is whatever fading magic once wrapped itself around his joints, and even that is quiet; perhaps the Eye's protections don't adhere themselves to the End's victims. 

Forgive him for the acidic tone. He's just not certain how he's  _ here,  _ though the book is certainly evidence enough. Pity. He can remember--

Mm. A hospital. He can make his own conclusions.

And he also can't see who's in front of him, so he leans forward over the desk, until he's nose to nose with a short man with wide eyes who looks scared shitless. "Did  _ you _ do this to me? Nasty trick, using my mother's book."

The man stammers through a non-answer, but Gerard's not actually listening, cutting him off with a quiet, "Turn the lights on."

\---

Martin’s truly sorry for how hard his grip is at Jon’s shoulder, fingers pressing harshly over his shirt and into his skin. He’s frozen in place until a voice cuts through the fear with his words, and the most peculiar thing happens the second Martin lets go. 

He stops being scared. 

Gerard’s just a person. Like Michael. Technically, any normal person could run up and stab you with a knife. Some people just have more knives. Or are made of knives. The sheer stupidity of that snaps him out of it further, enough to walk to the switch and bring the lights back on. He comes back, at Jon’s heel but not touching. When Martin finally takes him in, it’s almost... it’s sad. It’s sad, that more than anything he just looks like a memory.

“We didn’t do this to you. They had you stored in a closet.”

\---

"'They'? My, how specific you are, for my saviors. Captors? Guess time will tell." Gerard rolls his eyes and finally has the  _ light _ to look at the two men, and his eyebrows raise as he takes it all in.

They  _ reek _ of marks, and well, guess he's still got that ability. Both men are covered in near identical ones, with subtle differences that pull and weave and bind, and he wonders what they know. Can't be much, to let themselves run about so unprotected from the starving entities.

"We just… didn't feel it right to leave you. Leave you there. Forever. And all the other souls bound." The shorter one is marked by the Eye so deeply it burns out of his skull, and Gerard keys in on him, smiling slowly.

"What are  _ you, _ then? Some kind of--"

"Archivist." He says. And then amends it, like it's a second thought, like it's not as important as the title. "Jon."

"An Archivist." He pushes that down for later. Lots to unpack there. Turns to the taller one. My, what a guardian. "And you?"

\---

“Martin. We’re  _ technically  _ with the Magnus Institute, but— But not really. We sort of, um, do our own thing?” 

He’s not sure what’s too much, what’s not enough. First impressions, and all that. “I’m not an Archivist.”

\---

"Yes, I can see that." Gerard says. He leans across the desk again, staring at Martin. "Close, though. The Archivist has certainly marked you." He sits up straight and places his hands on his knees where he's criss-crossed. Turns back to Jon. "And  _ you're _ not Gertrude."

"No, erm-- she was murdered."

Gerard hums. It's surprisingly hard to think, like this. Numb, and cold, but unable to feel the cold, and unable to access half of what he was, and  _ god _ he wants a smoke, but he Knows, in the way he Knows things sometimes, that he can't touch much, in this plane of existence, and he thinks that it's rather cruel, since he wasn't able to touch much that wasn't the supernatural before he died.

"You want something, I assume. If you knew Gertrude. She always wanted something."

\---

Ugh, they talk so much before Martin can get a word in. He had a great joke planned, had even opened his mouth, but now they’re talking about Gertrude. 

Martin hates talking about Gertrude. He’s all puffed up now. 

“We were coming through here already, a-and we figured out where you were. Gathering dust. Didn’t seem fair.”

\---

_ "Fair?"  _ Gerard snorts, and it's an ugly, undignified thing, and it's at that that he slowly stretches his legs out and over the front of the desk, forcing Jon to take a step backwards.

He's long, and skinny in a way that seems both natural body type  _ and  _ sickness, his eyes sunken and all the more so from the strange, supernatural  _ offness _ of this Memory. He tugs on the end of his hair in a way that screams of a tic, harsh enough that it makes his split ends all the more understandable.

"What about this seems  _ fair _ to you? I don't have a body. Fair." He snorts again.

\---

Oh, he is quite a bit like Michael, but in the opposite direction. 

“Obviously  _ that  _ part isn’t fair, but— “ Martin flicks Jon’s back, trying to be subtle about it, urging him to speak. “But we know where you’d end up, sort of, if we didn’t grab you first. And that- that might be worse, I think.”

\---

"You know where I'd  _ end up? _ That's--"

"I tried to leave the Institute. It sent me back in time. Yes. I know where you'd end up." Jon says. Gerard blinks in response. "And trust me, if you feel like shit  _ now, _ being a dictionary for Hunters who don't seem to realize they're monsters too isn't much better."

Gerard watches the both of them for a few long seconds and then pulls himself from the desk, standing to his full height. He stretches, but it doesn't do much for him; really, it just illustrates how he towers over the both of them, nearly a foot, in Jon's instance.

"I see." He says. "That's a shit deal. You're more than just an Archivist, aren't you."

\---

Martin backs up until he can sit on the bed, running a hand through his hair to pull it back and easy away the residual fear. 

He’s got no stake in whether Jon is more than an Archivist or not. He’s not sure what the metric is, exactly. Instead, appraising Gerard in the neutral lighting, Martin says all he’s really got on his mind. “You’re tall.”

\---

Gerard leans back and loops his thumbs through his belt loops, and his grin is sharp, manufactured, a shithead response more than anything. "Think you're just short, mate." At least his incorporeal form gave him incorporeal clothes that are more dignified than a hospital gown and IV's. Small miracles. It all feels like he's fighting from under the water to breach the surface and _ be. _

Jon backs up and follows Martin to the bed, and Gerard watches the way they interact, how touchy they are, and it makes so much sense it makes him _ laugh, _ sharp and a little airy.

"So I've been kidnapped by lovebirds. Straight up, I don't play unicorn. Find another ghost."

\---

He is not just  _ short, _ thank you. He likes to think he’s a healthy average. But he’s not about to argue about height with a ghost. He won’t stoop so low. 

At the bed, the outside of one of Martin’s hands brushes against Jon’s knee. He squints narrowly at Gerard with the mention of lovebirds, but his eyes widen considerably by the end. He’s not sure if Gerard is  _ serious, _ but—

“Oh— No, no no no, that’s  _ not _ what this is. At all. We’re not— No.”

\---

Jon filters Martin a narrowed look and Gerard laughs and laughs again, and he can almost  _ feel _ the laughter, almost, it's just about there. Not quite, but close.

"It's fine. I was lying anyways. I absolutely would."

"Gerry, it--"

"Oh,  _ Gerry, _ eh? So we've spoken, in this far-off glamorous future of yours." He squints, sobered mostly, and looks to Martin. "Were you a part of this," He waggles his fingers, and the eyes on his knuckles blink with the movement, "TARDIS shit?"

\---

Martin’s face is suddenly hot after his own outburst of denial. He doesn’t mess around anymore, and-- Gerard is a ghost. And he’s not thinking about any of this at all. 

“No. I’m more like a-a companion, really. Just, erm, along for the ride.” Christ, now he’s throwing out references. He tries to recover, but with two sets of eyes on him, he feels ridiculous. “Do... Do you prefer we call you that? ‘Gerry’?”

\---

"Guess it depends on if we're friends or not." Gerard raises an eyebrow. "I still don't know what you want from me."

"We  _ told  _ you, we--"

"Yeah, yeah. You two are ever so kindly acting as my knights in shining armor to save the waifish princess. I get it." His lip twitches, a bitter smile almost threatening to free itself from the confines of his mind. "There's always more.  _ Always." _

\---

“You sure  _ act  _ like a princess,” Martin snaps shortly, standing to his feet without another delay. He avoids going through or really even near Gerard, if he can help it, as he moves to reorganize the mess he made shoving all their things into one corner over the suitcase. 

“We’re taking a vacation, away from the Institute. You’d have to ask Jon, but- but I don’t know how much you got to  _ sight-see  _ before you... erm. He knows more about you than I do.”

\---

Gerard squints at Martin, and says primly, "Perhaps I  _ am _ a princess,  _ Martin." _ It's said mockingly, his chin lifted and a cruel fire in the shadows and vapors of his eyes, and then he's whipping his face to look at Jon, strands of fine hair whipping, too, into his face in the movement. There's a delay in the way gravity seems to work, like he's in zero gravity, or if water's effects were lessened by half; just a slight waviness.

"Are you inviting me to your  _ holiday,  _ Jon? How kind. How sweet. Forgive me if I don't believe a word either of you say."

Jon, at least, has the decency to look paled, and Gerard takes a moment to relish in that feeling. It's been a while, since he's been able to properly humble someone, to scare them off before they can even try and hurt him.

"I-- it's. Erm. I just. You. I think you deserve more than--"

"Oh, I deserve more, do I? Quaint."

Jon looks desperately in Martin's direction for help. At least, Gerard's choosing to interpret it that way.

\---

Martin openly grimaces back in Jon’s direction, though it’s less him being upset with Jon and more that he’s moved over here into the corner to not be focused on. 

Fine. He picks up a few loose clothes and moves the pile to the bed, talking while he folds things. It helps him talk. Moving his hands always does. “We came here to work on a ritual that has nothing to do with you, and - and I think we have that handled without involving you. But it’s been— It’s been hard, working, so we’re using the time we have before then to have fun, I think. It’s not a crime to share that with someone who might - might understand. Taking a trip with us is better than sitting around in a book some unhinged mother put together, right, princess?”

He pauses halfway through re-folding one of his own shirts, realizing how mean he sounds. He’s not sure why he’s trying. Jon said he wanted to convince him not to die. That’s all he has, and that’s limited. He’s already died once. Not much to live for, is there?

\---

"Ooho, growly today, aren't we?" Gerard says, and he wrinkles his nose ugily in Martin's direction and waggles his fingers, wrist cocked just so. Oh, he so very much likes the little baby-Hunter much more than this Archivist so far. His fur is fun to ruffle up. Easy, too, and the little scrunch in his face turns into a triumphant smirk.

He turns to Jon. New prey. Let's see how messy he can be. "I believe  _ him _ . He just wants to spend time with you. You're the one I don't trust. I think you're a liar."

Jon bristles, and Gerard takes satisfaction in that. But he's still sitting on the bed, so it's not enough. Not by a Longshot. It took him only a handful of minutes to get Martin fleeing.

"I'm not saying you're lying to me. It's sweet, though, it is.  _ 'Oh hello, Gerard, I'm close to you in the future, isn't that swell? Come with us on a magical journey. The Subaru is so nice this time of year.' _ " He snorts. "Please. I can hear the desperation. You just want reassurance that you're good. One good deed, one ghost saved. Bah. I see through it. It's about  _ you _ ."

Jon looks frozen. Oh, it'll be good to see this unfold.

\---

“It’s a Chevrolet,” Martin offers helpfully, if strained. He’s good, he ignored the stupid comment Gerard threw in his direction, even though he’s not  _ growly _ . Martin doesn’t get  _ growly _ . 

But he’s picking on Jon, and as much as he’d set Jon up for that by repeatedly trying to push the conversation in his direction, seeing it in practice is less enjoyable or productive than he’d like it to be. 

Glancing over to see Jon’s back- stiff, locked-up - Martin decides not to just fade into the background. This is a whirlwind already. “Why does that matter? Maybe he deserves to feel sure about something, about doing something good. Not like  _ you’re _ doing much either way, it’s not like we dragged you from some-- some undead tropical retreat to sate a selfish hero complex.”

\---

"Hm. Yes. I'm starting to think this isn't exactly a tropical retreat," Gerard says, and hums a little.

"You don't even have to get  _ involved _ with our plans," Jon says, and it's small, unsure, and Gerard has to wonder how differently their last meeting, in the future, went, if this is how he's acting now.

He glances from Martin to Jon and back again, and decides a mercy play. "Just. Imagine you're me. You've just woken up, and in such a way that you realize you thought you were  _ dead  _ dead. And two random ass men are asking you to go on holiday with them. Bit jarring, isn't it? I'm still processing that I can't feel my limbs."

Jon looks a little wide eyed. "I hadn't-- I hadn't realized this was the first time you've woken up."

\---

“Jon,” Martin whines, his tone several leagues less snappy. “I knew we should have planned. Summoning a new ghost into our hotel room and freaking him out. Um— “

Putting down the last thing he had to fold, Martin turns to Gerard with his eyebrows pushed together in slight guilt. “You don’t have to agree to anything right  _ now _ . Trial run, maybe? Can’t exactly  _ feed _ you, or-- or make you comfortable, but we would if we could. W-worst case scenario, you just get better at doing... ghost things and we leave you alone.”

\---

After a long stretch of silence, Gerard shrugs. "Better than just sitting somewhere, I guess." He pauses. "'Getting better.' Don't think I'll be much more than a specter. I'd have to bind myself like my mother to get  _ better _ ."

Jon lets out a relieved breath. "I-- I swear this isn't just some-- Really, I just wanted you to be somewhere better."

"Don't really trust like that, but fine. I said yes. Doesn't matter if I believe you or not."

\---

“You don’t know that for sure. The, erm, the binding thing. Been breaking a lot of rules lately, planning on splitting an entity in half, nothing’s  _ really _ impossible, is it?” Martin grins, genuine and accommodating now that they’ve settled into an alliance he can work with. 

“Who knows. Set your mind to it, maybe you’ll start getting ghost powers.”

\---

"Splitting an entity in half?" Damnit. Now Martin's got him curious. He folds his arms and leans back against the desk. He can't feel the wood resting against his back, but it's about the pose, than the feeling, right now. "On a scale of one to ten, how mad have you both gone?"

\---

Martin hums, tilting his head a few times as he weighs an answer. This is more fun. “Jon’s at about a four but thinks he’s a ten, I’ve been coasting on a healthy six since I did this.” 

Martin holds up both hands, one with Michael’s mark nestled deeper than skin, the other scarred up and healed over nicely from the worms. “You can tell, right?” 

He doesn’t say ‘like Jon can’, though he nearly does. That’ll just complicate the answer.

\---

"I can see all the marks lacing your bodies." He looks at them both. "Quite a collection. You should protect yourselves more."

Jon leans forward, and some of the trepidation leaves his frame. Ah, what an Archivist. Gertrude was normally so careful not to show her beholding-influenced curiosity. "Which ones?"

"Hm. Spiral, Corruption, Web, Beholding." a pause. "A lot that aren't  _ marks, _ more like-- Hm. Marks-to-Be? Given the right circumstances."

\---

Martin laughs, avoiding the thought process required to unpack that  _ last _ part. He’s afraid of what the answer might be if he asked whether eyes aside the obvious were on them. “See, all those names around each other make the  _ Web _ sound even more painfully lame. Some of these fears need serious marketing advisors.”

\---

"Mm. Doing the web's work, underestimating it like that." Gerard, too, laughs. "Mother of Puppets might be a little more on the nose."

\---

“Not underestimating, just poking fun. I guess if you put it next to Flesh, or Hunt, most of them sound pretty lame. So, um— How does this work? Are you out here forever now? Is there a-a time-limit? If we dramatically slam your book closed, do you— “ Martin waggles his fingers in a direct mockery of Gerard’s own hand motions earlier.

\---

Gerard cocks his head slightly, thinking. "I... Don't know the limitations. I've seen my mother use it, but it wasn't to the benefit or even limitations of the Dead, just-- her own needs and wants met. It feels--"

He rotates his wrists and tries to pop his knuckles and fails, because this isn't his body and it's just a facsimile of something he Was and not Is, and he thinks of amputees with phantom limbs, but if it was his entire  _ being. _

"It's tiring, I think. Not physically. Up here." He taps his temple. "I imagine... There's a level of will to  _ stay. _ something sapped if you're.... Hm. Depressed." He shrugs. "You both have the power to banish me away, yes."

\---

“Hm. Lots to figure out, then, yeah?” 

It’s a start, and Martin does feel bad— Not guilty, just secondhand disquiet in his brain over what it must take to do this to someone. 

In the name of science, Martin fishes into one pocket and pulls out one of the coins he knows is still there: a dime. 

Without any heads-up to either of them, he tosses it hard, straight for the center of Gerry’s chest.

\---

Jon startles on the bed, but Gerry's not paying attention to that; he's curious too, by this experiment. The dime falls through him and clatters to the desk behind him. He frowns, and then shrugs. "Maybe I can work on that."

\---

"We all have flaws," Martin offers, any attempt to console drowned out by the smirk on his face. "Could be worse."

\---

And he can't even throw the dime back at Martin. What an atrocious state of existence.

"I suppose." He purses his lips and turns to Jon. "What did you find me for, the first time? In your future?"

Jon blinks. "The Unknowing. I wanted to know what you knew, considering-- I-I assumed of anyone,  _ you'd _ be the one who would know this. Considering how much you crop up in statements."

Gerard snorts. "Happens when you grow up in it."

_ "Exactly!" _

\---

Martin feels he's missed a few steps here. At least Jon's starting to perk up a little. Everyone's mellowing out. 

His voice is courteous, careful. "So, your mother, what? Groomed you for this? The whole-- Being involved in this, er, gods and monsters thing?"

\---

Gerard hums and nods slowly, a wariness cropping into his expression that wasn't there before. "Yes. She took me with her everywhere. I've probably been marked by most entities by the time I was six."

\---

"Oh." 

Martin turns his eyes to Jon as he lets out a heavy breath, despite the fact that Jon can't really see him from this angle. At a loss for what to say, Martin busies himself with moving the piles he's made to the right place. "It's getting late. We should-- We should start getting ready for bed. Jon, have you, erm... Have you eaten today?"

\---

"Which kind of eaten?" Jon asks, and then blinks, and grimaces a little. "Oh. Actually. Neither."

\---

"We should do that. I haven't, um, either. Bit of a social eater, now." Martin laughs nervously, suddenly self-conscious in ways he'll have to examine pretty soon, most likely. Now in Jon's eyesight, he tilts his head pointedly to Gerard. "Do you want him to - to stay? Or..."

\---

"Ah, right. Ghost. I don't get a say in this." Gerard crosses his arms again and glares indignantly at Jon.

Jon, who looks uneasy, and unsure, and well. Good. Not Martin's intent, surely but Gerard's certainly sending him kudos for putting the Archivist on the spot like that.

" I-- I mean. Do you  _ want _ to stay?"

"Do you want me to  _ go?" _

\---

"I just figured maybe r-reading statements in front of you and calling that dinner would give off the wrong impression," Martin says hurriedly, like he's mitigating an argument that's about to amp up. "But if it doesn't bother you, it doesn't matter. It's not about  _ wanting,  _ it's - it's about... comfort? I think?"

\---

Gerard leans forward in curiosity when Martin calls it  _ dinner,  _ cocking his head. "Is that normal? I mean, Gertrude sometimes read statements out loud, it gave her a  _ boost, _ but-- a  _ meal? _ Are you two just weird?"

Jon sets his jaw. "She didn't like that part of being an Archivist."

"Oh, but you  _ do." _

\---

Martin huffs as he passes between them to find the folders, wanting this embarrassing mess over with as soon as possible. “We’re weird and you have eye tattoos everywhere I can see. I think we might be even.” 

He says nothing to Jon about his differences in execution of work compared to Gertrude - that’s probably a private conversation sans ghost - but he is  _ thinking _ about it. All Archivists are weird in different ways. He knows that much. 

Folder in one hand and a recorder in the other, Martin suddenly looks very lost and very antsy. “Who... who first?”

\---

Gerard huffs and waves a hand at them. "As much as my own... Entity predilection wants me to watch this trainwreck, it's clearly you and yours,  _ and _ it hurts to exist, so I'll stop torturing you with my presence."

Jon slowly stands. "I won't  _ make _ you leave."

"Mm. No, I'm asking though." Gerard reaches behind him and soundlessly taps his own page in the book. "Besides. If I'm going on  _ holiday _ with you two-- good lord--, I'll just bide my time and watch you then." 

"... If you're sure." He steps close to the desk and pulls the book closer. Glances at Martin. "Pick one for yourself to read." back to Gerard. "I was. Um. I mean, nice meeting you, Gerry. For the first time in this cycle."

\---

“Thank you,” Martin sighs out in relief, letting them have their bizarre conversation. He decides to pick the top one, but he makes a decent show about scanning each one so he doesn’t have to participate as much in the farewells. 

“See you later, Gerard,” he says down to the papers, weirdly stiff.

\---

Gerard throws up a peace sign, and his nails are chipped with old black nail polish. After a tight smile, Jon takes the book up in his arms and closes it tight, and Gerard feels it  _ tugging, _ a strange numbness that permeates through the normal non-feeling ghostly numbness.

His tattoos glow again, and then he's gone. Not much fanfare than him being there, and then not.

\---

Martin narrows his eyes down at Jon just about immediately after Gerard fades away. "We should have planned that. We looked like complete lunatics. He called me  _ growly." _ He starts pacing around the end of the bed, waving the statement around a bit as he moves. "I threw a dime at him and almost immediately asked him about his  _ mother. _ I feel terrible."

\---

Jon's shoulders hike up the moment Gerard is gone, all the built-up tension he refused to exhibit while he was here hitting him all at once. He steps back and sits back on the foot of the bed, and stares a little sightlessly as he  _ processes, _ and he doesn't even have time to do  _ that _ because Martin is pacing and frantic and, even if not in volume, yelling, and it's just a  _ lot _ all at once, and he says nothing, instead opting to propel himself up and towards the nightstand, where a pack of smokes are.

"Balcony." He says, and shoves an unlit cigarette between his lips as he flees the room, gesturing to the statements to indicate to Martin to bring them.

\---

It takes another minute for Martin to pull out another statement, more thorough in his search for one Jon can have. He picks out one that at least  _ seems _ interesting, even though he doesn’t read a word of it. 

By the time he gets to the balcony with double the recorders and double the statements, Martin’s voice is more even. “Sorry. I’m not blaming you. I just— I wanted to be more - more composed. I wasn’t. Just floundering around.”

\---

Jon sits with his back to the railing and lights up, and it's only once he can get a few hits of nicotine and the jitters start to die down, that he finds a voice. "No, you're-- you're right. I didn't. I wasn't thinking. Worked out okay, though. I think."

He still looks ahead, but a small smile graces his lips. "You two really went at it. It was, um, overwhelming? To watch. But in a good way."

\---

"It's okay, Jon." Martin's serious about it, but he's being honest, and that's been coming more and more naturally to him. Whether it's Jon alone or something wrapped around them, something supernatural, it still comes back to Jon in the end. That makes it okay. It's not so bad.

He stands beside Jon at the railing, trying to pass off a statement and a recorder just so he has a free hand. "In a good way? I-I don't know why he set me off, I was worried it was a... a bad look on me. I've never called anyone  _ princess. _ I felt mean." He pauses. "Are you alright?"

\---

"Huh? Oh, I-- I'm just thinking. About everything." He blinks a few times and looks up at Martin, and his smile is genuine, if a little spacey. "Hard to, uh, process things as they're Happening. And I mean. I didn't want to freak out in front of him; I was  _ trying _ and  _ failing _ to impress him."

\---

"You don't have to impress him. He's a ghost." Martin sits down beside him, setting the papers between them. "And you'll have time. Doesn't seem like he's in a hurry to die forever just yet. And - and I think there's hope. Maybe we'll surprise each other and - and he'll be throwing things at us by the time we get back home."

\---

"It's just strange. Sometimes it just--" He sucks in a breath. Wants to shut up. But Martin seems to think, lately, that he should  _ talk _ about his feelings, as though it's not just an avalanche of nonsense. He pushes through the anxiety. "It's just weird, sometimes. I killed him last time. Yet here he is. Same with, uh, you know, Tim and Sasha. It's hard, and-- and weird to try and... Talk to someone whose death you've mourned."

\---

"But you didn't cause any of their deaths, it wasn't  _ your _ fault. Maybe talking to them now and - and being involved can help you. Get closure, maybe. I feel like  _ Tim _ would take it just fine, at least." Martin brushes a strand of hair out of Jon's face. The touching, all those little gestures, those are getting easier, too. "It's hard to see how important it is, sometimes, for you to-- Erm, talk about that life. From my end. It never happened to me, and clearly I wasn't  _ there _ the way I'd like to be now, b-but I am now."

\---

"I'm usually-- usually it's okay. But sometimes I get...  _ stuck. _ Not knowing what to do based on what I know. Remembering-- a reality that hasn't existed for a while." He keeps looking up at Martin. "You're the only one it doesn't.... Doesn't happen with, as much, anymore, because you're.... Well you're  _ different, _ I'm always with you, you're my present reality, and even then, sometimes I expect you to walk away, or your voice to go flat, and I have to shake myself out of it, ah, entirely to remember. And that's  _ you. _ Let alone-- Gerard, or Tim, or entities and avatars."

\---

“It’s not  _ just _ a curse, though. It’s— You get a chance people really don’t, right, where you can go back and do something different. Be nicer to people. I think everyone’s sort of wished they could  _ do _ that, before.”

Martin rests his cheek in his palm as he sits, gladly returning the look Jon’s sending his way. “The good is... That’s important, too. Thank you for bringing me here, Jon. With you.”

\---

"I wouldn't have it any other way," Jon says, fondly, and he rubs against the hand on his cheek, loving the warmth in his palm.

"What do you think of him?"

\---

“He’s not what I was expecting, but I don’t think I  _ could _ expect anything. It’s— He reminded me of Michael, actually. A few times.” 

Now that he’s consciously had the thought, Martin rolls it around in his head. “In pain. Somewhere wrong, physically. Controlling mother. Likes pushing buttons. I-I wonder, the statistics on all those things... what that says about our world. About - about fear. Starts young, doesn’t it?”

He says it sadly, knowing he’s no exception.

\---

"I still can't believe you got the Spiral to talk about its mother," Jon snorts, but he's listening, and Martin's right with the parallels, about the  _ youngness _ of it all. Seems that sometimes, they were groomed for this all, pushed ever so gently, and not even in the Web way. Just... The way the universe turns out.

"Everything he said about the  _ Marks. _ I-I can't exactly see them, but it's like I can smell them out, sometimes, almost. I think he can see them. I-I mean, I don't have any physical marks from the Web, but he still saw it on me."

\---

“He said he could see, what, marks-to-be? I didn’t want to ask him, but I-I kind of do. It’s cheating, though.” 

Martin chooses to bask self-indulgently in the praise. If anyone could get someone to talk about  _ that, _ it’s him. Probably. “You know, that might, um, might come in handy if he ends up needing a job.  _ Seeing _ that in people. I can’t— I can’t see or smell them, I think.”

\---

"Marks-to-be... Yeah. I wonder-- if he was seeing remnants from the marks I've had before? I mean. I hope he wasn't talking about us  _ now." _ Or, really, he doesn't care about marks upon himself, but on Martin? He shudders to think about it.

\---

“We’d have to ask, I-I guess. But all the ones he said, those are right. I think it’s safe to say he’s not lying about the  _ rest.” _

Martin takes his hand away, wringing his hands. “We should read these and - and go to bed soon, I think. In the morning, we can... try again? Think up some questions?”

\---

Jon nods, and pulls his statement close. If they're going to bed afterwards, best for Martin to go first, lest he get.... Ideas, when they go back inside. Jon's readings are always a bit somber. A downer, to Martin's strange upper-reaction. "Eat away."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That'll be our Gerard by our own lovely [Wawek!](https://rpgnc.tumblr.com/post/614416753505828864/just-gerry-keep-scrolling#notes)


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oops! No vacation without, just, like, a whole lot of kidnapping-related consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Thank you for sticking with us this far. The America chapters were written months ago and we just now caught up to editing the first few of them, so we're really excited to show this arc. We also have been unsure about what tags to use for the main story as we go along as both of us tend to go light rather than heavy while keeping warnings within the chapters themselves. 
> 
> I thought it might be a good idea to add certain entities Martin draws from as they crop up to avoid way-in-the-future spoilers, so with this one I'll be adding Hunt!Martin. As always, comments and kudos are so, so appreciated! Hope you enjoy where this goes.
> 
> \- Jack

Martin lifts his forehead slowly from the steering wheel. He’s pressed against it long enough that it’s left a phantom streak of pressure along his skin, faint indented lines that do nothing but accentuate the stress that’s already impossible not to spot. He can’t _ drive _ right now, not like this. The keys are in the ignition, but he’s not moving. Not with--

His eyes catch the book. He’d packed everything else, admittedly rather quickly, but the one thing he’d kept out was that  _ stupid _ book. It was the closest thing he had to an anchor aside from the corkscrew, and that was cold. The book wasn’t, at least not as much. For what it was, for how much it repulsed him, for how disturbed it made him feel to use it as a stand-in for actual company in the passenger’s seat, it… it was still  _ something. _

But-- considering he’s breathing himself down from a panic attack in this now-technically-stolen car at a local park - it’s not enough, and he’s scared, and his own thoughts are worse than just about anything right now. Martin reaches for the book before he can hold the impulse back, flipping to the page he knows Gerard’s corpse lives. 

Martin doesn’t want company. He needs company. Anyone mostly human. God Forbid he call  _ Michael  _ here, if Michael can even manifest doors across the Atlantic. Absolutely not.

All Jon had done was read.

Moving the book to his lap to read properly, Martin scans the page. He lets his own wave of numbness wash over him. Defiance of motherly control. Body falling apart from the inside. A fate worse than death, before actual death. He’s freefalling internally too much to care for the power held in his hands, the way the natural flesh shakes with unnatural energy, because it’s not his kind of fear. 

A cruel book of skin isn’t his kind of control. 

Once he finishes, he sits in the dead silence that ripples through the guts of the car and back over him. For a second, he thinks he might even be okay with it, suspended in a single moment where thoughts are beyond him in a perpetual waiting game.

\---

The glowing of eyes fill the passenger seat before Gerard's physical memory fills it, and the deep green hue slowly fades into skin-that-isn't. He leans forward and braces against the glove department, the strange, numb, paradoxical vertigo filling him for a moment as some semblance of his soul settles into a physical world that does not want him.

A car, this time. American car, so at least it can't have been too long, he hopes. He looks out the window, at the lot, and takes in the details; new environments are so scarce, for someone who has been relegated to a static story.

Gerard turns to the driver, and Martin looks-- well, quite honestly, 'a mess' would be a kind, generous thing to say about him right now. The book is held open in his lap, and his expression is miserable, and Jon isn't in the car when he looks behind him to the backseat. Curious.

"Lovers spat, Martin?" He asks, in lieu of a greeting.

\---

_ “Why— ”  _ It’s spoken flatly at the steering wheel, not Gerry, because he’s not about to indulge that joke. Martin digs his thumbs into the edges of the book. “— did you have  _ Hunters  _ after you?”

\---

Gerard blinks, and jerks back to Martin, and oh. Oh, something more is afoot. Hunters? He pulls his feet up onto the dashboard, but the seat is too straight, and so he  _ focuses _ because he  _ wants  _ it, wants to have a semblance of projected comfort in whatever this is, and wants to a prove a point, too, and jabs a finger at the button that pulls the seat back, until he's at a comfortable angle.

_ "If _ they were, how the  _ fuck  _ would I know?" He asks, and doesn't feel one lick of guilt for how icy his own tone is, because Martin summoned him and leveled him with  _ this _ immediately. His stomach hurts, and it's a  _ feeling _ , at least, but it's an awful one, and he twitches. "Stop hurting the book."

\---

Martin turns his head again to face the passenger side with his temple against the wheel. For a second, he doesn’t let up the pressure along the skin of the book. But that’s not fair. 

He puts the thing down in his lap. “You know more about them than I do! I’ve just read  _ statements  _ about this. It’s usually not even anything like this, when we label them like that. I don’t know how to- to  _ deal  _ with them. I don’t know how to do this.”

He takes a minute to breathe out of ramping himself up again. He has to slow down. “Sorry. I don’t know what else to do.”

\---

"Well I can't  _ tell _ you, if I don't know what happened," Gerard snaps, and he has an idea of what happened, but it's all just vague Knowings. Something with Jon. Something with Hunters. He won't leap to conclusions, but it's a grim outlook. From what he's seen of Jon, even at the state of Beholding as he is, he isn't surviving vindictive Hunters. Not by a Long-shot. Couldn't. Right?

Martin looks fucked. Pity he never learned how to comfort people. But he's not in the mood to cater to mood swings.

\---

“I’m trying to figure that out,” Martin groans, wiping the sleeve of his coat across his nose. “I can’t think it all in- in the right order. Jon was gone this morning, I-I tried to call him, I talked to  _ someone _ . All I remember is walking out back, behind the hotel. There was— I can’t get this smell off me. I can’t drive, trying to f-focus on anything else makes me nauseous.”

\---

Gerard narrows his eyes. "What's it smell like?"

\---

“Like a fever.” Martin’s voice is blanketed in genuine fear. Speaking it into life isn’t the best idea, he thinks, as he chances another inhale that’s not exclusively through his mouth. 

“When we had to pull— The Corruption, there were worms that dig into your skin, we got locked in and- and both had to pull them out. I-it smells like the room, after. Warm. Messy. Metallic. It’s everywhere.”

\---

It's strange, the layers these men know and don't. But isn't that just the case for everyone. No doubt, they know things that Gerard has never breached.

But he does know this.

"You're following a Hunt. It's just... A bit more targeted than usual."

\---

“A  _ Hunt? _ I don’t— That’s not  _ good, _ i-i-is it?” 

Christ, he hates the sound of his own stutter when it spins out of control. “Recording statements, compelling, that feels  _ good.  _ This just hurts.”

\---

"Well you're mourning. Obviously. You love him." Gerard hums, thinking. "I mean, I can't tell you how it feels, but the actual  _ trail. _ Does that hurt? Where it's leading you?"

\---

“You don’t know that. You— You don’t even know who I  _ am.” _ It starts aggressive, confrontational without any of the eye contact. Martin doesn’t necessarily bring it down a notch, but he tries to stop redirecting. “Ugh. Never mind.”

He pushes the door open and climbs out of the car on unsteady legs, turning to lean with his elbows up on the roof. It’s a short car, and the wind that rolls over it brings nothing but more of that same bloody thickness into his lungs, his mouth. His brain. 

If Jon were here, Martin can only imagine he’d be talking him down from this. Telling him that this was dangerous, that diving into deals with entities and leaning into gifts given by gods of fear would turn him into a monster, was  _ already  _ turning them into monsters. Martin doesn’t know all the stakes. Just one, and that  _ one _ is exactly why it has him. He’d never  _ hunt  _ for anyone else. 

He only hopes Jon can forgive him for this, for not fighting back. He tried. It’s a compulsion, a different kind, and it hurts like molten lava through his veins to fight. 

Martin shuts his eyes, his own blood thrumming along his veins in the hurried, arrhythmic way of a panic attack. That’s what he thought it was, at first, this heated urgency bringing him up and up and up just so he can crash. But he lets all the emotions pile up-- the important ones, anyway-- until there’s nothing left of him but a focus heavy and unmoving as lead on what he’s actually experiencing. For Jon. 

It stops hurting and starts coming together, his own frantic need to see, to know-- in a very different way than Jon’s  _ knowing _ \-- a lightning rod for evidence. Unaware of how incredibly ridiculous he must look for several minutes, he stays there, sifting through it all. Don’t blame him. It’s his first rodeo.

\---

Gerard lets him leave, and lets him process, and it's only after a few moments of strange silence, that he reacts. It's.... Easy, in this state, to just fade into the background. Not much to feel, not much to think. He has to jolt himself from the strangely comforting Nothingness. Suppose the End  _ does _ have him. 

"I don't really know who you are, but it's not hard when you wear your emotions on your sleeve, you know. You're pockmarked with your desires, visible like those lovely little worm scars of yours."

"Have you figured it out yet?"

\---

Static builds until it envelops his brain. A kind of static he doesn’t recognize, one that somehow isn’t static but more like... like a pot of blood over a stove allowed to boil until it spills over, hot and numbing and awful and good. 

Martin opens his eyes, vaguely peeved at Gerry’s voice alone. He’s still tense enough that it hurts, but he’s not  _ angry,  _ and he can talk a little clearer now that he’s not fighting instinct. “I  _ used _ to be good at that. Now all my time’s spent around someone with an unnatural aptitude for sniffing out lies and getting me to speak my mind. Not really, erm,  _ helpful  _ for the whole keeping it all inside strategically sort of thing.”

He pauses, eyes tracking the road leading out of the park. “And I’m starting to figure it out, I-I think. It’s like riding a bike.”

\---

"Mm. It'd be unethical on my end to not inform you that if you Hunt, it will change you. Blood can be  _ very _ persuasive." He leans across the middle of the car to look at him through the open driver's seat. "Did you just wake me up for shits and giggles?"

\---

Martin laughs bitterly at the warning. "Yeah. I know." 

He doesn't, not really, but he thinks he does. That's how he tends to take these developments. He pulls back enough to frown down at Gerard. Of course he didn't do that. 

A pang of guilt hits him, but it's numb at the moment. This man didn't ask to be here, for Martin to blow up on. "No, I-I think I woke you up so I could talk to someone. I didn't do it to yell at you, that just sort of-- Sort of happened. Sorry. I don't think being alone right now is a... a good idea, for me."

\---

"Probably not."

He wonders how long it's been. He has no idea how time works anymore; there's an existence in the books, but it's of the sort that he only knows exists when he's actively outside it. When he's _ in, _ it's-- nothing.

Shrugging, he says, "Better to be all growly at someone than to go full tilt into it, I get it."

\---

With a roll of his eyes that's excessively obvious, Martin shoos him away from the driver's seat. God, he hates that word.  _ Growly. Feeding. _ Weird animal words. "Move over, I'm not sitting on you. Or through you. I'm not that mean. And-- And I didn't summon you to be my punching bag, I don't usually... I don't get angry like this."

\---

Gerard leans back into the passenger seat, and snorts. "I wouldn't  _ let  _ you make me your punching bag." He softens his voice in some semblance of sympathy, even though it's a little flat. "Your partner got kidnapped. Of course you're going to be angry."

\---

Martin sits back down. The smell is still there, less of a smell and more of a sense, but it's less nauseating and more  _ pulling  _ now. "Right." 

He finally gets a good look at the passenger seat. He hadn't noticed him change the setting on it, but Jon doesn't keep it that way. Despite the mental blizzard coursing through him, he beams at that development. "What, are you going to defend yourself from my- my explosive anger by making the seat recline?"

\---

"What would you do? Hit me? You can't touch me." He rolls his eyes. "'Explosive anger'. You're so dramatic. You smell blood and you put your elbows on the roof of a car. Relax."

\---

"I was joking,  _ Gerard. _ Of course it's not explosive." Martin reaches for the book at the edge of the passenger's seat and flicks the open page like it's an actual threat, not a completely childish shove.

\---

"Ah. Holding my lifeline in your hands. How very mature."

\---

"I was hoping you'd feel it," Martin shoots back blankly, shutting the door and buckling his seat belt. Once he's gripping the wheel, he stops to blink down at it. "I think I'm stealing this car. How bad is that, on-- Is that grand theft auto? Christ, he's going to kill me when I find him."

\---

"Just get your spooky boss to bail you out if you go to prison." He laughs. "You need a car. Take it. Who cares."

\---

"Sure, right, right. Warn me about blood, but stealing a brand new rental is fine," Martin mutters, starting the engine up. "I don't really know, um, where to  _ go, _ exactly, it's-- a feeling. Lions. Green... lions. T-This is my first time in America, I have-- " Martin shuts his eyes again, rolling down the window. Somehow, the wind helps. " -- You're not a ghost with GPS, are you?"

\---

"No, but Google is your friend, mate." Gerard glares at him. He mimes flipping a phone open and typing on a keyboard. Perhaps it's outdated. He never cared for smartphones.

\---

"I can't  _ Google _ something like... " Martin trails off, pulling his own phone out of his pocket without another word. He shifts his shoulder so Gerard can't see what he's doing, making a series of frustrated faces at what he pulls up with a few  _ several _ searches. "Oh-- Oh, here. See?" 

A little too proud of himself, given the situation he's now in, Martin holds up a picture. "Art Institute. Where's-- Gerry, where are we, relative to, erm, Chicago? Close?"

\---

"... Well if you got me where I  _ died..." _ Gerard kind of openly gapes at Martin. "No. No we're not  _ close _ to Chicago. Two or three days."

\---

Days. Several days of not knowing. He's not even sure about this, it was a-a nudge. Pictures.  _ Feelings.  _ He can't logic his way out of this. That's-- Jon's always been better with the logistics, the planning. Martin  _ does. _ He plays along. He develops alongside something. This is-- It's so many changes at once. His breaths catch in his throat, but he won't let himself panic. Not so soon. Not in front of Gerard. 

So he puts  _ something _ into the GPS, puts the car in reverse, and it's a start. It's an action he can put focus onto that numbs him to something else. His voice is small, and awkward, a snippet of taxi driver conversation meant to clear the air but really doesn't. "Did you- did you die in Pennsylvania?" Martin's not sure if that's too much of a prying question, but-- Gerard's dead, he should probably get used to things like this.

\---

Gerard's eyebrows are raised in quiet surprise; alright. They're going, he supposes. Off to fucking Chicago. He's been a couple times, once with Gertrude and several, when he was young, with his mother. He can't remember all that much about it. Certainly not enough to have any particular feeling about the matter.

"Yeah," He says, and looks out the passenger window as they pull out from the lot they're in. "UPMC Presbyterian hospital."

\---

“Would you, erm, mind putting your seat belt on? Oh— Wait.” Martin scrunches up his face, closing in on himself a little. “Sorry. That wasn’t a joke, but you- you can’t. It’s fine.” He gives the shortest of pauses, and this usually works on Jon, so he jumps into another question. “Someone flayed your skin off at a  _ hospital?” _

\---

"I don't know  _ where _ it happened. I mean. Probably not in the room. Be funnier if it was though." He tries; he puts a hand around the seat belt strap and manages to hold it, but when he tugs, his whole hand phases through it, and he shrugs. "Asshole nurses walking in to see  _ that  _ mess. Lord."

\---

“I appreciate the effort,” Martin snorts, satisfied with the distraction. “Doctor, we have a  _ skin  _ problem in Bed Twelve.” 

He’s doing a voice, and it’s just as bad as all the others. He can’t settle, and he’s not in control of himself enough right now to filter it. “Did you... ever meet someone named Michael Shelley?”

\---

"Hah! So you  _ are _ funny. I was wondering if you were just.... Angry." He tries the seat belt again, just to try, and fails again. "Dunno the name, no."

\---

“Ah. That’s alright. I’m not angry. I’m... concerned? I’m usually— It doesn’t matter. This is my first time being on my own in - in months. I’m used to working with... with Jon. His missions.” Martin fidgets at the wheel, tense as he drives about five below the limit. “You think I’m funny?”

\---

"Sounds a bit co-dependent, don't you think? And yeah, sure, when you're not growly, you're clever. Quiet funny, yaknow?"

\---

Martin sniffs from the driver’s side, eyes focused on the road. “Co-dependent? I don’t know. It’s— “ He shouldn’t be this open. But it’s not like Gerry’s about to snitch on him. 

“He’s from the  _ future. _ Apparently the Lonely is a problem, in a few years. I don’t want to... to let that happen. And stop calling me  _ growly. _ I’m not... _ that. _ I don’t growl. I don’t think I-I can.”

\---

"Everyone can  _ growl, _ Martin. And it's not the physical thing, it's just how you act. Sorry. It's the Hunter mark. It's strong. Distracting." He shakes his head. "Co-dependent's still co-dependent regardless of the justification. Doesn't matter though. You're clearly head over heels for him. Even if I don't get it. He's just weird."

\---

A thousand questions burn under his skin, but Martin hums low in his throat, then morphs it into something  _ like  _ a growl. 

It startles him into a laugh and some of the pent-up driving anxiety fades away. “It’s - it’s hard to put into words. Not there yet, with the - the explaining part. I just write about it. Us. Easier that way.”

\---

"Oh you're a writer." Gerard says it flatly. "How would I ever have guessed." He pauses. "What about this Shelley fellow?"

\---

“Nothing. You’re like him, sort of. He’s a-a friend.” The tension comes back, and he hates it. “What does _ that _ mean?”

\---

"I dunno. It just didn't surprise me, is all." Gerard looks away from the window to field Martin a small look. "Sometimes I just Know things, you know. I'm not on the level of your archivist, but I  _ have _ aligned myself with the Beholding."

\---

“Yeah. No  _ eye _ tattoos, but that’s where I’m at. I don’t like it that much. Not really, erm, my thing, as much. Being an  _ Archivist. _ With a capital ‘A’, at least.”

Martin sighs. “Seems like all the things I get out of the deal are by accident. They’re all  _ surprises.” _

\---

"Well  _ yeah. _ If you don't know it's happening, it's too late. And if it's too late, the Fear has won. It's why you be careful with these things." He waggles his fingers. "Tattoos keep me safe."

\---

“Just  _ working _ at the Institute had me with the Eye. I didn’t know a  _ pinky promise _ with the Spiral would mark me. Corkscrewing worms, I didn’t  _ choose _ that. And now every. Time. I breathe. It smells like rusted statues and Jon’s— My— Our? Our blood.” His knuckles hurt at the wheel. He wishes Gerard could drive. 

“How am I supposed to  _ know?  _ Any of this? Do— How do those work? The tattoos?”

\---

"The truth?" Gerard shrugs. "I just did them to piss mum off. And I was in the middle of some breakdown or another and paranoid beyond belief. But.... I think they gave me to the Eye all the more. You know? You don't take in a dog off the streets that's got a collar already. Protective, in that way."

\---

“Huh.” 

That does make sense, actually. Martin doesn’t want any eyes all over his skin, though. “The scars all over  _ me _ haven’t put a stop to it. What, am I supposed to just choose the one I think is the least evil? Really, it— There’s no way to win. I want to, though. To find that, that way.” He laughs at himself, a few solitary, mirthless notes. “Back when I first found out, I thought I could just— You know, make a new one. One that gets fed on being  _ nice. _ I still want to hold out for that.”

\---

He laughs. "What-- you've got to be  _ drawn _ to one of them, surely?"

\---

“I-I don’t know. Everyone just tells me to avoid them. I mean— Jon tells me that. I always tell him maybe spiders don’t like  _ him  _ since he’s so mean to  _ them, _ but he’s like that with all of them. With Michael, with... Elias scares me, too, in this pathetic sort of way.  _ Definitely _ not Prentiss. I could never be - never be  _ her. _ I don’t want to change.”

\---

"Sometimes it's useful. I'd honestly have gone with the Mother of Puppets if not the Eye. But Knowing's been so  _ useful. _ It was getting so strong, before I got sick. Handy, when you hunt for books and clues for a living."

\---

“Mother of Puppets. Right, I forgot. That’s  _ worse _ than the Web. I don’t even  _ know _ things, beyond— I know how people work. Generally. Human people. Mostly how to avoid getting on their bad side. Even when I  _ do _ compel, it’s— It’s small. I can do it, but it’s not the same.”

Martin tilts his head enough that wind from the outside flows through his hair. He can’t get much farther than that. “He’s— He makes me worry, sometimes, telling me I have - I have weird reactions to reading them. Things I do. Like I can’t even do  _ that  _ right. They make me happy. Not - not the content. After.”

\---

Gerard snorts. "Oh, you're fucking hilarious Martin. 'can't do that right.' It's  _ monsters. _ none of its right. And half of it is made up. Bit chaosy. If it works, it works, that's how I use. Used? It."

He pulls his feet from the dashboard and fidgets to cross his legs in the seat. He's long and tall but he manages to make it work, even if he does look absolutely insane. "Never done a statement. Dunno what they're supposed to be like."

\---

“It’s not  _ funny.” _ Martin starts, subconsciously flipping the switch from insecurely open to insecurely defensive. 

Please stop smelling blood right now, it’s making me dizzy. 

“Getting something different out of it than him, than how he’s seen it’s  _ supposed _ to be, it - it feels perverse. I come out of it  _ elated,  _ you know, that I’m  _ here _ and not out living their horrifyingly scary lives. And then for a while everything in my life feels really, really  _ good.  _ I talk to people and they tell me about their fears, suddenly I’m showing up in their nightmares forever? But then, then if I make up something about canceling a vacation so I can bury my dead dog and get a stranger to listen to us bicker,  _ that’s _ fine. I don’t know what the  _ rules  _ are. I’m... “

He suddenly, jarringly realizes he’s worked himself up and has the decency to look mortified as he shuts his mouth.

\---

"Seems fine to me. Sounds like Jon just takes his experiences to be universal. Doesn't mean it's right, or normal, or standard. Just means he's a weird little freak who thinks freak behavior is right." He leans to the window and blows, and the glass frosts up. He begins finger drawing, his tongue poking out as he concentrates on corporeality.

"No rules. I think he's just a Virgo about it all."

\---

"It's not like that. He's lived it for years, studying it,  _ seeing _ it-- I haven't. I think it's reasonable that he's afraid." Somehow, someone else turning it against Jon makes everything worse. Who knows why that is. 

Martin is just marginally shocked out of it. "... A zodiac sign? What, that's real, too?"

\---

"I mean. Probably not." Gerry doesn't look away from the window as he draws, every line of his body clearly in deep concentration. "But sometimes we can have  _ fun _ with it all, yeah? Like acting like a Satanist or some shit."

\---

"I've never acted like a Satanist," Martin says thinly.

\---

"I didn't say  _ you.  _ God, were you like, Anglican? Catholic? Christ. I bet you're a fucking Gemini."

\---

"Neither,  _ Gerry. _ I wasn't raised anything. And-- No, I'm not. I'm a-a Cancer." He  _ doesn't _ believe in it, but he hesitates to tell Gerard what it is anyway.

\---

_ "Mm.  _ Crybaby then, huh?"

\---

Martin, who has cried during sex no less than once over the past few months alone, is not indulging this. "Don't do that."

\---

Gerard just gives a mild shrug. "Just having fun. I think it's funny." He leans back from the window; he's drawn eyes all over it, unblinking and teary where the condensation has started to melt and slide down the glass.

\----

“I don’t want to get shoved _ around  _ right now.” Martin spares a look to where Gerard’s gone and put eyes all over the damn window, frowning slightly. He’d love to be excited about that development from his new ghost acquaintance, but right now it’s taking all his effort just to keep moving.

\---

Gerard blinks, and looks actually taken aback, frowning slightly. "I wasn't. Shoving you around, I mean. I was just talking." Maybe he's rustier at this than he thought. The only perk of being a ghost is that the slow quell rise of anxiety rising in what once was a gut feels artificial, hollow. Easy to ignore. But it wants to be there, and Gerard has to push away the impulse to say something snappy and rude.

\---

“You’re baiting me. They’re baiting me. Everyone’s  _ baiting _ me.” Martin  _ does  _ nearly growl that out. He tries to be productive, though, because snapping at Gerard isn’t how he wants to solve this. Even though it’s easy. “I’m not stupid. There’s this - this numbness over the whole morning— They must’ve  _ told  _ me where I should go. Can’t be there yet if it takes days, I-I don’t— It’s not like I’m psychic, I-I-I’m scared they’re just getting me used to it. They never told me what they  _ wanted.” _

\---

"Hunters hunt. They're hunting you." Gerard hums as he thinks it through, and slowly wipes a hand across the window to remove any more unblinking eyes. He can't feel the condensation or the cold wetness, but he's slowly getting used to that absence.

"Maybe they smelled it on him. Protected by someone marked by the hunt. Easy to hunt something you know will follow. But what else are you supposed to do?  _ Not  _ get him back? As if."

\---

“I don’t even know when that would’ve  _ happened. _ Feels like something I would notice, you know, not - not this.” 

Martin is scared, and it’s all he can do not to let it set in. To not immediately burst into frantic, childish tears. 

He hasn’t even been driving that long but his own thoughts are stifling to the point of choking, so he pulls over again. Just so he can take a minute, to reorganize, reset— 

Or, what he’s suddenly realizing he’s doing, which is sticking his head out of the driver’s side window with his eyes closed and his arms propping him up. The more he hones in on the wave of copper and fear floating through the air, the less it makes him nauseous. “I’m starting to like it. Is that bad?”

\---

Gerard leans across the divide to look at him, and nods. Lord, how his life so quickly became about  _ Martin  _ is more than a little discomforting, but he supposes that's something to think about later. It's not like he has a choice. "Yes. You're giving yourself to it. Of course it's bad."

\---

“I don’t know what else to do,” Martin whines quietly in the dark behind his eyelids, oblivious to how he’s treating Gerard for now. He’ll have plenty of opportunities to feel guilty. To apologize. “It makes me think he’s here. It’s - it’s comforting, and nothing else is right now.”

\---

"Yeah, well, I'm just covering my ass here. Don't yell at me when you get hunt-withdrawal after you save him." It's not snapped, but it's... Not with much kindness, either. How could he? It's just reality.

\---

“I don’t know what that means. We barely ever talked about the Hunt together.” He looks completely insane like this, but it’s giving him a chance to clear his head. If he starts throwing up in front of Gerry out of stress, he’ll never let this book see the light of day ever again.

\---

"Yes, well, maybe you should teach your archivist how to relay information better. He's shit at it. If you give yourself to this, it's like a particularly potent drug. Or like when he gets statement withdrawal. Same concept."

\---

“I’m not really in a position to teach  _ him  _ anything.” 

Reluctantly, Martin sits back down in his seat. It’s immediately less comfortable, but he’ll manage. Back to the road. Do it in pieces, Martin. “The only way I’ve learned to protect myself is by avoiding it. This is— This is the definition of unavoidable.”

\---

"Oh, yeah, you've done a thrilling job of avoiding stuff as of late. You reek of half the entities, are deeply marked by entities, and now your nose is filled with someone else's blood. Swimming job of avoiding shit. Really. Gold metal." He rolls his eyes.

\---

“Yeah, well— It’s gotten a bit out of hand. But I can’t— There’s no  _ option. _ I don’t have experience with anything else, and I found out all of this was real just m-months ago. It took me  _ this  _ far in life just fine. Monsters are - are different.”

\---

"They are." He looks back out the window. "It is what it is, Martin. Either we find him or we don't. Those are the options. I don't give a shit either way."

\---

“Sorry. I’m not being fair to you.” It’s not harsh when it comes out, more surface-level shameful than anything. “You don’t have to stay.”

\---

Gerard gives a noncommittal shrug. He doesn't really believe Martin's actually sorry. Who ever has? People aren't  _ sorry  _ or  _ apologetic _ to poor Gerry Keay. Why start now?

"Yeah. Well. You're a bit unhinged right now. Don't want to disappear just for you to, like, crash and burn the car and  _ me _ along with it. Skin's flammable."

\---

“I won’t crash the car. Or get you set on fire.” Speak it into life and please let it be true. “I’m just saying, you’re a-a person, and technically a complete stranger. Me being  _ unhinged _ has nothing - nothing to do with it. I’m not crazy. Just— Upset.”

\---

"I mean, at this point you're probably a little bit of both. Which is fine." He snorts. "You'd be worse if you didn't have someone to talk to. The blood would fill you."

\---

Martin ignores the slight, because arguing about whether or not you’re crazy seems to have the opposite intended effect, and scrunches up his nose. “That’s disgusting.”

\---

_ "You're  _ the one who can smell your boyfriend's blood hundreds of miles away. Blood is blood."

\---

“He’s probably not... not  _ hundreds  _ of miles away. And— Don’t call him that. Just, just Jon is fine.”

\---

Gerard hikes his eyebrows up. "Did I somehow misread this incredibly weird situation? You  _ are _ together?" He pauses. "If they left this morning, I mean. I doubt they're in Pennsylvania anymore."

\---

“I-I guess we are, but it’s— It’s sort of... Makes me sound like a teenager, or something. I just want him to be  _ Jon _ to me, that’s all.” Martin’s flustered, not unlike a teenager. “You should start learning how to possess the car.”

\---

"Nice diversion. At least I didn't call him your  _ loooooover. _ Why the hell would I want to possess the car?"

\---

Yeah. It  _ is _ a nice diversion. “If we want to make it there without it taking triple the time it should, I hate driving as it is, it’s... It would  _ also _ be nice to get a chance to organize my - my thoughts so I’m not walking in blind. Might as well work on your ghost skills.”

\---

"Right. What half-baked movie did you get  _ that _ idea from? I've never seen anyone from the Book possess  _ anything. _ I'm a  _ Book. _ Even mum couldn't do that kind of stuff. She could only focus enough to hurt me, or move stuff. I don't-- I." He goes quiet, realizing all at once that he's. Well. Fuck. A small, humorless laugh escapes his incorporeal lungs. "Wow. Okay. It just hit me that this fucking sucks."

\---

“Yeah, and I’m assuming she was evil and probably mad long before the whole Book thing, so maybe she wasn’t the most creative. I’m brainstorming, Gerry.” Martin seethes from his side, “It wouldn’t suck if you used your time trying to make it  _ not  _ suck.”

\---

"Oh fuck off," He snaps, and there's heat in his voice. "You don't know shit about my mother. And I'm _ telling  _ you that that's a stupid idea. Christ."

\---

Fine, no mother talk. For now. It’ll come back to haunt them, as mothers tend to do. “Like putting the chair back so you can pretend to lounge isn’t stupid. I don’t mean possess the car like go  _ inside _ it. I-I mean just drive it. That’s what  _ possessing a car  _ is.”

\---

Gerard squints at him like he's an idiot. "Then say 'drive.' You-- you know exactly what telling a ghost to possess something means. Fuck."

\---

“Yeah, Gerry, I want you to be my talking car. Really? I bet you could possess a toaster now, it’s just pushing down a button,” Martin laughs, taking one hand off the wheel to rub over his mouth so he stops. Not the time or place for laughing anymore.

\---

"I'll push your buttons. Prick." He rolls his eyes, but he's having a hard time not smiling, and so he turns to the window again. Martin's an idiot, but as far as unchosen companions go, it could be worse. Especially if he was stolen by worse Hunters in that alternate future Jon speaks about.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin adjusts to growing developments with the Hunt. His new ghost companion walks him through a heated encounter with an evil tree.

Gerard fatigues, but Martin does not. 

Instead he sits in the silence that buzzes like flies over the spilt innards of a corpse, and he grows comfortably close to the breadcrumb trail of blood that they’re kindly leaving behind for him to follow. He’s aware of what they’re doing, vividly so, and he knows it won’t stay this way forever. Probably not even for very long. He wonders what they could possibly be thinking, how fun this must be for them to see someone struggle through what they must do very, very well, some kind of perverse game of corruption. 

He wonders what they struggled through to make progress on their own path to monsterhood, but he doesn’t wonder much, because he’s throwing himself into the fire and that necessitates a special kind of focus that leaves little in the way of empathetic understanding. Except for Jon, naturally. 

Martin’s packed all their unread statements. He can’t be _feeding,_ and that means he might be getting sick, but maybe it’s too early for him to _really_ get sick, and-- And he has no clue what they’re _doing_ to him. Not knowing drives him further up the ladder to slipping up just enough. Throwing hot coals over his senses, putting that energy into thought, Jon’s being tortured, Jon needs his help, Martin’s the only one who knows and the only one close enough to help, he’s not about to call Elias and ruin any semblance of power they have in the knowledge department when he can just _do_ it. 

He can play their game, and he can win, and he can use this to his advantage. He can be conscious of how he’s using it. He can be used, and that’s _fine._ He's been used plenty in his life enough to know it’s a two-way street.

Except, saying that is a million times easier than living it. He thought he could handle it without Gerard. He did handle it for another day, growing accustomed to the smell, pulling off for a nap that actually felt _good,_ blanketed by thoughts of his Archivist. Reinforcing, reinforcing, reinforcing. The next morning, he wonders briefly how much of his thoughts are usually occupied by Jon. 

Probably a lot, but maybe not this much. 

That second day, it’s not just a smell. He wakes up from his nap to the first hints of daylight bouncing off the car, and when he steps out to stretch, he’s enraptured by _leaves,_ of all things. In the trees. They’d never been so bright. Each individual one unique against the others, but in a subtle way. 

At first, it’s just entertaining. He drives, and the little bubbles of condensation on the glass are less of a nuisance and more of a natural art piece. The sun gleams bright off each one, a million little mirrors that make driving less of a pain and more of a comfort. It’s not until about noon that his skin starts to get heat up again - he’s been running hot since yesterday - and the sun is too bright, the noises of the engine too loud, the sensation of touching the wheel with his palms starting to sweat making it unbearable to touch, that he has to pull over again. He’s in a field somewhere, he knows that much. Somewhere the GPS didn’t lead him, unless you count the one in his own head telling him he needed to find a safe place to hide. The only thought to pierce his brain that’s not about him or Jon is some random knowledge about old cats walking off into the woods to die without eyes to watch them lose their dignity.

He paces a few times in front of the car with his eyes shut, lost and unsure which way is up, down, anywhere in-between, as everything he’s spent the whole morning opening up to, taking in, suddenly turns on him. 

The second he opens his eyes to try and acclimate, his eyes lock onto a tree he hadn’t noticed before, and it’s _staring_ at him from a hundred feet away. Threatening him, but he can’t explain _why,_ and he averts his eyes as if eye contact would set it off, would invite a challenge, as if any of that makes sense. That’s when he knows he’s fucked, somehow, enough to call Gerard back. 

So he does, slowly reaching into the car so he won’t anger the stupid tree and pulling out the book. He uses the car as a shield and slides down the other side with his knees up to his chest, pupils impossibly wide and aware as he finds impossible new ways to despise the skin pages. And he reads. Just as soon as it’s over, he puts the book to his side so he won’t be tempted to look at it again, because he really, really doesn’t want to.

\---

"Bored of the radio already?" Is Gerard's way of a greeting. In the sunlight, the pop of green eyes isn't as noticeable, but they're still there before they fade black into skin, winking in a way far more _leering_ than whatever Martin's tree is doing.

Martin is sitting, and he looks like utter shit, and after a moment of silence, Gerard follows, flopping onto the grass and sitting criss-crossed in front of him.

"Y'know, Gertrude was telling me about something called podcasts blowing up big. You could give one of those a try if you're ever tired of a dead gay goth."

Martin looks terrible. And Gerard seems to be his distraction. Whatever. He can do that.

\---

Martin sits defensively, arms looped around his knees with his eyes just high enough to glare forward at Gerard despite the kindness he's offering. He's not as hard to look at, actually, he's stayed exactly the same. He doesn't seem to reflect light the same way as everything else does, it's just the details that stick out more. His split ends. The marks across his skin. Each detail of his uneven nail polish. His weirdly comforting body language. The way his vocal cords work without working, his voice an echo from the core of his energy rather than his mouth proper.

He's too busy focusing on the way his voice works to absorb the words themselves, let alone understand their context, so he says nothing at all and just _watches_ him.

\---

Gerard stares back. He could continue this game for a long, long time; he's gotten good at _watching_ over the years. But it's really rather boring, and besides the sheen of sweat in Martin, the unfocused-focused feverishness in his eyes, the way he's sitting, nothing's different. Not really.

"In a Mood today, are we?"

\---

It's short enough that Martin can take that in just fine, and his voice is hoarse. He hasn't actually drank water in a while. Maybe he should.

"There's a tree behind the car. I think it's-- I think it's trying to tell me something, but I don't like it. Can you-- Can you feel it?"

\---

Gerard blinks, and leans to his side, palms to the grass as he peers from the hood of the car. He sees a strangely warped and ominous tree, but at first glance, at least, it's a _tree._ "I think... you're paranoid." He diagnoses it with all the seriousness of announcing someone's got cancer. And he would know.

\---

Martin freezes as Gerard checks for him, deeply afraid he's somehow sentenced him to death by having him check. "I'm not _paranoid."_ He pauses, because it's no use, and he lowers his volume. "Is it... okay, that I called you?"

\---

"It's fine. And you are paranoid. You think a tree is _telling_ you something. You know how insane that is? It just looks weird."

\---

With a scowl he swiftly evens out into something far more pitiful and far more reflective of his actual state of mind, Martin acquiesces. "Would - would you walk with me so I can see?"

\---

"Sure. Can't have you having a mental breakdown right now. Too cliche." He gets back to his feet, the movement watery, and would offer a hand to help Martin up if he felt he could maintain the contact. He doesn't want to embarrass them both.

\---

“I’m not having a breakdown. Everything looks different.” Martin gets up, too, way too aware of how his own muscles work beneath his skin. He picks up the book despite his current disdain for it. He hasn’t tested the range yet and doesn’t want to now. 

He peers over the hood of the car and squints, normalizing the tree. He’s bolder now with Gerry beside him to ease his nerves by presence alone. Not like he can be all that afraid, given that he’s already dead. 

And then he walks. Gets about halfway there before he tenses up again. There’s a few thick grooves along the bark, too sharp and methodical to be scratches except tool-made. Little splatters of something dark and dried dot the area around each cut. 

Martin doesn’t move an inch. _“Paranoid._ There’s blood on it, you stupid ghost.”

\---

Gerard follows, a hesitant movement to his steps. Truth be told, Hunters are vaguely foreign to him. Sure, he's met them. Worked with them. Worked through them, and seen his mother speak to them. Truth be told, if he hadn't Beholden himself to the Eye, the Hunt probably would have claimed him. His mother thought it undignified, uncivilized. She wanted noble blood; not a dog. Considering his predilection for hunting Leitners down for his mother, it's a wonder she kept him from that path.

He's glad she did.

Martin insists he's not paranoid, but he's near-feverish, and Gerard can see waves of the Hunt rolling off him, tacky and thick, and yellow and red and it's a near-frenzied feeling. Could Gerard feel more than thick numb-blanketed interpretations of feelings, he's certain he'd be nauseous.

"Okay. There's blood. Animals exist. You've got a feeling it's not?"

\---

“No— No, it’s not. I passed five dead things on the road the way here, and they didn’t— I didn’t feel anything.” 

Martin sounds sure of himself, not as scared. Picking it apart sorts out the instinct. So he gets closer, stopping just short of arm’s reach. 

The undignified sound he makes high in his throat would embarrass him any other time, but now, with someone who’s judgement he’s relatively numb to when compared to his usual company, he’s not worrying much with a filter. “No, it’s on purpose. They’re carved out, u-unless coyotes run around with - with _knives,_ it’s people. They were here.” Clutching the open book to his chest, Martin shifts uncomfortably to fight the need to get any closer, or to just start pacing. “They were here.”

\---

Gerard walks up to the tree, until he can stand nose to nose with the grooves. "You know it's _them?"_

His curiosity gets the better of him. He reaches forward and _wills_ it, wants to feel, wants to run his fingers down the bark, and he shivers when his hand makes contact, thick violent animal revulsion running down a spine-that-is-not. It's almost electrically hot, and the image of his form flickers as though a static interference runs through him, the tips of his hair standing straight up. 

This tree belongs to it, now, and the touch let's him See it as it truly is now, the leering, domineering presence of it. No wonder Martin was paranoid. If this is what he instinctively felt, didn't just See it... 

"This is awful." His voice is soft and quiet and almost awed.

\---

Martin almost hides behind Gerry as he touches it, peering over his shoulder to watch the unspoken dialogue in front of him unfold. He can’t sense anything off Gerry like he thinks he might be able to for _most_ people right about now, since this seems like a majorly body thing, but he has eyes. 

And boy, do they work. 

Martin gains the confidence to finally bridge the gap and touch despite the warning he’s gotten from his new friend. Hesitantly brushing fingertips alive with heat against man made wooden splinters. 

He touches it without moving for a very long time, breath stopped. He keeps what’s just gone through _him_ to himself, for now, only because he’s choking on it. When he does find words, they’re just as low as Gerry’s own, but with an edge not unlike a bubble fit to burst. “They’re just... triggering it. On purpose.”

\---

"It's foolish." Gerard says, and steps back, away from the tree-wound, and looks up at mocking late-August leaves, waving as though beckoning. "They're just making you stronger. You'll go Berserk on them. This isn't an Everchase. It has an end. They really must be that far gone to not realize what you'll do."

\---

Martin pulls away, eyes welled up with tears he’s not about to unload on Gerry. These are private feelings, and bottling it up will have no consequences whatsoever.

Odd anchor, he is. Martin layers it all until he can roll his eyes. “Of course you talk with proper noun words, too. I’m not _killing_ a-anyone. Don’t be dramatic. I’m sure once I-I catch up to them they’ll... they’ll let us talk.”

\---

"...Riiiiiight. And I killed my mother. Fun joke." That's fine. Gerard isn't going to argue about what Martin will do. The Hunt always ends in Slaughter.

\---

“That makes two of us,” Martin laughs, twitchy and moody and burying the mental evidence. “But you thought about it at some point, right?”

\---

Gerard shrugs. He hates this conversational turn, but it's his fault, he supposes. And clearly, Martin needs the distraction . Asshole seems oddly curious about mum, though. "Mostly just ran away a lot. Think I was too scared of her to think she _could_ die."

\---

“Yeah. I still worry about that, sometimes.”

His voice is so calm, and he’s tilted his head curiously as he looks at Gerry, like he’s intercepting radio signals or something. He’s not. 

“I have to walk around in this field now.”

It’s the same tone, but he sidesteps Gerry and just starts walking through the dying, dried up grass up to his ankles in one direction.

\---

"You know you're, like, insane, right?" Gerard follows. Not on his heels, but a few feet behind, and he's pleased that the action evidently has enough purpose that every three or four steps is met with the crunching of grass.

\---

“Stop calling me that, it’s not helping.” Martin starts straight-on before it turns into something apparently senseless, following something without knowing what it really is. 

“This doesn’t happen much anymore, it’s like— Like my mouth works, but my body’s on autopilot and I’m just watching. Sometimes it's the other way around, l-like usually if something really, really bad happens. But this is fine. You’re making noise back there like you’ve got _weight,_ by the way.”

\---

Gerard tried to follow for a few moments before giving up, standing still in the middle of field and throwing his hands up in exasperation. Whatever. Let Martin guard whatever the fuck this is. He's not wasting his energy.

"'cause you're infuriating. Fine. Talk, then."

\---

"You're manifesting weight because I'm annoying you? It's not an _insult,"_ Martin says distantly, finally bending down with his back facing his ghost. It takes him a second to pick up what he's trying to grab, mumbling an apology that's not aimed in Gerard's direction, but once he does he cups his hands and crosses to the middle of the field. 

He lets one hand drop and the other sit palm-up between them. Lo and behold, there's a small red beetle scuttling around. "It's a ladybird."

\---

"Grand." Gerard leans back a bit, wrinkling his nose. Ghost or no ghost, it's a smelly beetle. "Let it free."

\---

“She _is_ free. She can fly away whenever she wants.” Martin sticks his hand up higher into the air, and it takes flight on a breeze. Very poetic, that. “I think she just stopped me from blacking out about... “ Martin hums, willing himself not to look at the tree. Luckily, Gerard’s in the way of his view. “...Something else.”

\---

Gerard doesn't say anything. He shoves his hands into his pockets. Martin's weird about his mother. Obviously. The nice part of him wants to forgive and forget; Martin asked him prying questions, and Martin shuts down when it gets too real. Typical. Not the move. "Did _you_ want to kill _yours?"_

\---

“I did kill mine,” Martin says seriously, the natural color of his eyes eclipsed by dark circles that show him more than he’s ever thought there was.

\---

"I left mine to." Gerard squints at Martin. "How?"

\---

"I brought her to the toolshed and took her fingernails off with a knife." He sits down where he's standing, and starts carding through the dry grass with his fingers. "Put a lock on it and left her to die."

\---

"Macabre," Gerard says, and slowly meets Martin where he is. He sits down, his legs spread wide, and he slowly presses his back and arms forward, arms outstretched and as far as they go. Ghostly yoga.

He doesn't believe Martin; the second the lie flew from his mouth, Gerard knew. But this is certainly something to watch, to experience. "Trial of the century."

\---

Martin leans back until he's completely grounded, facing straight up to the sky. He shuts his eyes against the blinding light. "No trial. Burned up. Mysterious accident."

\---

"Pity. You'd look good in orange."

\---

A beat of silence. Near-audible whiplash. "...Sorry, are you... hitting on me in a field my boss' kidnappers smeared his blood all over, like, six hours ago?"

\---

"Mmm... Maybe." Gerard leans back on his elbows. "Perspective switch-up; I'm hitting on you after you made up a gruesomely detailed lie about your mother being fingernail murdered. Better? Worse?"

\---

"That's not gruesomely detailed, I was holding back. Can't make it too elaborate." Martin has no clue how to address the _rest_ of that right now, so he quickly jumps elsewhere. "Um. I-I think I get how this-- How it works, sort of-- " He holds up one hand. "-- First, it gets you violently ill-- " and then the other, weighing them. "-- Then makes it _nice._ Relief. Satisfaction at finding some _piece._ That's the part I'm used to. Not the former. It's just making me go through the former for the latter."

\---

"Spiritual heroin addiction." He pauses. "You're feeling better, then? Having--" He hikes a thumb back at the tree.

\---

“It’s an up-and-down. I had— I had a _moment,_ um, but - but now I just want to sing songs from Wicked?” Martin’s eyes follow where Gerry’s pointing, and he swallows thickly, stuck on the tree again. “I really think you should try driving the car.”

\---

"I really think you shouldn't try and sing musicals, but it's looking like that's not going to happen, huh?" He sighs. The grass sways around them, hypnotic in the breeze, and were Gerard still alive, he'd find a way to make this all bloody significant. Wrap his mind around it like a philosophy. As it is, he's just tired. 

"I can barely touch anything yet."

\---

“I’m not going to _sing.”_ Jon would let him sing. He’d let him sing and tell him how good it was. Probably. Hopefully. “I’m not asking you to jump in and drive us three hours to the next stop, I mean— pieces. Try touching the wheel first, brakes. Et cetera.”

\---

Gerard sighs like this is the biggest task anyone's ever had the audacity to ask from him. He slowly gets to his feet, an odd motion with no weight behind it to make any of the stretching muscles have a difficult time. Too fluid. "Et cetera. If you make me drive and we get pulled over, I'm going to sleep. Just an FYI."

\---

“I’d rather get pulled over than wait until whichever wave of this decides it’s time I start hallucinating, or - or - something.” This whole thing has him very ashamed. He feels like a kid that can’t be left alone. 

Martin sits up, then stands, the feverish warmth dialing down to something numb by comparison. He does make an effort to reach the car first, the door handle on the driver’s side disgustingly cold as he holds it open for Gerry.

\---

Gerry is slow in climbing into the car, and slower yet with forcing himself to will his hands upon the steering wheel. He curls over himself, tall in the small sedan, and then he looks back out to Martin and admits, "I don't know how to drive."

\---

Martin stares blankly at him before running an exasperated hand down his face. He mutters to himself as he crosses to the other side of the car. “Awful— Eye-aligned goth people, maybe if you tried to Know anything useful you’d be inventing self-driving cars and we’d all be so happy nobody had fears anymore,” and he sits down in the passenger’s seat with a loud huff. This is actually focusing him out of his own exhaustion. Fantastic. 

“Wheel controls direction. Down there, brakes and gas. You’ll know which is which. You look like someone who wouldn’t _use_ turn signals, so that’s optional.”

\---

All of that earns Martin a deepset, unhappy glare, a shockingly accurate mimicry of the way Martin had looked at him in the car the first time, his forehead lightly on the wheel. As retribution for the insult, he focuses and presses against the wheel _hard_ with his forehead, pleased with the sudden peal from the horn on the quiet field.

\---

Martin squints back at him, and the uncanny resemblance is not lost on him. 

At least, it’s not... right up until that sound rips through his ears, louder than any normal car horn he’s ever heard in his life. On pure reflex his hands fly up to either side of his head, only marginally blocking it out. Oh, he hates this new development. _“Stop!”_

\---

Gerard keeps going for another couple seconds and then laughs, and laughs, leaning back in the seat. It's not just a laugh; he snorts and has a whole fit about it, and for good measure, he slaps the horn with his hand again before shoving his hands innocently into the pockets of his jacket. "Is that how you do it, driving instructor Martin?"

\---

Martin inhales shakily, and then repeats the effort several times, just short of hyperventilating. By the time Gerry finds any shred of mercy and speaks, Martin has nothing to say. Instead he leaves the car, because he's _just_ realized he left the book a few feet away where he'd picked up the bug, and picks it up. 

He spares one look at Gerry before grabbing it by the spine and chucking it full-force at their evil tree.

\---

 _"Fuck!"_ His voice is a screech, the sound distorted and wrong and raw and ear-piercing, because the book lands _harshly_ on the ground, and a supernatural pain wracks his body. The eyes glow, as though watery tears are being produced within them, and he slides sideways out of the car, his ass hitting the grassy ground when he can't find purchase enough to stand. "You piece of fucking shit Hunter. Jesus _fuck!_ Shit!"

Don't mind his tantrum. The eyes fade back into his skin as the pain in the book ebbs, but he gets to his feet to get _closer_ to the book. It's a hundred meters away, nearly, and Gerard can _feel_ that too, like a thread about the snap. And he's far, far too livid now to want to be sucked back into the book and left to stew.

Martin can go fuck himself.

He stomps over to the book and his arms are shaky as he stares down at its crumpled form, and he concentrates and picks it up, waving it in the air. "You're not getting this back, you complete and utter _waste!"_ He shouts across the field.

\---

For now, he's going to ignore how _good_ Gerry's initial pain feels to watch. 

"You started it!" Martin yells back, forgetting about the tree long enough to try to close the distance between them. "I can still barely _hear_ you!"

\---

"Oh, boo fucking hoo. You heard a loud noise. How scary. Quivering in my boots. You _threw_ me to a fucking _blood tree."_ He presses the book to his chest protectively. It's weird. It's warm in his hands, almost painfully so, but it's an anchor. It makes it easier to stay here, to feel, to not feel like he's just a few moments behind.

Figures, his anchor is his own death book.

The heat helps to keep him angry, and when Martin's close enough, he jabs a finger at his chest. "You're seriously fucking deranged."

\---

"Everything is _loud_ right now-- You almost burst my eardrums, it wasn't _scary,"_ Martin growls it out, actually, trying to snatch the book back with one hand.

\---

"Drama queen," Gerard snarls back, and tries to lean back away from Martin, his grip tightening on the book. It slips in his grasp, just from the immediate fear that takes him that he _won't_ be able to keep a grip on it.

\---

Martin expects to have to fight for it, to put _weight_ behind his grasp, and he puts the amount of energy into the grab that he would to take something from a living person. The give as it phases through Gerry surprises him, and he stumbles forward--

He barely avoids touching the tree, and the noise he makes as he narrowly leans back from it is nothing short of an 'eep'.

\---

Gerard sneers at him. "Give it back. Give it. God, is this how you act at the institute? A fucking child?"

\---

"Says _you."_ Martin rebounds quickly, walking a cautious half-circle around Gerard. "I tried to show you how-- How to drive-- I've been _encouraging_ you to-- I'm doing my best, _Gerry._ You deserved it!"

\---

"You _told_ me to drive, you bellend." He leans forward and bares his teeth, wild strands of hair in his face. _"Give_ it."

\---

Martin takes a frantic step back, eyes wide and focused on Gerry's mouth. _"No."_

\---

It's then that Gerry realizes the book is closed, and he's still here. That it's been thrown and opened to other pages, but _he's_ still summoned. That Martin's protectiveness of it probably means he won't hurt it for _real._ And there's no way he's strong enough to win in a tugging battle between a half feral hunter's strength, and a ghost that can barely hold the book to begin with.

All at once, he drops the expression, and it goes into a blank neutral passivity. Years have wrought this level of neutrality to his face. A cooling of every emotion and a packing away of all the anger, the rage, to let it sit deep, deep inside him until another day. "Fine."

Gerard doesn't want to be here anymore. Removing the anger just leaves him exhausted, and numb again. 

"Chase your blood." And he wills himself to sleep, and the eyes wink out of existence.

The silence that follows is louder than any horn could ever be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, no, are we friends? I think we're friends. I have no idea what a 'friend' is. Also, I think I might kill someone on my American backpacking tour! Shoot.

If he were emotionally available enough to analyze the situation, Martin would know that every piece of his current situation was structured to keep him just short of losing his mind. Obviously, planting a physical trail in front of him and ripping it all away just short of resolving it all with a brand new challenge forces him to let it fester. Or, it will, once this immediate struggle is resolved. 

Drawing it out just makes the game more intense. A split second to see what he’s hunting in the headlights of the car after dark makes it  _ real.  _ He’s not after a concept, a memory, some abstract idea. He’s after someone he  _ loves. _ Someone who’s pain resonates clearly even through the thick metal barrier of the car, whose torture is  _ evidenced,  _ no longer imagined. 

But he’s not given a chance to be desperate, to throw himself full-force into the conflict they’d laid out just far enough that he’d have time to brake. He doesn’t get to talk, to make deals, because right now he  _ would.  _

Well, not right now in the literal sense, exactly, considering he’s hit the brakes into a bed of nails, and he’s not  _ good _ with cars, and he’s on some dirt road over a hill with no fence to keep him from veering off the road. He doesn’t have the time to get irrational, because now it’s a matter of handling his own survival.

The car doesn’t flip, but it does hit a tree that turns the front into a kaleidoscope of glass about halfway down the hill, turned at an angle that makes getting out from the driver’s side a battle with gravity. 

Luckily the windshield doesn’t shatter, but the impact has his face hitting the wheel with enough force that the blood pouring from his own nose drowns out the smell that’s filled his head since the first morning. The airbags don’t go off, because he’s _ lucky _ that way, and he hears what someone yells down at him enough to know they’re teasing him, so he banks that for later to parse because the second he’s able to open his eyes, he knows the smoke clouding around the windows is coming from under the hood. 

They don’t leave until they see him conscious, torso out of the open window without enough strength to pull himself out of it. Satisfied that he can pull himself out of this alive, they get moving. It’s motivation: nothing like an engine signaling the loss of the one thing he wants to get him thinking creatively. 

With a short string of dazed curses, Martin pulls back into the car and scrabbles around the passenger side where the door’s blocked from opening by natural debris. He finds the book on the floor, and without an apology he throws it out as far as he can into the grass. Book safe enough, he remembers. He’s said it a few times, and drawing up the gist of Gerard’s recorded story is easy enough.

The hard part is following it up with a pained, _ “Please.” _

\--- 

It's slow going. Coming feels like swimming through thick, bloody molasses, like the point of contact isn't quite as clear. When he does come, it's a few blinking eyes at a time, a field of green fireflies winking in and out and in and out again with no calibration, no synchronized energy. His form flickers and static runs through it, but eventually he's there, sitting on top of the book and grabbing a fistful of grass to ground himself to this plane. Breathing that's not required is heavy, shocked, scared.

The first thing Gerard sees is smoke, and he busies his anchoring with the grass, while his chin lifts and he follows the smoke from the hood of the car curl and undulate to the sky.

"Are you qualified to teach driving, then?" He says it loudly, because he still feels frail, like he's used a lot of energy to come here without the aid of the ritual. They'll have to work on that. It's  _ possible,  _ and it reminds him of his mother. For once, the comparison doesn't make his lip curl.

\---

Martin’s own labored breaths  _ are _ required, but he’s both surprised and remarkably relieved to hear someone berate him. 

“I need a witness,” he grinds out, not nearly as loud. Martin doesn’t let himself dwell on the relief, instead using it to find the strength to pop the trunk and climb out the window. It hurts, vaguely, but that’s not his point of focus. 

He crawls on the grass, finding purchase a foot away over a nearby rock to hoist himself upright. Dizzy and disoriented, he rounds back to the car and uses that as a crutch to make his way to the back. 

The suitcase is heavy. For a split second, he thinks it might’ve magically turned into a corpse. But he grabs it out of the trunk and starts to drag it out without wasting breath on antagonizing his friend.

\---

Gerard slowly grinds himself to his feet, bending to focus and grab the book. He's holding on tight this time. There's still a thrum of anger-- no time has passed for  _ him-- _ burning below his skin, and he's not playing Martin's games this time.

He's getting sick of waking up in American fields. The stars above him wink as though watching, and it leaves a phantom shiver down his spine. The grass is dry, the late summer grinding to a fruitful halt. Can't he wake in a city?

"What are you doing?"

\---

"Saving you. Saving-- " Martin drops the suitcase next to Gerry, his voice clogged with blood. "-- Me." 

He's about to sit down to just  _ exist,  _ when his whole body flinches. 

"Our bags." He looks to the smoke growing thicker around the car, then to the inside of the car itself, evaluating his odds a split-second before jumping back into motion off to the back door.

\---

Gerard sets the book down on top of the suitcase, sacrificing his own anxieties purely so he can judgmentally throw his hands up in the air, the ends of his cost billowing slow and water-like in the wind. "For the thousandth time! You're fucking insane!"

\---

Martin manages to pull the back door open, but it's too heavy to  _ stay _ open. He can't climb into it like that, so he forgoes that direction and hops up onto the car from the back. He stops just short of the driver's side window to stand straight up on the car, and being somewhat obscured by the smoke, his yelled out "I am not  _ insane!" _ is very convincing.

\---

Gerard closes the gap between them, and the smoke does not hurt him, and does not obscure his vision, and does not clog his nose. It keeps him from shutting his eyes.

"You smell like shit. And you most definitely are. Crazy." Despite his stoic tone, he chews his lip when he looks at the growing smoke.  _ "Hurry." _

\---

"You can't smell, and I don't c _ are,"  _ Martin growls, subconsciously enjoying the height he's got on Gerard from up there. It's short-lived, however, as he lowers himself into the car to the back. He manages to strap his own bag to his back, gripping the top loop on Jon's between his teeth so his hands are free. Climbing out is a struggle, not because of the weight but with the way everything loves to snag on  _ some _ part of the car, but he does it.

His descent from the window isn't graceful, but it's cleaner than the first time. He walks to the spot where he's dropped everything, pulling the handle on the suitcase with one hand so he can stabilize the skin book on top without it falling. Then he's grabbing it with two hands, and it rolls enough along the ground that it's easier to pull away to a safer distance.

\---

Gerard looks back at the car they're evidently abandoning, and looks up to the sky again and sighs. He follows Martin, and makes up their distance with a few long steps.

"Wanna talk about what the hell happened?"

\---

Martin's voice is muffled with the bag still in his mouth. "Why don't you make up what you  _ think _ happened, and I'll just say 'yes, Gerry, that's exactly what happened'?"

\---

"I've got ideas, but I also desperately comically want it to be that you just arbitrarily crashed the car in a freak accident." He's not taking pity. "It just seems funnier in a cosmic sense than 'I let two seasoned Hunters trick me into an Avatar-making Hunt who then crashed my car because I was falling into their every clue.'"

\---

Martin meets him with fiery silence until he's found a spot far enough away that a cluster of trees obscures the car from sight. He drops the suitcase and sheds his own bag from his back before using a hand to carefully lower Jon's. Then, finally, finds a rock suitable to nurse his wounds on and sits. 

The second a few of his fingers brush over his nose, he winces, tone strained. "Yes, Gerry, that's exactly what happened."

\---

Gerard comes to stand in front of Martin. His expression is flat; he truly has no idea this man has stayed alive as long as he had, this neck-deep in the world of the supernatural. "Excellent." He huffs out a breath. "Do you have a first-aid kit somewhere?"

\---

"Yes," Martin sighs, forcing his hands away from his face. "I-I have to find it." 

He knows it's definitely not in the suitcase, because Martin put everything back in with criminally disorganized speed when he left to go find him, and the only thing he hasn't touched is Jon's bag. It felt wrong, somehow, to start rummaging through it. Like if he waited long enough, Jon would come back before he ever needed to. 

In the dark with vision in one eye starting to cloud up with what's definitely a bruise at his nose, Martin opens the bag and shoves a hand in. He's not sure what he's touching, lots of different sounds there, but he does eventually stumble on fabric that feels familiar. He tugs it out and is  _ so _ glad he's right, shifting on the rock so he can lean forward enough that gravity helps.

Blood is still openly trickling from his nose and onto the grass, and before he does anything else he just... he just sits there, watching it.

\---

Gerard crouches in front of him, and watches his movements for a second, clumsy and out of it and weak. He wonders if he even knows how to use half the stuff in the kits. Who knows how knew he is to this world. "Give it. Just help me if I drop stuff."

\---

It takes Martin longer than he likes to comprehend what Gerry's saying, let alone be confused by it based on his _ character.  _

His response is nearly a whisper, just a solitary, "...What?" But he listens, eventually, reaching blindly for the bag until he's able to undo the zipper in his lap with both hands. It falls open - luckily, nothing falls out - and he lowers it to the ground far enough forward that he's not dripping blood right into it.

\--- 

Gerard takes the bag, and with a clumsy movement that takes a clear amount of effort, he turns it over and dumps everything to the grass, to make it much, much easier to just grab individual items instead of having to sort.

"Just be patient. Don't rush me." 

It's infuriating how long it takes to do a basic task. Either his hand will pass through, or the object will spontaneously fall to the ground. Ripping cotton gauze, pouring antiseptic, it takes minutes when it should be seconds. 

But he stays focused. Focused in a way that makes him feel more corporeal than he's felt since he was woken up for the first time. A strange kind of energy runs through him, and his eyes take in every detail of Martin as though committing him to memory. With a jolt, he realizes he's accidentally feeding the Beholder. Or some remnant of the memory of it.

He leans closer to Martin, and begins to try and mop up the blood while cleaning the flesh of his nose, and this, too is laborious, his tongue poking out in concentration.

\---

They're both lucky that Martin can't smell the antiseptic right now. 

Trying not to disappear to some other time in his own mind is distracting enough, but as Martin's eyes fully adjust to the dark and he can see what Gerry's doing, the confusion settles ever deeper. Every time he fails, Martin's grip at the edge of the rock flinches like he's waiting for Gerry to give up and step away. 

But he doesn't, and Martin doesn't know  _ why. _ He doesn't interrupt, and a few different times he forgets what's going on just to stare at the slowing strings of his own blood, but each time he comes back he's not any less confused.

Both hands on the rock, Martin fights the near-overwhelming instinct to protect himself when he breaches Martin's space. He tries to make it obvious he's about to say something before he actually does. "Why... are you being nice to me?"

\---

Gerard stills his hand for a scant second and then continues like he never stopped. He finishes cleaning and priming the nose, and leans back to slowly rip up more cotton. "I'm just cleaning you. It's not  _ nice." _ His eyes meet Martin's for a moment and then drift back down to his nose.

"Don't flinch. I'm shoving cotton up your nostrils." And then he does just that, and stares at him for a moment, thinking. Hard to set a nose he can't actually feel the bones in. He can grab things, sometimes, but  _ feeling _ the press of cartilage and bone and skin detailed enough to set it? The most he can do is makeshift for now.

\---

The warning isn't slow enough for him to really prepare for that, but Martin does manage to lock his muscles up enough that he can at least _ wait  _ until Gerry's stopped touching him to shrink back and get a hand up to his mouth before he gives in to an impulse he's never had before. 

It doesn't do much for looking like he's _ not  _ completely out of his mind, but he tightly shuts his eyes and bites down on his hand while he gets accustomed to the pressure. Not like he could've snapped at Gerry any way other than verbally, since he's a  _ ghost,  _ but that's new for him. He spends a considerable amount of time evening out his breaths like that, since he can't use his nose and with his teeth clamped around skin there's not much room.

\---

Gerard leans back and watches him for a while, his hands resting across his own thighs and knees. From what he can see, Martin is mostly safe, sans the nose and a collection of bruises that are only just starting to bloom across his skin. He fumbles for some pain killers in the grass, and it takes him a long, long while to get the bottle open.

"Stop biting yourself. You're filthy. You're going to get bacteria in your mouth." He shakes out pills into his palm, and imprecisely just lets the amount he doesn't need fall into the grass instead of embarrassing himself by trying to get the excess back in the pile.

He offers them to him.

\---

Martin stops when Gerry asks him to, but he's not sold on the idea of having to control himself without it. "I've had worse in my mouth," he says softly, and there's no hint of a joke. "Sorry. I didn't-- I didn't want to start fighting back." 

Oh, this is getting uncomfortably close to something he's not sure he's ready for, right now. Still, Martin sticks his hand out to take them from Gerry despite not  _ wanting _ anything to numb this out, and only just notices he's punctured his own skin once his palm is facing up.

\---

He drops the pills into Martin's palm and looks up to field him an exasperated look. "Now I have to clean that, too. You're like a teething puppy, I swear." He leans back to grab the antiseptic again, glad that his muscles don't fatigue like a real person's, and that he can maintain this point of crouching for much longer than anyone else could.

\---

To avoid the sickly embarrassment of being non-compliant, Martin tilts his head back and swallows them dry. Mostly, anyway, since a few of them ended up losing coating from his own drool and blood mixed unpleasantly at one corner of his palm. They're bitter, but it's fine. He hates every second of swallowing multiple times so he's sure they went down all the way. 

There's a combination of things at play, here, but it's helping that Martin has nothing to work off of except Gerry's body language and voice. No physical panic, ghosts don't have  _ stress hormones,  _ and he's working on his own hypothesis so who knows if it even works that way, but... but he thinks it would be different. Scarier, if he could actually hurt Gerry in a normal, mortal way.

Once he's taken the pills, Martin doesn't extend his hand again. It's balled up into a fist pressed defensively close to his chest. He opts to say nothing, neither purely from his own end or in response to Gerry's comments, mutely holding his eyes steady on the bottle of antiseptic.

\---

Gerard watches him, and slowly lowers the bottle. "Either I do it here, or you've got to clean up wherever we're going. You don't want it to infect, Martin. Its just antiseptic. Sheesh." But he isn't forcing him.

\---

"It's not..." Martin trails off before he's really even started, because he can't explain. He doesn't have the words for it. 

Instead, he opens his hand and cautiously holds it out, his other white-knuckled with the force he's using to control himself.

\---

Tensing as he musters control and will over himself, Gerard cups Martin's hand loosely, and the ghostly flesh is cold and slightly buzzing like an insect. The cotton gets soaked in antiseptic and he starts to wash the wound with the other hand. It's not a nasty wound, barely pinpricks of blood, but he's not letting Martin get an infected hand because of his stupidity.

Besides. He hasn't felt this grounded or real in a long, long time.

"How long have you been doing this?" He asks quietly, softly, not looking up at him while he works. When he's certain he's clean, he starts to blindly search for the bandaids in the grass.

\---

Martin draws his hand back the second Gerry lets him go, watching him as if he’s filtering out a thousand imagined intentions. “What, bite my hand? Never. I-I think.”

\---

Gerard rolls his eyes. "No. All of this. This world." He tries to open the bandaid, but utterly fails three times in a row, and with a grunt, he holds it out to Martin to take.

\---

“Oh.” Martin laughs off the miscommunication, and it helps keep him present. He talks as he opens up the bandaid, fingers shaking as he places it. “March? Marchish? Before, technically,  _ reading _ about it.”

\---

"... It's what, August? September?" He looks around the field, but it's night; he can only go off the last field, and the dryness of the plants, the buzzing of cicadas in the trees. "Six months? Seven? Shit He roped you into this, then? After he-- what, went back in time?"

\---

“I— Yeah. Yeah, I mean— I volunteered, sort of, once he told me about it. I always knew some of it  _ had _ to be real, you can’t really— You can’t deny it all. He, erm, I wasn’t convinced, at first. So he... he proved it.”

Gerry’s tone is sobering him up. “It can’t have been that recent.”

\---

"It's not a lot of time, is all. Took me my whole life to figure what I did." He finally sits back, letting himself fall down to the ground and stretch his legs wide in front of him. Truth be told, all that corporeality has him exhausted.

\---

"I  _ still  _ don't think I know anything. You - You didn't have to do that, Gerry. I know how." 

Martin thinks that might sound dismissive, and this has put him in a weirdly docile mood compared to every other development in his life the past few days. "You're getting good at it. The-- You know, moving things."

\---

Gerard shrugs. "It didn't look like you were going to take care of it yourself." He doesn't know how to respond to the compliment. His first instinct is to pick through his words and find something to argue about, but he doesn't have the energy right now. Or maybe Martin just doesn't deserve it for once.

"You didn't read my page. It was hard to come, but I heard you without opening my page. I don't know what it means."

\---

"I did say please after I said it," Martin adds, like that changes much about anything. "I was. I, um, I've done it-- That's what this is." 

He holds up his right hand, where his skin tissue healed over wrong. "Oh, it's-- It's dark. Months ago, we, erm,  _ worms." _

\---

"I can see in the dark. Gross." He wrinkles his nose. "Corruption, I assume, then? Lucky you, if that's all you escaped with."

\---

Martin nods, though he doesn't want to call it  _ gross.  _ He takes off his coat, because the feverish heat of what's happened has less to do with whatever the Hunt is warping him with and more to do with his own natural fear. It's too  _ warm. _

He holds out both arms, where similar scars dot up to his elbows on either side. "Lucky. Right. Had to use a corkscrew to get them out. I still have it here, in my bag. Just, erm, just in case."

\---

"My whole body's scar tissue," Gerard shrugs, and tugs down the hem of his shirt, where his skin has clearly healed over from burn wounds. "Hive, though. Nasty stuff. Never fought one myself."

\---

"I'm sorry," Martin says, and he's genuine about it. "I don't think you could call what we did  _ fighting.  _ At least we knew it would happen, this time. Happened before. Timelines."

Martin thinks to search his pockets for a phone, but he thinks he actually doesn't... need it, to see. He's getting used to the light. Or, rather, the lack of it. Instead, he starts rooting through Jon's bag, pulling things out so he can sort. He doubts he can carry it all out of here, so. Prioritizing inventory.

\---

"Fighting isn't always knives and fists. Or even corkscrews." He stays sitting while Martin sorts. He has a feeling they'll be  _ walking, _ and he's pretty certain it won't be a good idea to leave Martin by himself tonight.

When did he start to care? Examining it, he can easily justify condemning Martin to his loneliness and going back to fucking bed. But it's not his gut instinct. Ugh. He must be being manipulated somehow, by him. He just doesn't know for what purpose. 

"And the Spiral?"

\---

"I was in a library, back when Jon first told me about all this. Monsters, avatars, the rest. Michael - that's the Spiral - showed up and didn't kill me. We shook  _ hands." _ Martin places the notebooks Jon left into one pile, sorts anything sustaining into another, and starts tossing all the pens that don't look nice over Gerry's shoulder. 

"Visited me in the hospital after the worms. Feels like  _ years _ ago. I, um, I promised I'd play games with him. Board games, not - not monster ones. He's just a person, mostly."

\---

"Sometimes they are, I guess. Avatars. Didn't even know the Spiral  _ had  _ an Avatar right now." He squints at what Martin's doing, but doesn't say anything; whether he's blowing off steam or actually accomplishing anything with this, who cares. He just wants to keep Martin talking.

\---

"He's not happy about it." He stops, face scrunching up in confusion. The next time he reaches in, he pulls out a small rock. 

It's a nice rock. He reaches in and pulls out another, and another, until he's no longer questioning it and just sorting them into piles based on personal preference that's mostly arbitrarily based on how much they remind him of Jon. 

"We've been planning to separate them, actually. Michael and  _ Michael. _ Just before we took you inside, I-- We got the idea that someone might help. But, um, sort of on hold right now, obviously."

\---

"... Is that even possible?"

\---

Done with the rocks, Martin unzips another pocket and pulls out the money he already knows is in there. Front pocket's fair game, always, compared to the rest of it. It's easy enough to stuff it all into his wallet. 

"Don't know yet. It could work, depending on... a lot. It's a work in progress. None of it's been done before, but you can say that about anything at  _ some _ point in time, right?"

\---

Gerard shrugs. "Intent is more important than anything. Will. It's definitely a  _ Ritual, _ though. Calling for a lot of attention." 

\---

"I know, I'm kind of... operating under that, most of the time. Might as well get used to having eyes on me.  _ Apparently _ they were already." 

\---

Gerard glances up at the sky. It's cloudy, tonight; he can't see the stars. "Are we  _ staying _ out here?"

\---

Martin stops rummaging, surprised at the question. "I'm... I'm moving everything important to one bag. No service here, last I checked. Walking, I-I guess?"

\---

"... To? Do you  _ have _ a plan? How far have we even gone?" He hates to sound so needy. But if he's awake, if he's along for this ride, he wants to  _ know. _ And he's got  _ nothing,  _ when he spends days at a time sleeping in a book. 

The realization of how dependent he is upon Martin and the book staying safe chill him, psychologically, and he scowls, running harsh hands through his hair.

\---

"I do, but I don't think you'll like it. I-I mean, I don't think  _ I  _ will, more, but... I don't think it's pleasant. It's been... It's been slow, but we're in northern Indiana, right now." 

Martin glances up at Gerry, quickly, then turns back down. Working on his own bag, he puts his own journal over Jon's, then a folder. Soon, he's stacking tapes.

\---

"Almost there, at least. Would've reached there by dawn, I reckon." God, he wishes he could smoke right now. "What's the plan? Don't assume I'll dislike something. I like plenty."

\---

"I do what they want. I go up there," and Martin points up to the slope the car barreled down, "And I stick my nose to the dirt. Not-- Not literally."

The tapes now stacked, his own bag is nearly empty except for one inside pocket. His hand hesitates from pulling back out so he can run fingers over the familiar grooves of what he holds like he's shy about its helpfulness to him in front of Gerry. "I hope."

\---

"To freshen the trail." He shrugs. "It's not like you can avoid it, now."

\---

"Right. Guess not. I'm just... " Martin finally pulls out the corkscrew, examining the few old splotches remaining. "I'm afraid. I-In a way I haven't been, before. I'm sorry this isn't what - what we imagined."

\---

"Lemme see that." Gerry holds out his hand, his palm patient. His voice is calm. "You'd better be afraid. I'd worry more about your humanity if you weren't. I've been afraid every single moment of my existence."

\---

“I-It’s different, this kind. Where you know you’re feeding something supernatural and not just... not just the normal kind of fear.” Martin’s gone and used the F-word, but he’s too busy deliberating to care. 

He’s not sure why Gerry wants it, but he’s making Martin want to trust him. He rubs his thumb over the smooth side once more before handing it over. “Be careful with it.”

\---

He can't feel the physicality of this object. Can't feel the smooth wood or the cold metal. Can't even really feel the dried blood. But he can  _ Feel  _ that latter one. It's drenched in it. A few of the eyes on his arm start to light up, right up to his shoulder, peeking through his clothes and hanging in the air while he holds it.

"Oh," He says, and wonders again, if it's possible to feed the Eye in this state of existence. If it is, he is. Instead of sitting like a weird freak, he says, lightly, his voice rather stiff from want of pouring in how strange, arcane this is, "Should throw this in Artifact Storage. 'Hello, Elias? Yes, there's simply too much magic blood on this to throw away.'"

\---

Martin recoils slightly as the eyes light up, subliminally threatening. “You’re like a butterfly with eyespots,” he says contemplatively, content to continue that empty train of thought until the  _ weirdness  _ of Gerry’s tone catches up with him. 

He leans forward to try and see whatever Gerry’s getting from his corkscrew, suddenly nervous. “W-What do you mean?”

\---

"It's just--" Gerry snorts. "God. Butterfly. You're so much funnier than you realize." He squeezes the corkscrew to feel it further, and the eyes on his hands burn brighter.

It's a new thing, the eyes being more than tattoos in appearance, but he's not saying a peep; he thinks it's funny to imagine Martin picturing him monster hunting with glowing eyes as a human. Quaint.

"It's just you've done... Essentially? It's hard to put into words, yeah? A small ritual, basically. Something binding. I mean, metaphorically speaking, of course, but most people don't realize that the majority of magic  _ is _ metaphorical."

\---

His own awe getting the better of him, Martin soaks in every burst of color without the initial anxiety. His eyes are wide as he tracks Gerry’s motions, and then his words. 

“I only touch it when I need to.  _ Grounding.  _ But it— It’s not enough, with just the one memory, to help much with this.” He gestures vaguely with one hand. “You’re much, erm, warmer.”

\---

"Now you're talking anchors." He tosses the corkscrew back to Martin, and one by one, the eyes wink out. "The screw's an anchor because you did a ritual with it. No idea how I'd qualify."

\---

Martin catches it, placing it down over the journals before moving off the rock and to the ground before the suitcase. “You’re about a hundred rituals in one, and you’re - you’re helpful. Making this whole _ thing  _ leagues more pleasant. Of course you qualify.”

\---

"... Right." Of course he's helpful. He always has been. "Well. That's always been my job. Hope I'm helpful. All that. Et al."

\---

Martin levels him with a _ look. _ “You’re a ghost. You can do whatever you want. I’m not stopping you from coming here and kicking rocks around instead of - instead of doing  _ damage control  _ on an insane person.”

\---

"I know." He snorts. "Maybe you're just more entertaining than kicking rocks about like I'm five. And you're interesting, sooo..."

He's not a fan of whatever look Martin just gave him. Makes him kind of blink and look away, focusing back on the wreckage of the car.

\---

Now that Gerry’s the one averting his eyes, Martin takes up steady eye contact again. “There’s no age limit on kicking rocks, Gerry.”

He hums, feeling blessedly normal now that he’s been properly distracted. He starts to unzip the suitcase, but stops halfway through. “Have you ever wanted to see a car explode?”

\---

_ "God,  _ yes."

And maybe that's why he's so fascinatingly amused and curious by Martin. Moments of utter childishness and then... This. A strange little mixture of a man. "I love arson."

\---

“I doubt it’ll  _ explode _ explode, but we can at least see if it’s on fire after this. I think... I think it’ll help.”

Martin means with what he’s about to do, but he doesn’t say that. Instead, he finishes unzipping the suitcase and opens it up. The first things he sees are the tapes they’ve already recorded. As he touches one, his brain starts to feel oddly like it’s twisting into a spiral.

\---

Gerard gets to his feet slowly and meets Martin where he's at, peering into the suitcase curiously. "Yeah?"

\---

Martin presses a button. 

_ Statement of— _

Martin pauses it immediately. 

Of course it’s one of Jon’s. The one word he does manage to get out loud is pained, uncontrolled.  _ “Fuck.” _

\---

Something is happening now, because of course it is, so Gerard just throws his hands up. "What the fuck is happening. Why are you-- don't listen to his  _ voice, _ idiot."

\---

The only thing Martin is sure is happening is that he’s _ profoundly upset. _ “I don’t know! Why - why not? It’s not— I’m just— “

He can’t think of an excuse that doesn’t start and end with something completely stupid, so he chooses to glare at Gerry like he’s not completely in the right, here.

\---

"'Cause you're just gonna cry! Or something! Christ, haven't you ever  _ mourned  _ before?" He makes a frustrated noise and has to remind himself that Martin isn't in the  _ best _ of mental spaces. "You shouldn't even be mourning, anyhow. He's alive. Don't get all Cancer on me."

\---

“I’m not going to...  _ cry,  _ Gerry,” Martin growls out, very convincingly. “I-I don’t know if I’ve mourned before. Don’t— “ 

Gerry’s very good at scattering his thoughts. “Don’t blame  _ astrology. _ What are you, anyway?”

\---

"Capricorn. If you don't know then you haven't." He stares down at the tapes. "Hey. Don't you read these? Maybe reading one will calm you the fuck down."

\---

“I— Huh.” 

He forgot about reading them until just now. Too busy with everything else going on. Like his body put that on hold, somehow. 

Sparing one last look at the ‘play’ button, Martin shifts to the piles on the grass so he can pick up a blank tape and the folder. “I don’t know enough about Capricorns to insult you, so just— Imagine I did.”

\---

"Hm. Would it make you mad if I didn't, and imagined you complimenting me instead?" He watches Martin, and a curious shiver runs through him. "Gertrude never let me see this part."

\---

Martin squints distrustingly. “Maybe.” 

He flips through the various files before pulling one out. “It’s... It’s just vaguely evil reciting, um.” He brings his voice down to a near-whisper, like he’s afraid they’ll be overheard. “Archivists are sort of controlling, aren’t they?”

\---

Gerard cocks his head. "It's the Eye," He says, in an equal whisper, but there's a smile on his lips still. "It's  _ about _ perceived and surveilled control. Though I have no idea what you mean specifically."

\---

“Best not worry about it right now, then.” Martin returns the smile, decidedly performative. 

He pulls a statement at random, or at least he thinks he does. At first, he puts the recorder between them over the suitcase he’s just shut, but something awful squirms around in his head until he moves it to his side. A barrier between them. Can’t go appropriating his own rituals. 

He glances at Gerry one last time, emptying his head to fill it with someone else’s. A woman’s, he already knows. The whir as he starts to record is a hypnotically rhythmic buzz. 

“Statement of Andrea Nunis...”

And so he reads on as though this is a campfire story, one that everyone knows is real. Traveling, of course. Traveling companions, adventures. Hilariously appropriate, if he were capable of analyzing it in the moment. His voice is more even than it’s been in days. “... ‘ _ There’s a purity to being alone when you travel. You can absorb the places you find yourself in so much better, take in the sights and the smells and the vibrations of a place in a way you just can’t if you have to be mindful of another person’s presence’... “ _

\---

Gerard listens. And as he does, his form wavers more than once, the lulling dissociation that comes with falling into someone else's head, someone else's reality, actively trying to dispel him into his bound prison. He ends up on his knees in front of the suitcase, digging his fingers tight into the fabric and  _ forcing  _ himself to stay.

As much as the book doesn't want him here, the Eye does, and thank it for whatever patronage it delivers, that the spellbound hypnosis of listening to Martin deliver Knowledge makes it easier.

\---

Martin continues, his tone an imagined mimicry voice of the woman he reads through. It's not until he passes through to "... _ ’He was staring at me with an air of concentration. Like he was trying to read something written very small on my forehead, _ " that he temporarily eases into something more gentle, some subconscious understanding of his own easing Miss Nunis' frustration. 

Moving on, there's a subtle nudge at the back of his brain each time a mother appears, as if a portentous phantom.

\---

Well. That certainly does the grounding for him. Gerard leans back, his grip on the suitcase less death-like. Reminders of  _ him, _ when he was alive, when he was-- He remembers this. Can remember the weather, and it was before he tattooed himself, and he definitely got a sunburn from that trip and--

_ "Oh,"  _ he says, and his face erupts into a smile, because he can  _ feel _ it. He can feel it like he's there, and he's  _ hot, _ like the sun is on his skin, and it's not bright, but some of the tattoos start to glow again.

\---

Blessedly oblivious to the developments in front of him, Martin reaches the panicked height of the statement with the same cadence he imagines to have bled into the words themselves. While the evidence is diluted through paper, the ink tells a story vivid enough to understand to someone bothering to look. 

By the time he's winding down, he's coming back into himself at a slow, creeping pace.

“Statement ends." 

His hand reaches out to stop the recording in reflexive motion, the words hanging in the air long enough for him to assimilate them into his own mind.

\---

Gerard openly stares at Martin. His expression is one of vague wonder, and awe, and... Envy, almost. He never did this. He died too soon, before he could be  _ taught. _ Though, he's certain Gertrude wouldn't. She didn't like this life.

There's never been another for him. Maybe that's why it's so easy to just go with the magic of this. It's something else though. He just doesn't know how to name it.

"That was wonderful," He breathes, and then grins across the suitcase. "And an amazing little ego trip. I sound like such a dick in this, though. Ugh."

\---

Martin mirrors the grin as easily as he'd mirrored the statement. Despite being the same reaction  _ physically,  _ the width of his pupils is far less threatening than the way it's been happening more recently. 

"You saved her life. What shirt was that? She called it-- She called it  _ bright.  _ How-- " He tries not to laugh, because now he's imagining some tacky tropical shirt. "How bad was it?"

\---

He grimaces, but in that way where it's still full of humor, his eyes crinkled into a smile still. "I-- Oh, God. It was-- argh. Hawaiian. I was on  _ holiday,  _ in _ Italy, _ I wanted to not look like an effigy of Thatcher's 1980s youth for once."

\---

Martin tips back onto the grass to laugh, like it makes it any nicer that he's doing it if he can't see Gerry. "No wonder she hated you so much, you were  _ threatening _ her with florals. And I-- I have  _ no _ clue what you're referencing."

\---

"Dont worry about it." And then he's laughing, too, and it doesn't have the normal sharp cruelty or meanness to it. It's just... Christ, he's a child. It's just some sheer happiness cutting through him. "It's not  _ my _ fault I didn't know how to dress myself! God, what I wouldn't do for booze right now. That lifted my mood."

\---

"Just shut your eyes and imagine you're drunk. I-I do it all the time. I've avoided smoking for days, the smell-- I never noticed how  _ bad _ it was. Gets on-- Gets on everything." 

His giggles subside, just enough for him to ask a barely-related question. "Gerry, how do you act like a Satanist?"

\---

That sends him laughing again, rocking back on his tailbone with his hands wrapped firmly around his knees. It seems at some point he's shifted to criss-crossed in the grass, rather than altar like on his knees.

"I mean, I dunno. Just. Reading it? I mean, I'm not  _ really,  _ in that like, I don't believe? In that? It's-- are you asking how to BE one, or how to act like one? Because you talk to anyone about this shit, and they'll probably assume you're either a witch or a Satanist. Guess I'm both."

\---

"Back in the field, you mentioned sometimes you can have _ fun  _ with it all. With-- This. I  _ want _ to. I think it's kind of - kind of like fighting back, right?" Martin looks up to the cloudy sky, blinking away tears that he's  _ pretty  _ sure are happy ones.

\---

Gerard tries to put his thoughts together. There's definitely been a  _ shift  _ somewhere during this night, and he's not sure when it happened, but it's there, and he feels almost comfortable, and he feels more alive. But so too does Martin seem calmer. He Knows he wouldn't be, if Gerard had fucked off.

"Martin, I've--" He looks down at the suitcase, staring holes into the tape recorders. "I've been miserable, my entire life. And I've  _ never  _ connected with people I wasn't, like, basically bonded to. I mean, maybe it's being dead, but it's obvious with some hindsight that most of what I am is either falling in line or doing petty shit to reclaim some semblance of control. So yeah. Even if it's small, fighting back even in the small ways is  _ something.  _ Sure made things easier to deal with, sometimes. If that makes sense."

\---

"I was too busy caring for my mother to ever connect with people like - like  _ normal. _ Gerry, you have no _ idea-- "  _ Martin snorts, sitting up so he doesn't screw up the blood flow at his newly broken nose. "Well, obviously you do, but-- I mean, how much I get it. It's like-- Sure, it taught me how to deal with monsters, sort of, growing up with  _ her,  _ but-- misplacing her earrings is hard to translate to... to... Wow, I have no clue what I'm even trying to say right now."

\---

"I kind of get it. The year I traveled with Gertrude, after we burned her, was-- Gah. Weirdest and best year I'd had. Didn't have to think of her anymore. I mean, I  _ did, ‘ _ course I did. But I didn't  _ have _ to. And it made it different."

\---

Martin is silent in the moments that follow Gerry's own admission. It stretches on, and on, until he's sure it's about to become a living thing. By the time he finds the words, they don't hurt. He's relieved. 

"I... can't wait for her to die. I've never-- I've never said that before."

\---

"Nah, you just lied about pulling her fingernails off. Duh. I kind of assumed." He pauses. "Do you have to see her, still? I mean, couldn't you just-- not?"

\---

Martin fidgets with his thumbs at his lap. "Technically, um, that was... I was picturing what they were doing with... um. Making it about her and - and making it fake instead sort of helped." 

He takes a deep breath with his mouth. "And... not really. I just pay her bills, now. She's the one who-- Who doesn't want to. See me, that is."

\---

"But you do? Why?" He doesn't look at Martin; instead, he sits back and starts to pluck grass, so Martin's got an out of he wants. He certainly knows how he reacts to dumb questions about his mum.

\---

"I keep hoping one day she'll tell me what she thinks is  _ wrong _ with me, so I can move on or - or just  _ see _ it." He knows exactly why it's so easy to talk about this now, and he's sure  _ not  _ reading any statements in several days has taken a toll on him, but Martin is  _ enjoying _ the conversation. "Before she dies. Then I can know if-- You know, if I'm the monster, or it was her."

\---

"Go and ask her, when this is over." He looks pointedly down at the statement that was read. "What is she going to do? _ Lie?" _

\---

Following Gerry's line of sight, Martin connects the pieces. "That's  _ one _ way, isn't it? Assuming we all live through--  _ This." _ He gestures back to the smoke just barely spreading upwards into the sky as it starts to spread. "I'd hope so. I-I don't have any plans to die."

\---

"Things like us always die. You're dumb if you haven't realized that." He pauses. "But I think you'll get through this. They don't realize you have something keeping you from going full-on feral waaaaay too soon. They're just creating the perfect storm for you to rip them apart." 

He follows his gaze and watches the smoke. "You're going home as a murderer."

\---

"I'll die  _ someday, _ I know that," Martin huffs as he stands to his feet, picking up a decent-sized rock with one hand as he does. "I just-- I feel too normal to  _ do _ that. I don't-- " 

He flicks back to the suitcase, because he knows he has to go through it eventually. He holds both arms out wide. "Do I  _ look  _ like someone who can kill people?"

\---

Gerard shrugs. "You tried to bite me earlier. You weren't even thinking." He holds one finger up. Then another. "You carry around a corkscrew that has the gore of your boyfriend on it." He holds up a third. "Most damning, now go with me here, I'm pretty sure you want to."

He stays where he is. "I'm not trying to  _ condemn _ you. I've killed things that needed killing before."

\---

Martin's sound of indignance at the first point is silenced before it forms into a coherent word. He  _ stopped _ himself from biting him. It's not just  _ Jon's _ gore on the corkscrew. 

He starts picking up more rocks nearby, cradling them in one arm as the rest sinks in. He sounds like he's pouting when he speaks again. "I don't know what makes you think I want to."

\---

"Neither do I." Gerard shrugs, casually. He's used to it at this point. Sounding like the freak. Sounding cryptic. It was getting more and more potent before he died; he remembers Gertrude getting less and less patient with it, even as she used the information he gave her with zero hesitation.

"Usually means it's true, when I don't know."

\---

“Oh! Vague. Perfect.” He’s chipper despite the ominous nature of that, and picks up one last rock. “This is, erm, unrelated, but— I’m hitting the car with these as soon as I can. You can... have one.”

\---

"Oh my God. You act like a hormonal sixteen year old, you know that?" Despite his words, he gets to his feet, and steps through everything to meet Martin at his side. He holds out his hand.

He snorts. "What are you, twenty-eight? You're ridiculous. I honestly kind of love it, I think."

\---

“I always get like this after statements, it’s usually just— “ Martin pauses as he tries to find the right wording. “Channeled in a different direction.”

He holds a rock out with one hand as he walks, giving Gerry a chance to take it from him. “Not even close. Try forty.”

\---

Gerard snorts, and concentrates to take the rock. He drops it, and has to bend to the grass to try again, and he makes an annoyed sound. While he's crouching, he looks up at Martin. "You're such a bullshitter. All the time. Jon realize that about you?"

He straightens, and keeps his grip tight. "I mean, I love it. That you think you can lie to me. It's hilarious."

\---

“I get a few by him. I remember, back when he first came back here, he told me I’d been bound to the Institute. I told him my name wasn’t Martin, that I’d made it up on my resumé. The man’s from  _ years _ in the future and I still had him.”

He tosses one of the rocks upwards, catching it when gravity brings it back down. “With you? There’s a reason I’m painfully exaggerating.”

\---

"Right." Were he alive, Gerry knows he'd be mimicking the action, mindlessly tossing and tossing and tossing to give his hands something to do. Even amidst what he perceives as a childish pride in how well he can hold things now, it frustrates him to no end how much concentration it takes, the way he's curled over his stone just to keep it from falling.

"Did I get it right, though? Your age." He pauses, and wagers a chance. "I was getting good at just  _ knowing _ things, before I was hospitalized. Was curious to see where it went."

\---

“Close— Twenty-nine. I’m near the end of June. So, you’re a lie detector and you’re good at guessing ages. What else?” Martin is offering a chance to test it out more, see what he’s capable of. He’s starting to like this. Much better than last time they talked. 

He stops a good throwing distance from the car, where it’s still smoking but clearly not catching enough to be _ cool. _

\---

"Just Know stuff sometimes. And, uh, well, I can see it. You know, the marks. And, I didn't realize it until I saw you two, but I guess... Potential ones." He shifts the rock to one hand, so he can throw it when the time comes.

"All that you are now... It was brewing, that first time you summoned me. But it's just... It feels like a question mark. Like it  _ could _ happen. But could not. I've just never seen someone with all of them."

\---

Martin drops the rest of the rocks into a pile at his feet. He starts off shocked, then concerned, then a little weirdly excited, though he doesn’t notice that. “...All?  _ Fourteen? _ Jonathan Sims.” 

Naturally, that last word ends on a genuine  _ growl _ as he throws the first rock with a solid effort. It dents the side a little, scraping up the paint.

\---

"It's not set in stone. You just both look like messes. It's there." Gerard watches Martin's throw, and gives a solid hum. He pulls his arm back and concentrates hard, tongue out and the eye on his chest, neck, and arms glowing with the effort, and he  _ throws,  _ and it's a solid object, so of course it actually hits and does damage, and he's more than a little giddy when it does so. 

A small hissed,  _ "Yess," _ is all he expresses verbally, even if some semblance of his ghostly heart is beating in excitement.

He wants to surpass his mother in corporeality.

"Glad I bandaged that hand, since _ this _ is what you're doing with it."

\---

“Good job,” Martin says as he bends down for another. “Pile’s for you, if you’re not done.”

The second one he throws has more strength, or at least looks like it— It lands squarely over one of the back windows and splinters the glass into a satisfying web without breaking entirely.

\---

Gerard bends to pick up another, and as he's trying to get his hand to cooperate, he giggles, and looks up at Martin. "This is so stupid. It's like we're mates or something."

\---

Martin is about to follow suit when Gerry blows him out of the water. Technically it’s his own misunderstanding that does it, but it gets the same sheer confusion. “Like we’re  _ what?” _

\---

Gerard freezes. "I. You know-- ugh. You're going to make me say it? Fucking freak. Friends. Okay?"

\---

“Oh!  _ Christ,  _ okay.” Flustered, Martin finally reaches for one that’s heavier than the previous two. “We are if you— You know,  _ want  _ to be.”

\---

Gerard just stares up at him and then falls back on his ass, sitting where he was standing. He throws the rock but it doesn't even go halfway, falling pathetically into the grass.

"You can't just-- Ugh. That's not how it works."

\---

That throws him back into what they’re doing with a fit of childish giggles. “Isn’t it? My first real friend is a man I started working with this year, and we moved, erm, fast. Just about ghosted anyone else who  _ tried.” _

This throw is done with narrowly specific intent, and it pays off. The cracking glass barely held together before, and now it’s spraying delightfully across the grass.

\---

"Well I don't fucking know." Gerard takes a moment, even in this strange, uncharted territory of a conversation, to watch the glass explode, and in that moment, looks up at Martin and slam poetry snaps in appreciation. "I don't really know what it means."

\---

Martin is in the middle of standing back up with a new stone in his hand when Gerry starts snapping, and the new noise startles him into dropping it. 

He bends down to pick it back up. “Being friends? Abusing cars, plenty of yelling, sharing stories, skipping stones. That  _ sounds _ right.”

\---

Gerard just hums in reply and pulls his knees up, resting his chin on them and watching Martin do the rest. Responding with anything would be too much right now.

He's tired, but he doesn't feel like leaving Martin to his own devices. Maybe that's being a friend too. Great to be a man in your mid thirties who doesn't know what a  _ friend _ is. "Fuck, I should have gone to primary school," He mutters, and it's very much apropos of nothing.

\---

“I’m a hormonal teenager, and I think school’s a waste,” Martin teases just before he aims a shot at one of the rear lights— bright shards of red join the glass littering the ground. 

The lack of energy from his counterpart is hard to miss. “I’m not leaving tonight. Can’t smell, so if I go through the bag I can sort out the clothes. I’ll just bury the used tapes under them so I’m not tempted. Set up camp far enough away. You— You’ve done... You helped. I think I’ll be... okay? I’ll be okay, if you need a recharge.”

\---

"Why are you getting rid of so much shit?" He _ is  _ tired, but Martin is so casually doing this, it takes him aback for a second. "Like, motels still exist. Panic-burying's certainly a weird symptom."

\---

“I told you, so I can carry one bag and finish the walk. I am  _ not— _ Gerry, I can’t stay in a motel. Not if— Not if I can’t trust my... you know.” Martin hesitates, because _ this  _ word, this one he hates. “...Symptoms.”

\---

"So you're just going to.... Walk? To Chicago?" Gerard sighs. "How's  _ that _ going to help your 'Symptoms'? I swear." He's sitting up now, cranking his neck to watch Martin.

\---

“It’s not. Considering I’m getting in the habit of destroying things, it’s  _ safer  _ right now. P-people aren’t. And... “ Martin meets Gerry’s eyes for a few seconds, but he loses the game of sustained contact. In his own growing overstimulation, he itches at one of his bare arms. “Can we talk about it in - in the morning, Gerry?”

\---

He narrows his eyes. Really, what can he  _ actually _ do? Spend three minutes picking something up? Really useful. He doesn't exactly have any power here, and quite frankly, in his exhaustion, he's getting a bit freaked out about how worried and fond he's growing of Martin.

"Fine." He says, and that's that, isn't it? So he will himself to sleep and blinks out of existence, eyes winking.


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Destruction of Archives property. Gender confusion. Friendship. Dissociation. Murder attempts. Blood. Animal facts. Conditioning psychology. Comic book superheroes. Confessions about mothers. Panic attacks. Ghost developments. Shitty American Motels. This chapter has it.

The car ends up covered in at least twenty unique craters, all to one side. A manmade comet crashed to the earth. 

Martin sorts out most of what he wants eventually. All their journals, a pen, water, statements, first aid kit, change of clothes, a few of Jon’s rocks, a candle, and some unused tape recorders. The rest, he’ll need Gerry’s help to tackle, and the intensity of that confession is one he’s quick to ignore the implications of. He also finds a pair of shoelaces at the bottom of the suitcase. 

He’ll have to ask Gerry if this is acceptable or just plain stupid, but by the end of the night the book’s tied open to his page around the space between the front pocket and the main one with a somewhat crude but purposefully gentle set of brown strings. It’s easy enough to do. 

He doesn’t make camp. He doesn’t eat. Exhausted and willed to sleep by injuries that desperately want to heal, he dons his coat and finds somewhere nearby to prop up against. It’s a nice tree to lean on, and there’s a stream just close enough to give Martin the animal comfort of rushing water.

Of course, he dreams of Jon. It’s one of the simplest dreams he’s ever had, but it’s up there in the ranks of his favorites. He’s in their bed back at the Archives, and Jon is lying next to him, and all he has to do to press close is turn to one side and hold him there. Pressing his face against the crook of Jon’s neck, he realizes - not for the first time - that he fits perfectly. 

The only reason he wakes up is that he inhales at Jon’s neck and smells antiseptic. 

He jolts into early morning without sitting up. At some point he’s rolled onto his side. He’s also somehow ended up spooning one of Jon’s scarves and a used  _ tape,  _ which is deeply disorienting for several seconds before the smell in his dream reminds him of his reality. He pulls away the cotton and finds it easy to breathe through his nose, which should be a positive but considering the use of all his senses tends to be a consistent source of insanity as of late… 

He touches his face and finds his nose slightly bent out of shape. It hurts to touch the same way a bruise would, and the black eye starting to bloom hasn’t swelled, it’s started to fade. Thank Christ, because he’d never used an ice pack, he didn’t have one, and if he didn’t have these shitty growing Hunter powers he’d be truly miserable. 

Still, he’s starting to know himself well enough that without any reason to stay, the reflex to go will hit him without much time to be rational about it once he’s up properly. With the tape and scarf in hand, Martin looks to the book facing up on the backpack he’s kept next to him, and with his fingers at the corner of the page... he reads.

\---

Gerard has no concept of time. Even so, he knows it hasn't been the  _ days _ he assumes have been between the rest of his 'wakings'. For one, it's morning, and as he's pulled from the Book-- interesting, that when he's read directly he  _ must _ come, whereas it was a  _ choice _ to come the last time, when Martin had merely made the journey easier by recitation alone-- eyes staring until they're not and his actual eyes are present, Martin is still hurt. But it's not the same, and he's leaning against a tree, and he squints, trying to figure this out.

"Is it-- I'd wager it's been days, but I Know it hasn't." A Knowing he doesn't question yet confuses him nonetheless.

The morning is bright, and he squints against the morning dawn, and thanks Christ he can't sunburn anymore. He's getting sick of fields. It's the same field from the last time.

\---

“Next morning,” Martin says simply, covering the tape with the scarf so he’s not tempted as he gets to his feet with them both. “Sorry, I’d have asked— Had to make sure it was, um, stable, and everything. This doesn’t hurt, does it?”

He gestures down to where he’s tied the book.

\---

He squints at the makeshift rigging, and shrugs. "So long as the page is safe, I think I am. It just-- it's definitely  _ open. _ I can feel that."

"Looks stupid, though. Just so you know." He snorts.

\---

“What, your page? It’s made of your  _ skin, _ of course it looks stupid.” Martin gets the bag around his shoulders and idly wipes some of the crusted blood away from his face. He keeps talking before Gerry can comment. “I need your opinion figuring out what to do with the tapes. I can’t carry them all.”

\---

"Are they, like, important? I mean, pity to throw out information, but-- don't you have the statements somewhere? Could always fuck some other poor soul up and make  _ them _ an Archivist." He laughs, and still peers around Martin to look at his ridiculous physical existence standing upon Martin's back. "We're not walking around downtown Chicago like this. Just so you know."

\---

“No.” The sternness in his own voice at bringing someone else into this startles him, but he moves on quickly. “I know. It’s just so I don’t drop it once we leave. If something happens and - and you can’t grab it, I’m not leaving you behind.” He grimaces. “I just have to break them. I don’t want to.”

\---

"I'll stomp 'em, if you want. I'm not so nostalgically inclined to those ugly things." He once more is struck by how quickly he's allowed himself to be brought into this. Missions are always easy, he supposes. 

"Easier to have energy when the Book is open. You can close it afterwards, I think. Put it in that bag of yours if I drop it."

\---

“We’ll test it out later.” Martin’s clearly thinking about letting Gerry do it, but he turns back to look at him with apprehension. “I think— Um, sure. Just not in front of me, maybe.”

\---

"Can't just... Leave them? Ugh. Good morning to Gerard. Do work. Blah blah. Love to be your personal Cinderella." He's just whining; there's no heat behind it whatsoever.

"Set them down for me."

\---

Martin sighs loudly. “Throwing rocks at a car isn’t work, but breaking tape recorders is? Princess. No. I can’t leave them. That’s just asking for it to come back.” 

He’s walked far enough to the suitcase that he can bend down and open it up. Everything is in a different place than he left it, which is... concerning enough to make him hesitate. But he starts picking them up regardless, fetching them for Gerry before leaving the pile in front of him, the one he’s woken up with still in his hand.

\---

Gerard holds out his hand for the final one, rolling his eyes skyward. "Keep calling me Princess and you're gonna make Jon jealous of your new girlfriend." He grinds his heel into the first one on the ground, in Martin's sight, just to prove a point. A shitty one, but one nonetheless.

It cracks beneath his foot and he keeps grinding.

\---

“You— “ 

Martin’s breath dies out at the first sound, and there’s not an ounce of air in his lungs for the agonizing moments that follow. Attuned to his heightened senses, the mechanical snaps and plastic breaks have him trapped there as a witness to something that feels like the literal death of a small, static-bearing creature.

\---

Gerard steps back, and he almost feels bad, but chooses not to. He flourishes a hand down at the broken machine. "Is that to your satisfaction, Your Highness?" He feeds Martin a steady look.

\---

With the thing in pieces, Martin stares down at a section where the black uncoiled reel peeks out from debris. 

“No,” he says breathlessly, but he’s not answering Gerry’s question. “There’s pieces— Of him, in there. It has guts. They’re  _ alive.  _ That’s why— That’s why I— “ He doesn’t know how to finish speaking, or even describe why he sees them this way, so he lets his unfinished words stand there as still as he is.

\---

"Right. Even if I was on the fence before, I'm definitely destroying them now." Gerard looks vaguely shocked, his eyes wide as he regards Martin. He doesn't even call him crazy, because this isn't his normal  _ stupidity, _ this is something else entirely.

"Either go away, or watch."

\---

Caught between knowing he’d be safer if he’s not alone and a desperate need to not see or hear any of this unfold, Martin slowly lowers to the ground. Both shoulders hiked up and arms looped around his knees, he cradles the tape between his legs and his chest. 

He doesn’t acknowledge Gerry, silently regarding the tape-corpse with intense scrutiny from afar.

\---

"Oh my God." Gerard hisses it between clenched teeth, and instead of bitching any longer, he just moves on to the next tape. It's a surprisingly effective way of clearing his head. He can't feel the contents like Martin can, and whatever wisps of Life sparks from their innards, he ignores easily. His boot is even better at ignoring it.

He works slowly, with deep concentration, and if he were human, he'd be sweating and breathing heavily. As it is, he just looks fiery, his eyes almost glowing, and green electric zaps of his tattooed eyes running up his body with each stomp, each gruesome murder of the contents of the tape.

\---

This isn’t going how he expected this morning would start, that’s for sure. Each impact makes Martin jump, even the ones he’s sure contain only his own voice. He’s not worried about losing pieces of himself. It’s Jon. 

Once Gerry’s gotten through a significant amount of them, Martin flinches in a way that brings the only safe recorder to life. Tilting his head down to hide from the outside noise and stress, Martin shuts his eyes into a dark warmth where the crackling of Jon’s voice recorded back at him is all he wills himself to focus on.

\---

Really, Gerard doesn't have any idea what this  _ is. _ He'll ask later, inquire to know and store, and maybe he'll feel guilty about this all later, but he doesn't right now. Doesn't, because he hasn't been given a reason to, and because if Martin's reactions are any indication, these tapes shouldn't exist and hold him back anyways.

When he's through with the pile, the sun is higher in the sky and brighter, and he steps closer to Martin, nudging him in the shin. "Last one, Marto. Buck up."

\---

Martin had sat with Jon for most of these. Had watched every detail of his face as he found himself swept up in the cadence of his voice. Had fallen in love with him over, and over, and over again. His clothes will stop smelling like him eventually, but his voice is immortal. 

He doesn’t want to let go of that. He doesn’t think he can. Martin whines in the black space between his chest and knees, both hands moving and grabbing fistfuls of his own hair to stop from reacting to Gerry’s presence in a way he can’t reason through. His breath hitches, but with Jon’s voice echoing around him he thinks he’ll be okay. If he just imagined himself okay. He sounds like a pathetic child, triggered into incoherency, voice muffled. “Not yet.”

\---

"So be it." Gerard says, and pulls his hands to his pockets. "I only did it because you told me to. You remember that, right? I didn't just do this." The end of his words are perilously worried, a fear running through him that Martin will think he chose this. And a chill that follows that he cares about that. "I didn't choose this." The last part is spoken in a near-frantic whisper. 

His form flickers, and he drops to a squat, dragging his nails down the lengths of his hair. It's less than black today. It'd started out, when he'd first been called, but his form had staticked more than once during his tape destruction, and now the blond-auburn roots are halfway down his scalp, hardly roots anymore. He hadn't been able to dye his hair for a month on the road. And then he'd gotten sick. Gertrude had promised to bring something for him, but he must have died before then. He doesn't remember. He doesn't remember a lot, at the end of it.

"Keep him."

\---

Nothing Gerard says brings Martin any comfort. He didn't have to do that. Martin didn't  _ want _ it done in front of him. He knows he wouldn't be able to do it himself, but he-- He's  _ said _ that, that he didn't want to, but he knew he had to, and his one hitched breath turns into a stifled cry as the ghost of Jon's voice dips into the supplemental. 

Martin doesn't bother hiding it. Whatever, sure, he's a Cancer, like it  _ matters. _ Jon's still talking and Martin puts the tape on the ground. He gets up, and he ignores Gerry, and he starts to take a few unsteady paces to the dirt road up the hill, back to where the car had left it. It feels like he's walking away from Jon, but considering he's about to start following the  _ real  _ trail, it feels much more like distancing himself from the Eye.

\---

"UGH," Gerry all but yells it, pushing his head down into his knees with his hands on the back of his head. He doesn't get up for a few moments, just breathing and focusing and trying to stay here, and when he finally manages to bring himself to his feet, he's shaky, and his form wavers, and it's another few moments of focus before he can bring himself to follow. Which he has to. Martin has his Book. Even if he didn't, he'd follow, at this point.

"Martin," He says, and tries to catch up. "Do you know where you're going?"

\---

Tying Jon's scarf loose around his neck, Martin doesn't look back. He wipes at his face to clear the tears and climbs up the hill, not sparing a glance at the husk of the car he's left behind. Good that no one's seen it, that means he probably won't have to deal with anyone coming up the road long enough to hopefully get his shit together. 

"Yes," Martin grinds out, traveling up the clutter of rocks, grass, shrubbery, even the nails the Hunters kindly tossed off the side before continuing on their way, until he reaches the top. He's the humanized translation of a rubber band about to stretch hard enough that it snaps. "You can  _ Know  _ things, I can follow their trail. I can feel it."

\---

"Great." Gerard grinds out. He looks to his wrists. There's a few hairbands around them, and he pulls one off, sticks it between his teeth, and starts to rake his hair back. He can't feel the heat, but he's getting annoyed at the slow-tilt way the strands move when he does, getting in his face and _ floating. _ So he takes matters into his own hands. It prevents him from throwing a tantrum on the side of the road, anyways.

"How's it go? _ 'It's 106 miles to Chicago, we've got a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, it's dark and we're wearing sunglasses.'  _ 'Cept it's just the miles part. Probably. You know this sucks, right?"

He doesn't know why he keeps talking. He's never been this talkative. Easier, he guesses, when there's nothing else to do.

\---

Martin slows his pace to take in what his brain is feeding him, and by proxy it allows for Gerry to catch up. Despite his frantic outburst, getting closer to a goal is helping him move on from the heart wrenching panic. 

Martin tried to collect his voice. “I have a full tank of gas with that wake-up,” he’s sounding too aggressive, so he dials it back, “and I-I healed overnight, just enough to be  _ helpful. _ And I think, m-maybe it’s a good thing, this— I don’t think I’ll smoke again. And it’s bright.”

Martin doesn’t notice he’s walking in a tight circle around a patch of dirt where blood’s been kicked around and partially covered until he’s made two, three laps around it. Then he just stares, openly, forward along the road.

\---

"Yeah, well, it was just a quote, anyhow. From a movie?" Gerard stands in the field grass still, just watching Martin move, and it feels like, for a moment, that he's tagging along on one of his mothers passionately frantic missions for Leitners, for information, for something to forget she didn't have a fucking soul.

"It's gonna take us days to walk." His voice is slow and gentle and, and it's absolutely a put-upon voice. He doesn't know how to be gentle. "How about we walk until we find somewhere to eat? You know, you could always hitchhike. American truckers seem to always be the most gentle men ever, or they might kill you. Which, I think you can take care of that option handedly."

\---

Martin is waiting for a gust of wind from behind him without knowing he’s waiting for it, but when it comes he shuts his eyes. “Thirteen hours to where they are  _ now—  _ Even when I moved into the Archives, um, I still went on walks and I-I like walking.”

So he does just that. He shakes his head firmly. “No, n-no strangers right now. No loud trucks. Okay, Gerry? Don’t— That’s not... that’s not comforting. I’m not hurting a stranger for doing something  _ nice  _ just— You can set me off, and I won’t hurt you, but p-people. New people. I don’t— I don’t  _ know.” _

\---

"Fine." A few strands of hair fall from his makeshift ponytail and he puffs air on them to wisp them out of his face. He's quiet for a minute. Then two. "Why won't you hurt me?"

\---

Martin hesitates to answer that, mulling it over while he listens to the pebbles and dirt crunch under his boots. “For starters, you can keep me from touching you, which... makes me less nervous, and, I know I don’t  _ want _ to, not really.”

He tries not to stammer. “And I think, when you - when you look back on it, I think— I think if you start to, um, rationalize it based on the way animals think, it’s... I think I’ve imprinted. I’d ask if you thought that was  _ weird, _ but I already know it is. Sorry.”

\---

"...Yeah, it is." His own steps don't make any noise. It's a waste of energy, and it seems their  _ thirteen hour  _ walking time is a liberal estimate. There's no need to waste half of it trying desperately to seem human. Especially if he forces Martin to go eat somewhere.

He shrugs after a while. "Not weirder than anything else, though. I kind... Assumed? Something like this would happen. Just didn't guess to this extent, I guess."

\---

“I’m trying to stay normal. Now it’s... mmh, I think it’s time to decide if I care enough about staying normal. Normal won’t get us there. That sounds... that sounds  _ ominous, _ but— I mean, true, no matter how it sounds.”

Martin tilts his head up each time the wind passes, and knows he must look crazy. But he cares less about that, too. “But that’s... a conversation, isn’t it? You have a say in that. You’re fun to talk to about this. I didn’t think it could be fun. Not just work. Really, really hard work.”

\---

"You weren't normal when I  _ met _ you." Gerard goes quiet. The wind blows but it doesn't catch his hair; he's here in voice, vision, but not physically. He's not sure he wants to be, right now.

He thinks of blood, and how sick his was. White blood cells desperately fighting something he himself made, something implanted in his brain like everything else in his life. Shaped by his body, but not his will. He's pretty sure dying was partially a choice, and that thought chokes a panicked breath from him, and he diverts the stream immediately, turning sharply to Martin from where his gaze had drifted skyward.

"Decisions like that are dangerous. There's no going back from a 'Yes'." He’s not sure what he means. But something in him does, and he won't ignore ancient and profound voices just because they scare him.

\---

“I doubt you’d think anyone you met was  _ normal,  _ Gerry.” Martin turns to smile when the noise Gerry makes has his head tilting the other direction. 

But he’s not in a position to put him on the spot for that. “I’m asking you if it’s okay. And asking if you’ll stay. For - for when I do say yes. That’s why I’m telling you now. There’s not a wrong answer.”

\---

Another ragged breath pulls from his throat. "I'd be a hypocrite not to. I think I said yes, too." He keeps his gaze fixated ahead of him. Has no idea why this _ hurts _ all of a sudden.

"Just make sure you're saying yes to the right thing."

\---

Maybe he is in that exact position. Martin frowns to warn Gerry that he’s not being subtle. “What’s wrong?”

\---

"I don't know. It's just the way-- the way you're talking it's just. It's  _ familiar."  _ And he doesn't know. And he usually does, and it feels like there's a stopper and the bottle is filled with noxious fumes, building pressure. God, is being a ghost just having  _ vapor _ metaphors now?

"She made me like this. On purpose. Why else would she?"

\---

“Familiar bad, or familiar good? I’m just— I’m still  _ me,  _ and I care about people having... having choices.” He’s a hypocrite too, considering he’s talking about this like it’s a casual decision and not one he’s being shoved into every few minutes. But it still matters. His giving in doesn’t have to be Gerry’s end. “I want to ask the same question to the people who kidnapped my  _ person, _ but sometimes people are just cruel.”

\---

"Both." He pulls his hands together, and watches the way eyes slot together on his knuckles. "It feels good to give yourself to one of these things. I guess I must have said 'yes.' Jon's going to say yes. You're going to say yes. The great tragedy being it feels _ good." _

\---

Martin can't disagree with that. His intent hasn't been to use Gerry's acceptance of this whole mess against him, to blame him later when he hits a point he thinks he'll regret. He's  _ going t _ o say yes, and Gerry's right. Keeps being right. "Does it ever stop feeling good, once it has you?"

\---

"I don't know." He keeps looking ahead. "Evidently my corpse was desecrated to prevent that happening. Given to the prison of another Entity to prevent my being more."

He sucks in a useless breath. "Which is worse? Feeling good? Or it stopping?"

\---

"I don't know," Martin parrots back. "I think it depends on what-- What you do, with it. If I do... If I play this game, and I win, if I... hurt someone like that, that's one less bad thing to kidnap and torture people, right?"

\---

"You can tell yourself that. Maybe it's even true." He finally looks behind him, and fields Martin a look. "It's your choice. But it never really is, huh."

\---

"I keep wondering sometimes, with how bad everyone's lives seem to have been to even get to this point, to think this is-- Reasonable, somehow. Maybe monsters just... make monsters. All seems to come down to mothers, doesn't it? 'Least I'll never be one of  _ those,  _ it's like an entity all its own." Martin giggles despite the sheer pain it takes to think that, to put that out into the world, and moves to keep pace alongside Gerry.

\---

"What, you never want kids?" It's hard to stay terrified in this state. Like a permanent dissociation, a veil that won't penetrate itself longer than a few moments at a time to peer at the sheer horror of what's in front of him. Whatever. "Useless to think about."

\---

"You... do know how biology works, right?" If it's useless, then he's moving on. Screw it.

\---

Oh, Gerard takes the out. He takes it all but immediately, and laughs and laughs and laughs. "You can still be a mother, idiot. You think your boyfriend can't be a father?"

\---

"What? No--  _ Jon? _ Him being a father doesn't make  _ me _ the mother." Martin is officially out of his depth.

\---

"I know." He laughs again. "I-- Look, it's just funny how hilariously not a freak you are sometimes. I can't help myself."

\---

Martin isn't laughing. "What do you  _ mean, _ not a freak? You've called me insane at least ten times since we  _ met!" _

\---

"It's just--  _ gender, _ man. Sorry it's--  _ maybe _ I shouldn't laugh." And he does again. "It's just gender."

\---

Martin openly gapes at him as they walk.  _ "...What?" _

\---

Gerard stops walking and slaps a palm over his mouth, eyes flying wide. "You...  _ do _ know Jon is transgender, right?" His voice isn't even muffled through the hand on his mouth, just floating ghostly outwards calm as ever.

\---

Martin doesn't give Gerry the satisfaction of  _ looking _ at him, both hands coming up to grip the straps of his backpack just on the edge of too tight. "No, I'm pretty sure the admittedly criminally low amount of times we've had sex clued me in on that. Hold on-- How do  _ you _ know?"

\---

The laugh is all but barked out, and he can't quite hold the sneer out of his voice. "Because I'm a  _ princess, _ Martin, remember?"

\---

"Are you... You realize that sounds like you're calling  _ Jon _ a princess, too? I-I don't think that's... I don't think you're allowed to do that."

\---

"I'm saying we're both transgender, asshole. Jeeeeesus. Dense up there, are we?" He leans across the road and doesn't actually connect, just mimes knocking on Martin's head with an incorporeal fist.

\---

"I'm not  _ dense, _ Gerry." It's actually a little embarrassing how much this is working him up. "I think he'd kill me if I called him that, and I  _ know _ him. I didn't call  _ you _ that because I thought you were. You - you know that, right?"

\---

"Oh, do I now? My, yet another presumption." His voice is lofty. He grins. "Yeah. Yeah I know you didn't mean that. It was funny because you didn't. Never got to make fun when I was alive."

\---

"Right. I-I guess I'm as good a target as any." It's like they flock to him, he swears. Of all the things to be worried about, calling someone a princess when it's not  _ gender-affirming _ seems, like, fiftieth on his list of things to worry about. Something else dawns on him, a comment he's forgotten. "Christ, I think Michael might be, too."

\---

"Oh your 'friend' who might be some kind of avatar?" Well, this has certainly lifted his spirits. "Guess you're our Anchor to the nonfreak world." He pauses. "Not that Jon's  _ freaky _ in that sense-- others, sure--, but y'know. He doesn't seem so hand-wobbly in general. Firm identity." He punctuates it by karate chopping his hand firmly on his palm.

\---

It's just getting worse the longer this goes on. Martin follows the hand motion, animal fear giving way to human misunderstanding, then he furrows his brow. "... Gerry, what the  _ fuck _ are you talking about?"

\---

".... Ah. You're like-- Hah. Oh. I'm just not a man, is all. Well, sometimes. Just depends. So only marginally like Jon. And your Michael, it seems." He winks.

\---

Strange, how the small amount of subjects he can't bluster his way through seem to be the only ones relevant in this new life of his. Gender. Monsters. Mothers. Martin wishes it was the wink sending a flush to his face. "Depends on... what, exactly? I can't believe we're having this conversation right now. I'm on a quest to track murderers on  _ foot _ and we're talking...  _ gender?" _

\---

"What, you wanna turn the conversation back to my untimely death and failed ascent to avatarhood? We can do that. Not as fun." He purses his lips; now that the danger of emotions somehow poking through his ghostly visage has passed, it's easy to make snide, ironic shitheeled comments about his own life.

"It  _ depends _ on my mood. And the moon. Maybe Satan, who knows. Cancer, eh? Maybe it depends on the zodiac. I don't fucking know. It's just-- playing roles and interpreting what I feel that day."

\---

Martin's clearly thinking about it, since he'd really rather not talk about untimely deaths. How it might apply to him. "I've met straight Cancers, so that theory can't work. Unless you mean when you're  _ around _ Cancers you decide you're a man, which-- " Martin finally cracks with a cautious smile. "--That's really, really good. I think the only part I  _ get _ is the... different-role-different-day... thing."

\---

"Sometimes you're a bird in drag. Sometimes you're not. In a bunch of different ways." Gerard definitely thinks this conversation would be better if he had a cigarette to dramatically flick ash with. As it is, he just keeps his hands in his pockets. "Look, it's just funny."

He raises his eyes skyward. "What different roles? Gasp. You're more than just  _ growly?" _

\---

"Okay, okay. It's not  _ exactly _ the same, obviously, but sometimes I do this thing where I put on characters, in - in public, or with people-- Mostly when I was younger and  _ didn't _ have a stable job in one place. Just-- Just being all these different versions of myself. And I haven't really gotten to indulge that with Jon, he's-- Everything's  _ vulgar  _ to him. I only mention that because--" 

God, he's an idiot, but he's an idiot with an unfortunate yet not surprising amount of touch-starved pent-up codependence after the past few days  _ alone, _ let alone this part of his life he never gets to vent about except when he's blushing to hell in a lift like a teenager trying to explain the most basic of fantasies. 

"-- I had a phase where I just hooked up with people and went out of my way to...  _ not _ meet them again because they liked me. Or-- Whoever I was, that day, really. I miss doing it, sometimes. Not the, uh, obviously depressing part. He made it... erm, complicated. But-- But I get it."

\---

"I... Really don't think you do." Gerard says. "It's-- I mean that's fine, I don't think I've even known the names of anyone I've ever hooked up with, but that's not like-- Martin it's not  _ gender  _ to just have a one- night stand." Well. Actually. It'd make for a hilarious joke at a pub, Gerard won't discount that, but he's not going to say it to Martin when he's this confused by the concept of fluidity.

".... But you did, what, performances of yourself?"

\---

"I'm not saying it's  _ gender, _ I'm talking about  _ roles. _ It's all performative, isn't it? Performing  _ something,  _ even if it's not... fixed. Even-- Even nonconformity is a performance." Martin pauses just long enough to inhale, because now he feels like he's got to defend himself. "Technically, I did catfish a guy once pretending to be a girl so I could make rent, and that's not the part that sucked about it. They're not all  _ me.  _ Sometimes I feel like I'm possessed."

\---

"Okay, we're talking about roles here, that makes it better!" Gerard's voice rises just a smidge, because in all honesty, it's a  _ lot  _ Martin's just given him. "I got it, though. You lie to your partners, and I'm not talking about my sex life, actually. Golden conversation."

\---

Martin's grip on the straps tightens considerably. "I don't-- I don't lie to them.  _ Gerry, _ I don't just give them a-a fake name and tell them I'm some multimillionaire and then leave them at a curb somewhere. I'm not... I'm not evil. And I haven't done it in... in  _ years,  _ really, so-- Didn't mean to-- Sorry! Sorry."

\---

Gerard holds up his hands like he's at a shootout. _ "Martin,  _ I've literally never let someone I slept with know my real name, so, um, I'm literally not judging. Maybe a little, actually. But not _ real  _ judgment."

\---

_ "Oh."  _ Martin turns back to the road, eyes to the ground like he's deeply ashamed of causing some kind of scene. "Sorry, I-- I misread that. I, erm, I don't have a lot of practice with... talking about this. I thought I said something that-- That made you hate me, just now."

\---

"Martin, I think we're a little past me being able to hate you." He says it kind of stiffly, like it's a revelation he's made himself that he's not sure what to do with. Gerard isn't used to all this self-analysis. It's exhausting. How the hell does Martin do this all the time, in and out, every day and time he sees Gerard? "I just  _ say  _ shit. Sometimes I mean it. Sometimes I'm joking."

\---

“I— Honestly? Half the time I can’t tell. One second I want to talk about anything and everything, the next you just say  _ one  _ thing that sets me off and— “ Martin holds up both arms in a resigned caricature of Gerry’s own tic.

\---

"Just say whatever. What am I gonna do? I, weirdly enough, like your stories. Even when they make no sense."

\---

“They all make sense when I can tell them right.” 

The moment he stops talking, a wave of nausea starts to creep down to his stomach, spreading fever across his skin. Martin veers to the side of the road, now less hilly and reasonably flat, and leans his weight with one hand against the nearest tree.

\---

Gerard just blinks, sighs, and starts to follow, coming to a stop a few feet away from him. At least it's getting easier to see these strange interruptions as just par for the course for  _ Martin. _ Still. Gerard can't even feel the heat, but he'd prefer to be in a hotel room somewhere, or indoors, or somewhere not in the  _ middle of nowhere.  _ "Now what?"

\---

“Nothing,” Martin says airily between a couple of shallow breaths. “Spent a good amount of time not able to pick up on it, last night. J-just stronger than I remember.  _ Adjusting.”  _ Martin steps back from the tree to keep moving, shaking his hand out to rid himself of the unpleasantly lingering sensation of scraping bark against bare skin.

\---

"Ah. Your hound trail." Gerard looks away, out towards the road, while Martin collects himself. "I mean, at least you know he's alive."

\---

“Ugh. I’m not a  _ dog.”  _ At least he can’t get fleas. He’s seen a remarkably small amount of bugs on their way here, besides the beetle. Maybe they can all tell what he is. That would be a fun theory to test. “I just hope he’s okay. I wish I could - could talk to him.”

\---

"Soon. They're laying the trap in Chicago." He keeps watching the road. "Then I imagine they'll try to kill you both. He's only alive because you are." 

His voice takes on that peculiar flatness that sometimes overtakes him; it's subtle, and not much different from his normal apathetic affectation, but it's cold, almost, distant in a way that isn't just  _ his _ voice. Watcher's Knowledge. Filtering down to him.

\---

“I have you to thank for a good bit of that,” Martin says, equally flat without any of the emotion behind it. He likes matching Gerry where he is. Keeps him here. He doesn’t want to think of traps. Not yet. “I wonder— This is one that doesn’t get many people, right? Feels like it’s recycled, in - in everything around me, that fear. Like I’m... borrowing from something massive. Everything’s humming with it. Animals. Even the plants. There’s waves of it all over this place. They’re afraid every day, most of them. I— I think I’ve been, too.”

\---

"Prey-instinct. Bit different to be Hunted or to Hunt, but... Every creature has the fear of being  _ hunted. _ The normal kind." Gerard shrugs. "We've just forgotten it, over the years. We don't tend to get hunted, humans. Guess it's no wonder Hunters get so... Animalistic."

\---

“I’ve been hunted, more recently. No - no wonder you saw it on me. It  _ is  _ just— It’s woven in.” 

Martin hears something, then, something muffled. A steady whirring in the background of his senses. He hadn’t dredged up enough focus to pay attention to it, but when he turns fully around to look at Gerry, it starts to come from the opposite direction. “Do you hear that?”

\---

Gerard cranes his neck, cocking his head, and after a few moments of listening, he shakes his head. "What is it?"

\---

“It sounds like— “ Martin slides the bag off one shoulder, then the other, resting it on the dirt as he unzips the main pocket. The soft mechanical purring immediately gets louder, and in an almost obsessive pursuit Martin gets the bag undone just enough to stick his hand in and pull. 

It’s a running tape. Martin doesn’t stop it, too busy being dumbly proud of himself for finding the source like a zoo animal with new enrichment, just holds it up to show Gerry where he’s crouched by the bag.

\---

Gerard stares blankly at him, and after silence, he realizes he's supposed to react, so he shakes his head and opens his hands palm up. "So? It's one of your tapes. Is it supposed to mean something?"

\---

“It’s recording right now. I didn’t start it.” Martin watches Gerry’s hands more than his face, and it gives him the impression he should leave this to Gerry instead. A low sound of discomfort in his throat gives his conflicting emotions about it away, but he still tries to hand it over.

\---

"I mean, you must have. Probably nudged it." But he doesn't sound sure whatsoever. Something tells him Martin didn't. He holds out a hand for it anyways.

\---

Martin doesn’t comment on Gerry’s lack of conviction. He also doesn’t linger any more than he has to after handing him the tape. Easier to pick up his bag and carry on. 

And then he remembers what they’d  _ just  _ been talking about, and he scowls. “It was spying on the  _ worst  _ conversation ever had between two people.”

\---

"I've definitely had worse conversations. Don't worry yourself." 

He follows, looking down at the still-running tape. Gerard holds it up to his mouth, and hisses, "Piss off, whatever you are," and then drops it on the streets, crunching it like all the others beneath his boot, smiling in satisfaction when it _ stops. _

\---

Martin gears up for what he knows Gerry’s about to do, shoulders hiking up anxiously as he walks away. It still startles him enough to draw a short, high whimper from his mouth, but he’s fine. 

It takes every ounce of human in him to ease the tension coming entirely from himself. “Our hero.”

\---

He gives it one more final stomp for good measure, and then shakes out the effort of connecting to it by wavering in image for a second. Once he stabilizes, he's slow, but catches back up to Martin once the sensation of fading falls away.

_ "Sometimes, _ the princess can also be the Knight." He meets the tension break; truthfully, the tape makes him very, _ very _ uneasy. Something is watching. And even patron entities aren't a comfort.

\---

“Very fluid of you, isn’t it?” 

As nice as moving on would be, it’s all drawn back to the same thing. Quicker now, too, the closer they get. “I wonder why they want us in a  _ city. _ That seems— dangerous.”

\---

"They're toying with you." He shrugs. "Or maybe they've a hideout. I don't know. It  _ is _ dramatic."

\---

"A hideout under the Art Institute. Wouldn't that be  _ funny. _ I don't like not knowing what to be ready for, it-- It just makes it worse. Has me making things up." And, of course, like everything that's made this trip worse, it's likely intentional. He hates being strung along.

\---

"Hard to guess. Or even to See. Hunters are erratic; they change on a dime." Gerard looks forward to the road. "I don't even know I Know things until they come out of my mouth."

\---

“Erratic? I’ve no idea what gave you that impression.” There, now he’s calming down properly. For a minute, anyway. “Instead of any other road trip game, I could just point at things and you can ramble on about them. Think you could Know how old a  _ tree _ is?”

\---

"I  _ told _ you. I don't Know unless I say it. It's not even a thought. Sometimes it just happens." He grimaces. "Ugh. I'm a walking trivia book."

\---

Martin turns to face him, walking backwards, grinning almost viciously at the chance to turn this around. "When's the last time a car went down this road?"

\---

"Thirty-six minutes ago," Gerry drones, and then scowls at Martin, blinking furiously as though pulling himself out from something. "Now hey. Hey hey hey. I'm adding asshole to your list of insults. Asshole prick."

\---

"Creative. Mm..." Martin hums as he looks around for his next target. A few crows are flying overhead, and Martin points up as he prepares some random question. "Are any of those female?"

\---

"I would  _ imagine _ so." Gerard scowls, his voice spitfire and angry, but the words taste like molten acid, and he actually gags a little, his hand flying to his mouth. 

And then his voice flies from his mouth unbidden, and it's flat and emotionless. He stops walking for a moment, as though taken over. "Crows hold funerals for their dead, often flocking together in a mass of nearly a hundred. They do not touch the dead, but watch on."

\---

"If I'd known I had an audience with David Attenborough, I'd be a lot less _ abrasive." _ Martin runs a hand over his mouth, stifling the laughter threatening to fall out so he can think of another one. "Are there deer up here in Indiana?"

\---

_ "Yes,"  _ Gerry hisses, but that's evidently not enough, and though his voice is muffled from the hand over his mouth, he says, "Specifically white-tailed deer, which lives in the majority of the continental U.S."

He picks up his pace and focuses and kicks Martin in the back of his shin. Not  _ hard  _ but definitely with enough force to smart.  _ "Dickhead." _

\---

With his own childish laughter, his lack of general awareness paired with Gerry's ghostly silence at the ground makes the kick a complete surprise. Martin jumps back like a kicked dog, eyes wide with shock and not pain. 

This is something friends just laugh off. Normal friends. Gerry's a friend. It's scaring him that he has to think that loudly. Gerry's his friend. He starts shivering involuntarily, taking an extra step away without a word. No more teasing questions about animals.

\---

Gerard rolls his eyes, but he's still too angry to apologize. And he won't. He makes that decision right then. Martin was pulling things from him, on purpose, like an asshole, and he got his retribution. Whatever.

He crosses his arms and keeps walking. "Now that that's settled," He starts, pursing his lips for a second. "That's a new... Sensation. Ability. Whatever. I've never been able to do that."

\---

With his skin healed over into thin teeth-shaped marks at his palm, Band-Aid removed as of this morning, Martin bites down at the same spot as he walks. Any desire he had to follow up with more questions squashed, he keeps deathly quiet while Gerry has all his revelations about powers. Seems to be a  _ thing, _ lately. New sensations.

\---

They walk. And it's nearly a five minute silence, and any other time in his life, Gerard would keep the silence, would stay sullen and happy to be it. Hard to justify, when talking is all he  _ has  _ now.

"Really cool to bite something I literally tended to last night, at great energy withdrawal from yours truly." He can't help but breach the silence. "Did that kick hurt that bad, you big crybaby?"

\---

The force of his jaw increases by increments, and he can’t defend himself. Not with words, for obvious reasons, and not a _ look,  _ out of fear that’ll only make it worse. Make it real. The taste of his own blood starts to tinge his mouth, but it doesn’t mask what’s already been filling his head for days. 

“Stop,” is all he manages, tense at the edge of a threshold he’s never learned to cope with because he’s never  _ had _ it.

\---

_ "Why? _ God. You're allowed to be a rude fucking prick but I can't? Is that it?" Gerard realizes, all at once, that even if he likes Martin, he's  _ done  _ with this shit. Done. He steps closer, and his jaw is tight when he leans into Martin's space. "You get to joke and play and force me to say shit and you still get to be the one who gets looked after. Boo fucking hoo. My fucking apologies, Your Highness."

\---

Tears of pain are welling up in Martin's eyes as blood starts to trickle down his wrist. He tries, he tries to say it again, to get Gerry to give him a minute, just a _ minute,  _ but his blood is boiling and his brain's turned to sludge and he can't just leave the room, they're on a road. An open road. There's nowhere to go and Gerry's book is wide open at his bag and he can't just  _ reach. _

His hand leaves his mouth, streaks of red smearing over his bottom lip. He can't ground himself without the pressure, edges of his vision blurred until it's not  _ Gerry _ in front of him, it's just an unknown  _ Entity, _ and he lunges for his throat with a bleeding hand.

\---

Gerard stumbles backwards, but it doesn't matter; he's incorporeal without the reason to be physical. They don't connect in the moment. Which means that when he steps back, he  _ does _ go corporeal, because his stupid fucking brain thinks it's important to be, and the gravel crunches below his feet, and out of his mouth flies,  _ "Martin",  _ scared in a way he's never sounded around Martin before, and the eyes glow.

\---

Martin can't sense his fear as a physical thing, but it  _ reverberates  _ in his eardrums, worming its way into every corner of his brain that incites him to close the distance. He imagines, in a split-second spark of creativity, the same satisfaction of a cat digging teeth into a squealing mouse. But he's not so far gone he won't recognize his own  _ name, _ and it gives him enough time to let shame take over and lower to the ground. 

On his knees in the middle of the road, it's easier to curl in on himself, both hands over his stomach, and press his forehead to the uneven dirt and pebbles than to lunge back. He's not crying at the first word, but by the end the bitter mixture of tears and blood is strong enough to taste. "Stop... Stop calling me names.  _ Stop. _ S-stop."

\---

"Okay," He says, and lowers to the ground with him, his knees hitting the gravel bodily. It doesn't hurt, but it's a near thing. He doesn't reach out, and he doesn't touch, but he sits on front of him. He's shaking slightly, but not in a human way. His form wavers and jumps and he thinks it's the closest he's probably going to get.

"Sometimes you just p-piss me off and I've got nothing else.  _ Nothing." _

\---

“I-I-I’m not a crybaby, I’m not  _ m-making  _ you look after me— Gerry, you keep telling me I’ll - I’ll kill someone and I’m not— it’s not like there’s a m-manual on, on having the  _ one _ person I can actually say ‘I love you’ to being... “ 

Martin holds in a sob, which just forces it into a high-pitched whine and that’s much worse and now it’s becoming a _ thing,  _ of course it has, where he’s burying tears to avoid another push from Gerry into his own personal hell. “All I’ve done is react and g-give you all these words and - and details that set me off and I’m so a-afraid, I’m so afraid I’ll hurt someone and be— I don’t want to— I don’t want to  _ want  _ that like I do right now.”

\---

Oh. So they're doing this now. On the road to Chicago on foot. Fitting, somehow. It's so empty here, and the dust kicked up by the wind billows around him, and the debris on the street would probably hurt his knees if they were capable of pain, anymore. Gerard pulls in a slow, slow breath, and exhales with his face tilted towards the sky.

"Alright. We're both fucked up. You supernaturally so. I don't think it's a good idea to hold that back, by the way." He turns his head back down to look at Martin. "It looks like it hurts."

\---

Martin presses his forehead harder against the ground. “All of it hurts. Everything— If I don’t hold it back you’ll just call me that again, I-I feel like I’ve done a— I’ve earned  _ crying, _ I’m either sick or smelling blood or hurting you or screwing up with the car and Jon’s things and not knowing what to do and wishing he were here and— “

He hopes a car comes by and doesn’t see him in the road before it hits him. “I think— I think you can  _ handle  _ it if I make fun of you for being able to know facts that are - that are actually  _ helpful.  _ You get to not feel. You get to leave whenever you  _ want. _ Your powers make you glow and know things that help you and you - y-you get to choose if you’re physical enough to be hurt o-or touched— I’m not crazy. I’m not  _ insane,  _ I’m just watching myself choose to be w-what I—  _ Of course it hurts.” _

\---

"I won't _ call  _ you that again, because now I know you freak the fuck out. I didn't _ know _ before." He palms the ground and wills himself to feel it. He can't feel the warmth of it, though. He wishes he  _ could. _

"I can't read your mind. You-- I've never had a _ friend, _ Martin, I'm not meaning to-- I don't know--" He cuts himself off with a growl. It's so fucking hard to access his emotions, and he's  _ trying, _ and he's never ever been thanked. Not that he needs to be. But fuck. Fuck. "Cry. I won't make fun of you."

\---

“You get to leave, but I’ve been here for every second whether I’ve had company or not.” Martin’s clearly exhausted himself, and he’d be embarrassed about it if he could spare it.  _ “You  _ never have to be alone, it’s just  _ dark.  _ Every second I’m awake I just— I just want Jon here, I want to— I want to go back to our bed, I want to hear his voice, I want to hear him say something nice about me that I can actually _ believe,  _ I want to make up for being so stupidly  _ needy  _ all the time, I want him to not be afraid, I want— “ 

Whether he wants to or not, he spills over with snotty, ugly tears. He tries to hold it back just as he’s done, been doing, has so much  _ practice _ doing, but it slips through his fingers before he can catch it. Just like Jon. Isn’t that a fantastic joke, right now? 

Martin tilts to the side, hiding his face with both hands, painting Jon’s scarf and his skin with all these vulnerable parts of himself that make him so shamefully afraid. It’s all so much worse than wearing it all on your sleeve. “I just want Jon.”

\---

Gerard doesn't know how to address or respond to such thick, ugly emotions. So he spares them both the embarrassment and doesn't try. The most he can do is sit vigil to this, knees pressed to asphalt altar, hands wrapped tightly around each other. He can't lie to Martin, won't right now, and so he says nothing for a long, long time, just letting the wind be the only response to Martin's tears.

He's right. Even if Gerard is livid, furious, upset and a whole host of other emotions he doesn't have words or names for because he's never been in a position to be allowed the luxury, he gets to leave. And it hurts, it  _ hurts _ to be this half-thing, to have had his life taken and turned to  _ this, _ and it's infuriating to know he would have been  _ so much more _ if she hadn't destroyed him, and he's full of guilt for that admission.

Martin has to live every second of being turned into a grief-driven monster.

"We'll get him." He says it flatly, with assurance, and he doesn't Know, but he's got a damn good feeling that at the very least, Jon will somehow live through this. 

What he doesn't say: this will keep happening, over and over and over again for the rest of their lives. That this world is dangerous. That he's going to need to get used to it, and soon. He doesn't say it, because he's certain Martin knows.

"But you have to stop thinking I  _ get  _ to leave. It's not fair. I didn't choose this. You're still alive. You'll get your Jon. You  _ get _ to move on."

\---

As the storm blows over and another thousand rest just beyond the horizon, Martin finds the strength to calm down. Breath by breath, outburst maintained, child-grade glue in the form of tears the short-term fix for his fracturing pieces threatening to tear him into a new whole that's half of what he started as.

Latching back onto Gerry is a remarkably comfortable, astoundingly  _ easy _ thing to do. At the end of the day, he's still Martin Blackwood, who does what he thinks he needs to do and tries to mend what someone else or, more increasingly lately, he himself has broken. His voice is still shaky. 

"I don't need to Know any of this to tell you you're alive as you let yourself be. You s-still have choices, you-- You could take the lighter from my coat pocket and set yourself on fire now, whenever you  _ want. _ But you won't, because you're already better at this than your mother could ever be and you _ like  _ that." 

Maybe that's cruel. As much pain Gerry's been bringing to his conscious brain, he's not doing it to ruin his life. It might even be the opposite. He stands up, the rush to his head blinding the edges of his vision. He sniffles, wipes at his face. He'll need to wash everything. 

"Maybe good people just make the best monsters. It's-- How can you know how to really - really hurt people, r-really make them afraid, if nobody ever did it to you first when you never deserved it?"

\---

Gerard stays where he is for a long moment, shorter than Martin in more than one way while he processes it. It cuts him. He's right. He wants to breeze past it, move on, but it's shocking. It's shocking that Martin knew something about him that even he himself didn't know. It scares him, and he presses his knuckles hard against the road and wishes it could hurt. He  _ wills _ it to hurt, wills himself to be wounded and scraped and bloody, but it just doesn't work. The most he can muster is just the image of scraped and bloody knuckles on his ghostly form, another memory from another fight, and it passes after he realizes he won't be able to feel it no matter what.

"She was covered in script, when she manifested the first time," Gerard says, and it's not directed at Martin, but to the air. He looks off where the sky meets the road. "Black and sprawling across every inch of her body. She had no hair. I didn't recognize her. I'd hoped the Book would change her, make her finally... Calm down, maybe. It just made her worse. She screamed at me for hours, how it was all my fault, how I ruined her, how stupid I was, and I cried in a jail cell like a child through the night."

He doesn't know where this is coming from. He's never told anyone this. "I remember thinking I did deserve it, then. I must have done something to deserve her ire. I flinched at her skin for months."

\---

"You  _ did _ do something, Gerry. You didn't let her have the control she wanted. Over you, over-- Over the world, right? In her head you deserved it because she cared more about a _ book  _ than her son. She should've been proud of you. I-- "

Martin doesn't start walking, because as much as he wants to  _ go, go now, go get him h _ e's not pulling on Gerry's tether. He's also really not coping well, internally, at how little he's able to take his own advice, his own messages, ever. How easy it is to reach into someone else's head and draw stories out, but the very idea of looking behind his shoulder at his own memories is so painful he's placed a veil over it all. 

"It's not your job to change her. It-- It never was. She put herself there by pushing you into  _ all  _ of this. She set herself up for failure when you could've been a team. They always yell louder when it's  _ their _ fault."

\---

"She wanted a  _ legacy.  _ And I'm just a ghost." His form wobbles and wavers in a cry he won't ever let escape the memory of his throat.

At length, he starts to pull himself up off the ground, and there's no dust marking his clothes, no stones in his palms, nothing. "It doesn't matter. We need to go."

\---

_ "I  _ don't care about whatever legacy she was trying to make. You're the best ghost I know-- think of all the pranks you can do that you never could before. Might not be so bad."

Martin starts to walk, then, leaving spots of blood along the road as a breadcrumb trail for nothing in particular. He's tired. So, so tired, and it's only midday. "I'm going home a murderer, but-- But I'm going home. Sorry I-I tried to bite you."

\---

"You're lucky I'm defenseless right now. I probably would have stabbed you. Not even on purpose." Good. Another out. He rubs at his face self-consciously and trails behind Martin. "Instinct." He pauses. "I'm literally the only ghost you know. And I don't do  _ pranks." _

\---

"If you stab me, I'll just sleep it off, apparently," Martin huffs. He knows his nose is a bit crooked already, and he's dreading the next time he looks in a mirror. "Maybe if you did pranks instead you wouldn't want to stab people.”

A brief, awkward pause. “...I want a nap."

\---

"Oh, yes, me and my happy go lucky pranking personality. Comes so naturally to me." He scowls, and then rolls his eyes. "It's going to take us days to get to Chicago at this rate."

\---

"Maybe if you learned how to drive instead of piercing my sensitive  _ animal  _ ears we'd be there now," Martin says dryly.

\---

"Hm. I'm not the one who drove over nails. Think that ones a little more at fault than my lack of a license."

\---

God, Martin's getting sick of this kneejerk hackles-raised aggression. "They had him on the road. You weren't there."

\---

"No, I wasn't." He says it harshly, but then softens up a bit. He's too tired, already, to bait Martin into getting pissed again. "You saw him?"

\---

"Yeah." He's not elaborating on the way Jon's eyes burn into the backs of his own. "And the Hunters. There's two of them." 

Martin turns down to his hand. He's bitten much, much deeper this time. With a short glance that's intended to be at least a _ little  _ stealthy aimed in Gerry's direction, he still holds off the impulse. "Would... you judge me if I licked this off?"

\---

"Yeah," Gerard says simply. He gives a one-shouldered shrug. "Do it anyways. I've judged you for worse shit."

\---

Martin hesitates, as if it's somehow rude to do this and not just  _ gross. _ His mind circles back to Jon, who'd just asked him days ago if he was squeamish. That has him making a dopey smile as he runs his tongue over the side of the wound. At least it's stopping. 

"I  _ really _ don't want to tear up someone's... anything. I-I don't want to use my teeth-- What if I get a disease? I didn't know people could even-- Even bite hard enough for this."

\---

Gerard raises a very pointed eyebrow. "You sure? Because you tried to rip out my throat, like, thirty minutes ago. I think you just want to think you don't want to do these things. But you do. It wouldn't happen otherwise."

\---

Martin angles his head enough to glare at Gerry with his tongue still sticking out at his palm. A kid in winter over a frozen pole. Much easier to give him a  _ look _ than go 'right, right, you're right, Gerry, obviously, screw you'. 

"It would be _ fantastic _ if you had whatever Jon got right before this. Be a lot simpler.  _ Dealing  _ with me. He said something in this voice, and - and I had to do whatever he said. Eye-thing. But the trivia's nice."

\---

That earns him an ugly snort. "Sounds awful webby. You sure he isn't hiding spiderlegs somewhere? Wow, awesome, I could tell you 'heel' and you'd stop being an asshole all at once."

\---

"Christ, no. He wanted to kill  _ my _ spider, and she's saved our lives. Not his thing. It's-- It's like advanced compelling, I think. He, um, he's only done it once. At-- " Martin frowns down at his hand, mentally noting the difference between his own taste and what he imagines Jon's does based on what he's sensed thus far. 

"-- The worst time. You could try. Um, I think we might need to start thinking about what you  _ can _ do... about it. About me."

\---

"... When you go rabid? Yeah. I mean-- not much I  _ can _ do, is there? I just follow, remember?" He purses his lips, though, thinking.

\---

This is not a fun conversation. This is a dog-shed-out-back conversation. Martin's turning his weird new blood-licking hobby into a self-soothing thing that's enough to pull him through this talk. 

"A sound, maybe? Mm. I think-- One idea, back to the words, it's... words never really _ got _ to me, before, but-- It's like, that... that c-word, overnight it's a trigger. Like my brain's building... associations? Faster. Blood. Words. Noises. Certain people. R-reinforcing."

\---

".... Words. Okay. You think that'll cut through the fog? Even when you're.... In the middle of it?" He's quiet a moment. "I mean, I'm a little unsettled about the city. And, I mean-- I already tend to attract attention." He gestures down at himself. "so... Words."

\---

"Looking like this, they'll be more worried  _ I'm _ a serial killer. It might work if we - if we make it work. I can still  _ hear. _ They'd just have to be... grounding. Anchors." Martin keeps quiet, just to think, and he lowers his hand from his face. He's not done, but this is more important. "We'll have a-a few chances to test them out around... people, before the city. Food. Motel stop, so I'm not covered in blood, right?"

\---

"Probably do you good. You look like shit right now." Gerard hums. "I think-- I'm not sure it'll work if we come up with them  _ now. _ I mean-- can you just come up with triggers? They're triggers for a reason. You have to get shot with them. Maybe I should just piss you off."

\---

"If you set me off with them, they're just words that  _ set me off,  _ Gerry. There's no... the whole point is they're  _ positive.  _ It could be anything I don't already hate, really, I-I think. It's like-- Like the opposite of when you call me...  _ growly." _ As if in emphasis, Martin says the word with particular disdain. "Good triggers, bad triggers, C-Christ, I don't know! I-I could think of some, but this is already weird and-- I don't even know if it'll work like that."

\---

"...I haven't  _ done _ any good triggers. It's only gotten you knock shit off when they're bad. Because they're triggers. Because that's how triggers work. Like, what, you do something shitty and I say 'good job'? No, I'm gonna call you a shithead, or, what-- You hated being called a crybaby and that shut you up  _ real  _ fast." He's not even saying it in a combative way; really, he's thinking, and brainstorming. It's just... Heated. He's used to having to match a certain energy. 

"I call you growly and you knock it off. Like-- You understand I'm a little dubious on you  _ stopping  _ if I say something nice?"

\---

"Not like that. I'm not talking  _ affirmations. _ The problem with-- Okay.  _ Crybaby.  _ It doesn't _ stop  _ me from crying, it just makes me-- It makes me hold it in until it blows up  _ worse _ not even five minutes later, and the only reason it works is because I keep biting myself. I don't knock it off. It has to... get  _ rid  _ of the urge. 'Heel' isn't a 'good job', it's a-a command." Martin's voice is louder than usual, like they're having an argument, but he's not upset, he's matching Gerry. 

His eyes widen in the midst of a lightbulb moment. "Oh!  _ Commands.  _ It's-- We're not using  _ Heel, _ but-- That's the idea. Not triggers. Not putting it away to escalate  _ later,  _ just-- Just cutting it off altogether."

\---

"And I'm surmising 'Hey, stop it idiot' isn't a good enough command?" Gerard asks. He purses his lips again. He's thinking. Martin  _ is  _ making more sense. Not compliments, commands that get obeyed. 

"I mean, would any  _ stop  _ word work? You know, a nice firm  _ cease.  _ Makes me sound like a lawyer. Hm."

\---

This is getting embarrassingly degrading, but Jon's not here to plan things through with him, and he knows Jon would already have quite a few words for him about giving in and playing into any of this for  _ him. _

But... that gives him an idea. Even if it's terrible. 

"Maybe we could use some I've already listened to before. Ones that-- That stick out already, sort of, um-- so we're not starting from zero. If I'm a man of instinct, then I'm a man of physical memory with - with reactions I've already _ had." _

\---

"...Right. Okay. Well, I'm all ears, because truthfully, and I know this makes me sound awful, but I'm not sure I've _ said  _ anything positive that did that to you."

\---

Martin shrugs, offering a sideways glance with as much of a smile he can manage. "I mean, bit of a stressful time to meet me, right? I don't blame you. I... hm. Let me think."

As he walks in silence, he starts to wring his hands. The tinge of pain at the wound he's forgotten has him thinking they should... probably stop, soon. 

"Okay. Let's-- Let's stop here, for a minute. I think I-I have a few." He stops by the side of the road, working on opening the bag with one hand so he's not covering that with blood, too. It helps him not react to the words that fall from his own mouth. _ "Sit still, Martin." _ It's hissed out, slightly, but in a different way than when he tries to recreate an _ "Easy." _ The last one he has to really think about, for application. "He-- It was said like 'We're going home', but I think-- I think it's faster to say  _ 'Let's go home', _ if-- If that works, 'long as it's...  _ home.  _ Likely the, er-- The important part."

\---

Gerard hums to acknowledge he's heard, but he doesn't say anything for a long while, taking a moment to process it, sound it out in his head,  _ hear _ it. Fucking weird thing, this all is, but he's not about to throw away the chance to calm Martin's moods just because it's  _ weird.  _

"It's all important because it was  _ him  _ originally, yeah?" He says it after a while, coming to rest near Martin. He'd prefer to keep walking, but he also doesn't get fatigued in the same way as him; his is more of a spiritual confliction. "So are you sure it'll have the same effect from  _ me? _ I'm not your Archivist."

\---

Martin doesn’t bother mentioning that one of them only hit so deeply from Jon’s mouth because it came from his  _ mother _ first. 

He brings out the kit, unzipping the contents he’d shoved back in without order the night before. Then he shakes his head. “It’s more... how they were said. About the—“ He snaps his fingers. “— reaction they got. Better than nothing, to start. I thought about using something Michael said, too, but he... talks weird. Nothing simple. And— A knock, too, but we won’t always have a  _ door.  _ Might as well try.”

\---

"I can test them out." Gerard ends up giggling, almost. "God. Throwing my disgustingly trained hound dog at a poor, poor receptionist at a motel just to test out reaffirmations. Now that's a sight to Behold."

\---

Martin shrinks under the laugh, but it does a funny job of keeping him present while he wraps gauze around his hand. He gets it done quickly enough. 

“Might also help that your voice has this— This echo to it. I’ll notice it, I think, around city noise. And— Ugh, I hate it, but you could always set me off and try it then.” He scowls at the kit before packing it all up again. His last words are spoken under his breath. “I wouldn’t be a  _ hound _ dog. More like a-a failed neurotic police dog.”

\---

Gerard grins. "Guard dog, I think. Pampered lap dog who got out and is now starving and missing being spoiled. Purebred petty bitch who got covered in mud. I can continue." He shrugs, still jovial. "We'll workshop it. Don't have any treats for you, though."

\---

“Stop,” Martin says plainly, trying not to growl it out. That’s just more fuel, and he’s given Gerry  _ enough _ of that, thank you. He fixes the bag onto his back before turning to walk again, back to the edge of the road. “You’ll have to— If you use them, you have to avoid following it up with more antagonizing. If you could even  _ manage _ that part. A-at least, while we’re testing them. I don’t need...” Brief, seething silence. “...Treats.”

\---

"Nah, you just need your lover's words parroted back at you." He pauses, and lets his voice go a bit more serious. "I won't. I'll try. Look, it _ is _ weird. I'm just feeling it out still. I'm--" How to not sound pathetic and admit 'I'm afraid of being in public because I'm a freak ghost'? He's not sure it's possible. 

"I'm just working it out still. No antagonizing. Got it."

\---

Martin sighs, deeply relieved. “Thank you. At least I  _ know _ it’s weird. I wouldn’t ask unless I thought it was... well, important. Necessary? I told you it’s not the words. And most of those are— Most of them are things he said at... really, really awful times. It’s the memory of it. If it’s grounding, it’s— It can’t be just the memory of a person I like.”

\---

Gerard squints. There's an idea brewing in him, and he hates it. He has to be careful about this. But really, quite frankly, he doesn't want to wait until they're in a public space to try this out. And the more blindsided Martin is, the deeper they can test it. Surprisingly, he doesn't want to do this; he doesn't  _ want _ to set Martin off, not consciously. Usually it's just... Walls coming in and taking over. A voice that knows how to keep Gerard safe. 

_ Purposefully _ being mean, in a very deliberate way, well-- Maybe when he stuttered about friends he was more pointed than he meant to. God. When did he become so soft? Before or after becoming skin leather for a book?

"I think it's fucking stupid. It'll never work. It's just-- I mean, fuck." His voice is flat, even, barbed. "Getting a ghost to be your goddamned keeper. I keep forgetting what a moronic idiot you are." He keeps walking. It's not  _ acting, _ it's just-- saying stuff that he kind of sort of believes and making sure he  _ does _ believe it, when it comes out of his mouth. He'll have to ask Martin what he knows about Crowley at some point, when he's not-- Well. Antagonizing.

\---

“Laying it on thick, Gerry,” Martin just about mutters, but he knows he can hear him. They’re just a few feet apart and it’s deathly quiet up in them there hills. But he gets Gerry’s angle, and if they’re doing this, well— Reciprocal, isn’t it? “Being someone’s keeper, right, right— That’s all you’re good for, isn’t it?”

\---

Okay. Gerard feels less bad now that Martin  _ knows.  _ Feels like he can push harsher. And the nice thing is, they're not lying. They're feeding each other what they hate about themselves, and it's so, so easy to dredge up  _ actual  _ anger.

"Evidently. And evidently you just like to use, and use, and use. Get a kick out of it? Making me run behind you? All that control in your hands?"

\---

“I don’t  _ use _ people. I’m not making you, you signed up for it.” His voice is less sure this time, but this is— It’s the exact opposite of making something up with Jon at some café. Harder to joke about what’s real. Better if he pretends. “You’re just jealous you never had any. Tailing after your mother, no wonder Gertrude was so appealing. You have a type, don’t you?”

\---

"Hmmm." Gerard's smile is tight, angry, but controlled. "And what's your type? Real Romeo and Juliet about it, huh? Who's gonna take the poison for who and die  _ stupidly? _ My vote's on Jon."

\---

Martin’s rational brain knows the comeback is embarrassingly simple, something silly and surface level. Weirdly enough,  _ that’s _ what has his shoulders hiking up. Might be that new obsessive tic whenever Jon’s brought into it. “I’m not letting him die. That’s why we’re doing this.”

\---

There we go. Gerard pushes his own anger deep, deep inside him, and _ targets. _ "Ha! Dying isn't always the  _ end  _ for all of us. You should know that. And I think we both know that between the two of you,  _ he's  _ the fragile one."

\---

Martin keeps a steady eye on the road. “He’s not fragile. He— I could be dead, if— I  _ know _ it’s a choice. We already figured that out, he said he’d come back.” He doesn’t want to say what he’s about to, because it’s still fresh, but he  _ has _ to. This is a terrible metaphor for something. “I’m just afraid he’ll come back different. Th-that he’ll change.”

\---

"He will. Of course he will. He's a monster. Monsters make worse monsters. Duh. Do you not get this? Are you that blind? Christ. You're not a crybaby. You're just a  _ child _ about this."

\---

“I’m not a child, and you’ve only met him  _ once. _ You’re not— I know what I’m  _ doing.” _ Martin wants to play into this, to indulge Gerry’s heroically decent attempt at riling him up, but he knows when he’s just being toyed with. It’s not as easy as just...

They turn the corner and Martin’s pace slows to a crawl. There’s a house up the road. He can see the mailbox, the roof, the fence— Why the hell would someone  _ live  _ up here? 

This time, his voice is a whisper. “Gerry.”

\---

"Do you? Are you sure?" His voice is still firm; he doesn't register the stiffness in Martin's posture, his voice. He, honestly, just assumes it's working, what he's doing.

\---

“No,” Martin admits outside his own volition, the first spark of panic catching flame along the thread to explosion. “Th-there’s a house.”

\---

"Yeah." Gerry says. "There is."

\---

"I look like I kill people. What if-- Can you tell if someone's home? Gerry, I'm c-covered in blood. There's a book made of  _ skin _ tied to my bag." Martin's almost forgotten about their stupid, stupid game. "I-- I have the worst luck of any person on this  _ planet. _ There's a  _ house.  _ People-- People live there."

\---

Gerard squints. Is it too early? He wanted to get him  _ real  _ worked up and all. But this isn't the game. This is real. So he tries. He musters up will in his voice, not unlike how he physically wills himself to do things these days, and he says,  _ "Easy. _ We'll just keep going."

\---

His fear rises until it’s bubbling over every inch of his skin, and then all at once it evaporates into a soft exhale. Martin picks up his pace and moves to Gerry’s left, using him as a physically-mostly-pointless but anxiety-easing barrier between him and the house. 

When he  _ does _ speak, not long later, it’s a little more even. 

“I can hold off on eating until after we find a motel— Any idea where the nearest one is?”

\---

Gerard smiles, even if, deep down, this kind of anxiety-reducing control confuses the ever living shit out of him. It's just _ odd. _ But if it works... So be it. "No. I'm not a GPS. sure imagine your phone has one, though. Funny how that works."

\---

“Unless there’s a deer out here with a wall outlet, I can’t charge it, but— I think I turned it off, hold on.”

They pass by the house, and while Martin’s afraid to look, he does notice there are no cars in the driveway. That helps. He brings his phone out from his pocket and turns it on. It’s too  _ bright.  _ Ugh. 

After a minute he figures it out, letting the map run. They finally have service, and it looks like they’re swiftly coming up on... civilization. Uuuugh.

“Off the road. Faster just to cut through.” As he leaves the road, Martin forgets that Gerry’s not just a normal person and makes his slow descent down another hill. “Careful, it’s steep.”

\---

"What am I gonna do?  _ Stumble. _ Hah." He follows quickly, not exactly happy they're off-roading it, and he immediately stumbles on the hill because he's not paying attention and evidently ghosts can fucking stumble. Useless existence.

\---

“I just said  _ careful—“ _ A new anxiety takes the empty mantle as Gerry loses balance, and Martin’s gut instinct is to reach for Gerry by the nearest part of his coat he can manage with the idea in mind to pull him into stability.

\---

What shocks Gerard the most is that Martin's hand connects. Because he wants it. It takes effort, but his panicked, gut-fear instinct is to be  _ available.  _ He braces against Martin's hand and rights himself, a nervous laugh falling from his lips from the sheer embarrassment, one, and two, the fact that evidently even his _ subconscious _ brain is starting to trust Martin. Strange realization, that.

\---

The contact sends a buzzing alarm wracking through the inside of his skull, but Martin fights through the hum of discomfort - more like an outdoor power box, something electric and vaguely psychically damaging - to hold on until he’s sure Gerry can manage the rest. “I don’t think either of us needs a rough fall off a steep hill right now. Those boots aren’t made for this, are they?”

\---

Gerard shrugs. "They've done me well before." Thank Christ he can't blush anymore. With his complexion, coloring right now would just make him  _ more  _ embarrassed. "They've got, like, a thick sole, or whatever. That's enough? I think."

\---

“I don’t know about shoe anatomy, I picked these so I was ready for trails. Guess they’re still— “ Martin snorts, “—Doing that job. It’s not far, um, do you— Do you think you could go into the lobby, on your own?”

\---

Gerard kind of leans back, grimacing. "Is it-- Is that smart? I mean. You said my voice  _ echoes." _

\---

The burst of confidence at having made it past their First Evil (Empty) House has Martin in a better mood. 

“Hi, I'm the front desk at a motel. A man just walked in with his clothes and face covered in blood and dirt. He had a bandage over his hand and the blood soaking through is obviously a bite mark, and that scarf around his neck is  _ clearly _ not his style, and he’s obviously been crying. I’m calling the police. That’s normal. Your  _ voice _ echoes? Just make - make a comment about the acoustics in there.”

\---

He wrinkles his nose. "You  _ do _ have a point. You're in desperate need of bathing. Ugh. Fine. Fine. If it goes badly though, I warned you. Keep that in mind , Hm?"

\---

“You say that about everything. Worst case scenario, you’re just giving some random person a statement about a goth ghost with an accent trying to book a motel room in America and failing at it. That’ll be fun to read.” Martin laughs despite himself, easing into the distraction as he walks. He’s sure he’s not going to get much of those pretty soon, might as well soak it up.

\---

"Suppose you're right." Wow, when did he get so  _ scared _ of people? Being dead sucks. New complexes galore. He snorts. "And you'll be outside keeping watch. Told you. Guard dog."

\---

“Whatever. Don’t rub it in, I already gave you— I gave you  _ commands.  _ Christ, I hate this. I just want to kill them and get it over with.” Martin’s tone is light-hearted, but he’s not exactly... joking, in the traditional sense.

\---

"Soon." Gerard keeps his voice light, too. He blinks. "Oh God. They're going to see us, you know. Both of us. And then I'm going to order a room with a single and-- Christ, it's like we're in a terrible American comedy. I hate this, too."

\---

“Gerry the homophobic ghost, afraid to book a single with another man. You _ really _ think that’s what they’ll notice? I’ll bet you’re the only one with lip piercings in whatever town this is.”

\---

"Oooooh, calling me homophobic. Brave choice." He rolls his eyes, but he feels far more stable and lighthearted than he has all day. "On the Indiana border? Yeah you're probably right." He laughs. "'Oh, sorry sir, the ghost thing, that's fine, but those _ piercings _ are just such an affront to Jesus, we couldn't possibly give you a room.'"

\---

“This would be the best time to get a piercing, if I heal like that again tonight. But— “ Martin shrugs. “I mean, sounds like America. Ghosts, yes, always. Vulgar affronts to God? No. Is this state liberal? I’ve no idea.”

\---

_ "Indiana?  _ No, Martin, it's not. The mayor's fucking Mike Pence." He blinks. "Wow. The whole fact thing mixes weird when I know the information already. I'm like. Angry about the facts. That's fun. You should get a piercing."

\---

“Ooh, someone’s growly.” It comes out flat and facetious, a caricature of Gerry’s own voice. “Find something sharp and give me a piercing, Gerry. If I  _ murder _ someone before I hit that milestone, my life’s a complete joke.”

\---

"Wow, what a fantastic way to get an infection." He pauses for a beat. "Wait. Right. Healing factor. You're like a fucking X-Men. But also I don't  _ have  _ loose jewelry on me, Martin."

\---

“Ha! Right. Sure. I’m like a lame Wolverine, you’re— Gerry.” Martin giggles, like he’s rediscovered some childhood memory that doesn’t actively bring him pain. “Can you phase through walls? Christ, what was her name? I used to read random comic books I’d find at the library if I liked the covers. I know, like, five X-Men.”

\---

"Kitty. Her name is Kitty. And... I mean. Yes? I think so, actually. I've been walking through things when I don't pay attention. God. Ridiculous."

\---

“We’re two idiot cosplayers lost on our way to the convention, somehow we’ve made it up to Indiana aaaand...” Martin’s breath dies out, staring at the intersection up ahead where the bright lights of vacancy signs and gas prices make him want to go cower back in the woods where it’s safe.

\---

"Aaaaand, we're continuing. Let's go." He focuses and grabs onto Martin's sleeve. He can't pull very hard, but he hopes the contact is enough. "You ever do that? Have time to do like. Dork shit like conventions?"

\---

“No one’s ever invited me,” Martin admits softly, giving in to the pull without much of a fuss. He’s getting tired. Too tired to be snappy. “I never had time as a kid to have hobbies unless I could do them  _ and _ something useful together. Go to the library for school, end up remembering more about Crowley poems and picture books than my entire childhood years spent in math.”

\---

Gerard blinks. "Well, see, I was content to just use the Eye to passably get through X-Men knowledge, but now we're getting somewhere I actually  _ know.  _ Crowley? You? Fucking you?"

\---

Martin rolls his eyes despite the embarrassment creeping up in his cheeks. “Why do all of you get so  _ weird  _ about it? I used to have a rule when I was younger where I’d go out of my way not to know who an author I liked really was. Made me feel distant from them. ‘My poisonous passion for your blood— _ Behold.’” _ His voice evens out as he recites, trying to shake off the nervous need to defend himself. “Pretty fitting, right?”

\---

"Well, well, my friend, consider yourself Beheld." He's smiling openly at Martin now. "Sorry it's just, you don't seem the type? I mean, if you never looked him up, it makes more sense but. Look. You don't have-- you don't seem  _ spooky, _ or  _ edgy. _ You're both, obviously, I know that, but you don't seem it."

\---

Martin blinks dumbly, at first. He’s not sure if that was... was that a compliment? 

“It’s not like I know  _ nothing _ about him, I just care more about the writing. I’m sure if I found all the things I wrote when I was, like,  _ fifteen,  _ you’d see the influence pretty bad.” 

He slows down, because he’d prefer this conversation forever over breaching a public space that might as well be hell. “If I  _ seemed _ it, I’d get— Noticed. Haven’t really wanted that, for the most part. Ever. Worked out most of my life. Then a handsome man who’s also my  _ boss _ time travels and, well, now I might as well get piercings and bad dye jobs, right?”

\---

"Have you never dyed your hair, mate?" He gives Martin a funny look. "Wow. Your boyfriend's going to hate me. I'm corrupting you."

He keeps walking. He can feel Martin stalling and he's not about to indulge that. "Guess I've just always stood out too much to not.. Go a little crazy about it."

\---

“I think you look nice. I’m the crazy one here, right?” The words are strained, not because he’s lying or covering for something but because Gerry’s leaving him behind if he slows down and he’d rather have company which means catching up to stick to his side. 

“And I wasn’t allowed. I never really— I tried not to think about having a real body, most of the time, so I never did anything fun. And it’s not like you’re corrupting me any more than the  _ Hunt  _ is. I’ll lose my last bit of sanity buying some piercings and hair dye. Like I care.”

\---

"Well, we'll have to bleach it first. That hair is  _ not  _ dyeing easy." He regards Martin, pursing his lips as he looks at him. "You'd look handsome with a nose piercing. Or an eyebrow stud." He pauses. "You think I look nice?"

\---

Martin wants to meet the eye contact, but he’s been getting terrible at it the longer he’s been away from Jon. Is that poetic? Shit. Have to remember that. He’s smiling at the ground anyway, both hands in his pockets. 

“Yeah. You look like the kind of person where if I’d seen you walking around as a kid it might’ve opened some doors for me. Maybe I’d be moody  _ and  _ aesthetically appropriate. I could do a nose piercing.”

\---

"Ah. An inspiration to all depressed kids out there. Exactly the aesthetic I'm going for." He laughs. "Hey, after a run in with the Hunt, at the tender age of 29, we can get you looking how you want. Never too young."

\---

“Promise?” It’s an odd reflex, one that hasn’t hit him since he’s last sat in a hospital bed. He thinks about sticking his hand out, but somehow he gets the impression Gerry might  _ Know _ he’s done it before, and it’s not like it matters, but... all he does is sit there with the question sandwiched between them.

\---

Gerard's expression tilts a bit. It's just a question, juvenile and childish, and yet the way Martin says it, is like there's more. And he knows where there's unspoken  _ mores, _ that he's got to be careful. So he hopes Martin knows exactly how fucking deep he's evidently dug himself, when he nods, and says, "Promise."

\---

They’re outside the motel now, and to preserve the moment Martin is being very, very good about not pointing out how loud the neon is behind the sign they’re crossing under. But he can’t keep putting it off. 

He rubs at one of his own wrists. “You— Think you can go in? I have... cash.”

\---

"Ugh. Making me hold things  _ and  _ talk to living souls? Cruel." He pauses. "Fine. But give me your full name. I don't like using my legal name for this stuff."

\---

“Can’t we come up with a good fake name instead? That’s a bad idea.” Martin moves the bag to one shoulder and unzips the front, trying to give Gerry the exact amount it said on that  _ stupid  _ sign so he won’t have to count it. 

Holding it out for him, Martin huffs. “You could always just use Elias Bouchard. Or Tim Stoker. Either one would be funny.”

\---

Gerard rolls his eyes and takes the money with a rough grab. "I'll get creative. Stay here."

\---

Martin does exactly that. At least it’s dark out and this doesn’t seem like a very popular destination, so he can enjoy that. Gerry has nudged him into a good mood, but he’s afraid now more than ever that it’s not fit to last. So he stays in one spot and keeps quiet, and he doesn’t even bother the cricket that jumps by a few feet ahead of him.

\---

The last vestiges of the sunset dip to night as Gerard walks into the lobby of the motel. It's a run-down, shitty little thing, which is exactly what they need. A place that won't ask questions, will just take his money.

It eases him, that. Even so. There's anxiety in the memory of his breast, cutting through the numb fog enough that his grip on the cash in his hand is a vice grip, knuckles white and tense.  _ Martin  _ and  _ Jon  _ might passably have a conversation with him, but what does he do if the receptionist pegs him as some creature? Whatever. Whatever.

The inside is as run down as the out, and the receptionist hardly affords him a second glance, merely a bored and expecting once-over. The kind he's used to. Passive derision and judgment, all but immediately. That bolsters him; his aesthetic does afford him certain social graces, if welded correctly.

She asks how big of a room, and Gerard tells her. She gives him an odd look at the way he speaks, but doesn't comment, and takes his money when he tells her he'd like to pay upfront in cash. He's fairly certain a nicer place would require a card on file; this is no such place.

Really, the transaction takes all of ten minutes. Nothing. Even so, it takes him three times to grab the keys she slides across the desk to him, giving him another off look. He gives her a sheepish smile and she rolls her eyes and returns to her laptop, which Gerard is, quite frankly, grateful for.

The second he's back outside, his form shivers and wavers for a few seconds while he calms himself down. He's never been afraid of talking to people; he's not a fan of this newfound trend of being a ghost causing new disorders. It's a bitch.

\---

Martin jumps once Gerry comes back, instantly checking him over as if he could know what happened based on this alone. He’s not fretting, not quite the time or place for that, but whatever’s happening to him makes Martin  _ antsy. _ “Did it turn out okay? Do we need to go?”

\---

"No." His smile is thin and tight, but he throws the keys at Martin lightly, his form giving another jitter. "We're door 3. That was exhausting."

\---

Martin feels...  _ something,  _ watching Gerry flicker in and out, but he catches the keys. It snaps him into focus, and now he starts to walk with purpose— door three. Door— Ah. Easy enough. 

“You can rest, Gerry. You did— Thank you. I keep thinking it looks like I’m e-expecting you to save the world or something, but you’re— “ Martin sighs. He’s not sure how to thank someone for everything that’s happened today, good and bad. “Thank you.”

\---

"... Yeah. No problem." He follows him closely, and his form starts to stabilize a bit, but he's still exhausted. "You need to close my Book, though. Sure you won't go crazy while I'm gone?"

\---

“I’m not leaving the room tonight, so. I-I don’t know.” Martin keeps the lights off when he finally swings the door open, and when he gets the backpack to the floor he makes a careful effort to untie the book. He catches it before it falls over, and waits. “You... look like you need it.”

\---

"I do. I'll probably just fizz away if you keep me open. I can almost... Feel it. This.... Not-body. It feels fragile." He sits on the foot of the bed and watches Martin untie it.

\---

That sounds permanent. Martin is sure he means it like he’ll fizz away back into the book for later, but... The thought alone alarms him. 

“Night.” 

And then he shuts it.

\---

Gerard can feel it the second that binding is shut on this world. He smiles tiredly and gives Martin a nod, and a moment later, he's gone, and his eyes wink shut after him.


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They really held hands on that log in the woods...

The shower is nice, at least. Without his own dried blood, the dust, the lingering smoke clinging to his hair and his clothes masking over what he’s after, a fresh wave of disturbing calm washes over Martin. He’s sure anyone who knows him would have  _ some _ comment to make about his dumping all his clothes save for Jon’s scarf into the tub and just figuring it out from there, but it does work. Eventually.

Most of the blood had trickled down beneath his clothes to begin with, which made a lot less work for him, but to spare a long-winded explanation of wringing out all his clothes, he makes it out alive and back onto the motel bed without much of a hassle. He doesn’t bother to redress his hand, confident that by the time he wakes up it’ll sort itself out, and moves Gerry’s book to the side table like a perverted Bible. 

Martin thinks he might get a kick out of that.

It takes him seconds to crawl under the covers and pull a pillow close to his chest, spooning that and Jon’s scarf like it substitutes human comfort. His last thought before falling unconscious is that the only objects connected to a living thing he’s touched in days are Gerry’s book, Gerry’s coat. There is no physical comfort here. His dreams are not pleasant. 

He wakes in a room with four concrete walls, windowless, no door in sight. There’s a boot pressed to his throat, crushing down on his windpipe as he claws with both hands to escape. Each press of his fingers into what he thinks is a leg fades through inky, blotting darkness that spreads along his hands and stains every part of him that comes into contact, and it  _ burns, _ but he can’t cry out. It sears through him until his senses numb, until he’s accepted it as his new normal.

Once his desperate wheezes for breath struggle to form to the point of deaf, panicked instinct, the pressure disappears and leaves him drowning in the tarlike thickness of the air. Martin tries to cough it up, oxygen turning to thick liquid on every inhale, flipping over onto his stomach to keep the tasteless filth from his lungs. 

Someone laughs, this echoing, awful, wet sound that drips from somewhere directly overhead, and he can’t spare the energy to _ loathe _ it. The figure above him steps over his choking body and passes over the sludge filling the room without sinking in, and Martin has just enough time to make out what he needs to. Whatever this nightmare  _ wants  _ him to see. 

The Hunters are nothing but dark spots, warped by whatever’s now threatening to consume  _ him.  _ He’s not focused on them, though. Between them and their silent, self-sabotaging mess, he’s paralyzed by Jon’s eyes. It’s all he can see, and while the thick paint has crawled up every part of him but two symmetrical points, somehow it seems like it’s cloaked him, not  _ taken _ him.

It’s all there is, as veins of darkness crawl up every corner of the room, up to the edges of Martin’s own vision. Just Jon’s eyes, wide in something beyond terror, so bright that the dark recoils from them.

Martin shrinks back with identical fear, and as each of his organs rot from the inside with what’s already started to spread into his cells, he wonders what that makes him. 

He wakes up gasping for air, light shining through the curtained window. He hasn’t moved an inch all night, still clutching the pillow. His own worthless, downy lifeline. 

Trapped there in his own advanced sleep paralysis, he whines out Gerry’s name. He can’t move his mouth or his _ brain  _ enough to sound out the passage, and the tears already making their silent descent down one side of his face have as much to do with the fear that he won’t come as the dream itself.

\---

It's strange, being woken up in this form. It's less of a slow-inkling awareness that creeps through a living mind and more like not existing, and then all at once, having always existed. And that's  _ with _ the incantation invocation coming through and urging his existence to bloom.

This is different. This is like not existing, and then having always existed in sludge. There's no conscious decision to come; whatever parts of his soul are still real when he lives within the Book choose it without his consent. Perhaps Martin has just wiggled himself deep into the Words that house him. A scribbled little footnote that has somehow bound Gerard's existence to Martin's calls.

He wakes up on the bed, right on Martin's feet. The Eyes are slow and out of sync as they light up, and his head is cotton, and he has to  _ focus _ to stay here. Has to focus to manifest. Focuses enough that he must have bodily weight, because he can feel the way Martin's feet press down into the mattress, the way his shins shift, the way he can almost, almost, almost actually feel the fabric of the comforter.

He gasps, a small inhalation of surprise. After existing without feeling for so long, it's shocking. Overstimulating. And--

Oh. Martin's crying. Martin's crying and he's terrified, and without thinking, Gerard leans across the length of Martin's body and down, pressing hands to his shoulder. "Martin?"

\---

The buzz of Gerry’s touch is less intense, more physical. It has  _ weight.  _ That should be comforting. That should be  _ exciting.  _ Martin takes a few seconds to leave his dream behind, to focus on this. “You’re touching me.” 

His voice is wet with tears and not tar. “Did I die?”

\---

"Not as far as I'm aware of." He takes a moment to look around the darkened room, to take stock of everything. "You're crying. Bad dreams?"

\---

Martin breathes heavily against the pillow before pushing it away completely. “We should go. I-I can’t... better to walk. Better to walk.” He sits up, scarf wrapped loosely around his neck and at least he’s  _ clothed,  _ using Gerry’s presence to bring him to rationality instead of insanity. 

He knows his hair is a mess and he tries to fix it, made soft and curly again by the shower he’s had. “I can’t get up if you’re, um, on top of me.”

\---

"... Oh. Right." Gerard feels a little more present. He stops focusing so hard, and before he can find out exactly how gross it would be to phase through a man, he rolls away from Martin, sitting up on the other side of the bed. "I didn't realize I'd done that. It just. Kind of happened."

\---

Martin slips out of the bed and finds his coat. Putting it on makes him feel safe, alive, productive, ready. 

He’s burying the nightmare. Digging and digging and digging into a far-off corner of his brain where it’s too dark to see. Moving to Gerry’s side, he grips his book by the spine and holds it up without looking at him. “Can the book go in my bag?”

\---

"Yeah." Now that he feels real, to the maximum capacity he's able to these days, he takes stock of Martin himself. He looks better, at least, not so bedraggled and worn down and road-weary. He'd only met him  _ clean _ one other time, so it's nice to see that he's not permanently a visual mess. "What time is it? Did you even sleep that long?" 

He doesn't know what to think about the fact that Martin called out for him in the throes of a nightmare. Thinking too much about it makes him want to freak out a little bit, truth be told. He quells it.

\---

Martin ignores him outright to place the book into his bag, firmly sticking it between his own journal and the first of Jon's. "It was dark when I closed my eyes. Now it's daytime." 

He gives one cursory look at each corner of the room, then gives a harsh sigh out from his nose and picks up his bag. Turning towards the door, he gives no warning before he's stepping out into the daylight, squinting as he waits for the wind. Waiting...

There. And now he's walking.

\---

Gerard tugs on the ends of his hair in frustration, and has to hurry to follow Martin, not wanting to deal with the mortifying ordeal of having to open a door with a knob. Seems like it'd be a hard Focus to navigate. He's so sick of it. 

"Have you  _ eaten, _ Martin? For God's sake, you haven't even brushed your teeth or anything. Ugh. Your instincts are so  _ stupid _ right now."

\---

"I don't need food. I'm not hungry. They're not stupid." Martin says each piece as a flat statement, religiously sticking to the trail he's not exactly starting to  _ see, _ but sense as denser than air. 

He wants comfort, but after that-- all that, all of it, he doesn't deserve it, doesn't deserve to  _ banter,  _ to indulge in his own humanity longer than it takes to force his muscles to move towards the city he knows he's going to viscerally hate.

\---

"Don't need food... Moron. God." He kicks at the dirt, and makes sure the sound will actually  _ crunch  _ from perceived weight. Stupid use of energy, but if Martin's going to act like this, he's going to be annoying about it. 

"It'll be real hilarious when you pass out from starvation in the middle of trying to save Jon and get yourself gutted on a knife."

\---

"I'll gut you with a knife." Martin isn’t exactly  _ aware _ of how grumpy he sounds, dutifully ignoring the gravel-kicking happening behind him. "I want to get there before I get any worse."

\---

"Right. No, we're, uh, we're stopping at a diner. I'm _ serious,  _ Martin, you can't sustain yourself on hunter-lust the whole fucking time? You've been walking like fifty miles a day." He shakes his head. "Absolutely not."

\---

"Maybe I can, if I wanted  _ badly  _ enough. Find one and I'll think about it. Fifty miles is a painfully high exaggeration. Don't call it lust." He's responding to the phrases out of order, his own thoughts choppy and disorganized, but he's rattled and Gerry's smart enough that he's not set on wasting the effort speaking like a completely sane person.

\---

"Whatever. Do everything myself, I guess." He crosses his arms and scowls at the back of Martin's head. "Maybe if you _ ate,  _ you wouldn't be in such a piss mood."

\---

"He'll hate me for this. I have to kill them and save him and he's never looking at me like I'm a person again, and  _ this isn't about food." _

\---

"Isn't he from, like, the future? You'd assume he'd have a high tolerance for monstery stuff." He pauses. "You're trying to save his _ life." _

\---

"Not with  _ me.  _ His face-- You've never  _ seen _ it. Compelling is bad enough. Reading statements is bad enough.  _ Taking _ statements is bad enough. I can hear it in my head--" 

His voice is no longer flat, words strung out like each one is wrapped in barbed wire that has to come out from his throat. "-- Not for him, never for him. How could I say yes to this for  _ him, _ it's  _ stupid, _ I signed my life away, I fed something much worse than the Eye and now I'm bound to it forever."

\---

Gerard doesn't reply immediately, mulling it over. He's  _ real  _ curious about this dream that Martin had, but he has a good idea of what it must have contained. At least partially. 

His voice, when it comes, is surprisingly acidic; he's not expecting it to be so heated. "You're a fool if you think the  _ Eye  _ is better than any of them." He pauses. "Have-- Have me do the final blow or something. I don't know. Have him. It can't have you forever if you've never actually completed the Hunt."

\---

"That's not  _ me _ saying that. I'm talking about him. It's bad enough getting involved in his work. You know what he said, when I asked him why he was so afraid of me getting involved with the Lonely, this time around? He said I  _ let  _ myself be a martyr." 

Martin sticks his arms out, gesturing to himself as if on display as he yells the last part, like everything's listening. Like everything's watching. "Looks like nothing's changed!"

\---

"Mate, he's  _ literally _ the Archivist. Definition of a martyr role." Gerard wants to let Martin vent, because this is  _ obviously _ shit that should probably be aired out. Not that he would know. He's never been in a relationship, but okay, okay, he's _ imagining _ that's what healthy, normal, adjusted people do. 

So he doesn't say that from the minimal meeting he's had with Jon, he found the man deeply, intensely selfish. Selfish in a way that Gerard was only starting to understand, in the end, if his hypothesis of the  _ reasoning  _ for his being Bound is correct. He doesn't say it, though, because Martin needs to stop jumping to Jon's defense every time he's brought up.

"The Lonely, huh? He ever elaborate on that?"

\---

"I'd never seen him so afraid. Something about a man named Peter Lukas, martyring myself to  _ his _ cause, and right now I'm martyring myself for  _ my _ cause, because  _ he's  _ my cause, and I never asked-- " 

Martin shakes his head, because they've never really sat down about it. "I just-- I've never wanted to be alone again, after that. But now I'm just repeating it with this, and I-I'm afraid, I'm afraid he won't love me after this."

\---

"I've never loved before," Gerard starts, and it's a terrible way to start this, but it's true, and he's not going to lie to Martin. He doesn't  _ know  _ everything. Dictionary jokes aside, he doesn't. "But I don't think that's how love works. And I mean, clearly he still loved you through the Lonely fiasco-- And sheesh, whew." 

He whistles, "That's a nasty one, isn't it? You do its work  _ for _ it." He's ranting. He knows he is, but Martin's tipping, and he's _ just woken up,  _ and he'd rather today not be like yesterday's emotional roller coaster. "Look. It's-- If he doesn't understand, I'll just manifest and punch him in the face so he gets a new perspective. What, he can turn into a monster, but you can't?"

\---

"I know you're trying to help, and I appreciate the effort, but threatening to punch him is--  _ Don't whistle. _ Christ, you're like the world's worst radio jammer."

\---

"Gross. Insulting. I _ am _ trying to help. I'm just shit at this." He pauses. "I mean, I've only met him once, but a good punch might set him straight. Even if it crooks his nose as bad as yours."

\---

"Gerry," Martin growls, fists balling up at his sides. "Next time I bite skin it'll be a chunk out of  _ your _ page."

\---

He wrinkles his nose. "That's disgusting. More on your end than mine. But fine. I'm done. Hm. Maybe I'm just more defensive of you than him. Possibility."

\---

Gerry might be done, but Martin's amped up, now. "He  _ cared  _ about what you thought of him more than I did, so he got shy, and now you think he's a freak based on-- based on what some deranged blood-obsessed baited Hunter vents to you in hormonal angst and a twenty-minute conversation-- Like you've never been  _ shy." _

\---

That earns Martin a nice thick collection of quick blinks. "I'm not shy, no. He cared what I thought? Why the fuck-- What, based on a few statements, he thought he knew me? Well that's just stupid. Right? That's stupid. And you are deranged, but you clearly need the vent, so, uh, duh, I'm just going with it. Sheesh." It's a lot all at once. He's starting to sense a pattern with the way he and Martin talk.

\---

"He knew you enough to carve out our trip so we flew in to the city we thought you might be in, did research to find you, and broke you out from a police station so whatever torture happens to you later doesn't happen _ this _ time, Gerry. Wasn't  _ my _ idea. I just trusted him, and now, thanks to you, I'm not frothing at the mouth in a field somewhere. He was right, you're important, you don't know  _ him." _

\---

"This is a  _ really  _ weird way of complimenting me." He doesn't know what else to say. As combative as Martin is right now, he's not sure he could take the core of what Martin's saying straight. He's not used to that. This is easier, in a way. "I don't know him. I want to, though. Weird to admit that, y'know. I've never  _ wanted _ to meet someone. Like-- Get to know them."

\---

"You have a weird way of showing it," Martin sighs,  _ loudly.  _ "Sorry. Sorry. I'm-- I'm having a rough morning. I'm taking it out on you, and I'm sorry, but if I don't, I might kill a rabbit or something and then I'll cry for the rest of the day."

\---

"Well at least you'd actually fucking eat then, hm? I wouldn't be opposed to rabbit murder." He snorts. "Nah. I think we're both there. It was hard to manifest."

\---

Martin finally shoots a look back at Gerry, and he looks like he's about to _ cry. _ "Don't say that. I don't want to kill any rabbits. And-- Sorry. I didn't read your page. I just sort of, begged. I was stuck. S-somewhere. My fault."

\---

"No need to be  _ sorry. _ I came." He looks ahead of them. He's getting sick of walking. "I don't think most of the people in the book would be able to do that."

\---

"Once I'm-- Once this is over I'll speak to them all. It's on my to-do list. Already was, I think, before we talked to you, but..." Martin idly kicks a rock off the road. "They might if they were given a chance."

\---

Gerard shrugs. "Better scenario would be to just burn their pages. I told you. It  _ hurts  _ to exist like this. I just happen to have more reasons to ignore it. Most of them? Didn't even know what was happening." He pauses. "I used to think my dad was in here. Never found him."

\---

"At least I can ask if they want to say something before they're gone for good. Maybe they have someone to say something to. Or-- Or they want closure."

Another gust of wind floats by from the direction he's walking in, and Martin wills the somehow-pleasant nausea away. "This is so humiliating."

\---

"What, the part where you're like a cartoon character following the scent of a good pie? It  _ is _ funny. But it's not like I'm someone to judge." He snorts. "We're both pathetic. You follow scent trails. I almost got a ghost-boner touching the sheets of your bed this morning. I must have some nasty chaos debts to deserve this."

\---

Martin stops walking, like his brain just stuttered, and his harsh frown turns lopsided until he's laughing, this punched-out sound to power through whatever kind of flustered this is that's nothing like the kind he gets with Jon. "Sorry, run that by me again? Ghost-boner? Jesus  _ Christ, _ Gerry. You were leaning all over me!"

\---

_ "Yeah,  _ and I could feel you. You know-- Okay, okay. bear with me." He holds his hands out, like this is the most important thing in the world. It's not, but he's pretty sure he's never had a dirty conversation with someone that was this lighthearted before, while simultaneously being able to be _ honest  _ about his everything. The monsters. The ghost thing. The boner thing, evidently. 

"I read once that when heroin users detox, like, a lot of times in jail, they will literally cum at everything that touches them, because they haven't been about to feel  _ anything _ for so long that it's waaay too much for their brain and hormones and dicks to handle. So like, imagine that, but you're dead and  _ literally _ can't feel anything unless you're supernaturally inspired to focus hard enough to manifest, I guess. Anyways. It's not my fault you manifested me  _ on _ you."

\---

Martin brings one hand up to his mouth, balled up sideways so he can focus on controlling his breaths while Gerry explains this in the absolute funniest way possible. It works for a second until the corners of his mouth turn upwards again and he loses it in a fit of hysterical laughter. "Gerry--" 

He finds a tree to lean on, and he's nearly crying when he manages to whine out, "--That would've been the  _ funniest, _ a-and  _ worst _ thing that could possibly ever happen to someone-- If I'd actually grabbed your throat yesterday. Could you - could you _ imagine?  _ We'd both be traumatized."

\---

"Oh my God. That's awful. It's awful. By the way? I regret telling you this. This sucks. It sucks even more because you're not, like, disgusting looking today." He claps a hand to his mouth, his eyes wide. "This sucks," He says again, muffled. "You're like, taken, and I'm being a jackass about my ghost-boners."

\---

"What, you want to run around in the woods with me and play  _ sex tag _ now that I'm not covered in dirt?" Martin sniffles, still laughing, Gerry's reaction just feedback looping him into near-incoherency. 

But it's  _ good.  _ It's not the kind he's been getting shoved into on their shitty, shitty trip. "I can count to ten and chase you around for practice on our way to Chicago."

\---

_ "Sex tag? _ What the fuck-- Martin what the fuck does that mean." Gerard scowls at him, but it's kind of got this hopeless, doting look to it that makes him look utterly pathetic.

\---

Martin grins, wild and alive and distracted from the depressing state of his miserable long-walk. "It's just like  _ normal _ tag, but you're a ghost that loses his mind when I tag you, so the stakes are so,  _ so _ much higher, and it's the funniest thing I've ever imagined happening to someone."

\---

"So I bio-weapon, but it's your hands and my dick that are solely affected. Fucking cruel. Martin-- Wait. Okay, I can see it  _ now, _ what with all the animal instincts, but you being  _ weirdly  _ candid about the whole sex thing is really throwing me off here. I did  _ not _ expect that from you." Easier to throw it back to Martin than analyze the fact that if he were alive, and not bleeding out, and corporeal, he probably wouldn't even say no.

\---

Martin probably wouldn't say something like this in any other context, because it's not fair, and he can almost  _ feel _ Jon hitting him for it at the back of his head, but-- well. 

"My first long-term partner was a virgin, and my  _ boss, _ and who I'm on my way to kill for, and approaching sex with him is like-- Like staging an event a week in advance. Gerry, this is probably the first time I've been allowed to say the word  _ cum  _ in a whole year. This is already torture. I miss having sex. So much. That's not-- That's not even the  _ animal  _ thing talking. My life is a nightmare."

\---

Gerard gives another set of rapid blinks. "But he does? Like-- You guys _ do,  _ right? I mean-- Is it really that bad? God. I miss sex. I sound like a teenage boy right now, but holy  _ shit, _ not being able to feel anything 99% of the time and then feeling  _ something _ has got me weird today. I'm awful at this. This is awful. He was a  _ virgin?" _

\---

“Until I came along, _ yes!”  _ As terrible as all this is, Martin isn’t suppressing his own childish laughter. “I— God, I can count on one hand how often we have, and it’s got nothing to do with my  _ skills. _ I will seriously help you, as a  _ friend,  _ because I am in the same boat right now and I guarantee it’s not helping my new tendency towards going  _ aggro.” _

\---

"Oh, you'll 'help me', now will you? What's that even mean? God. Is this what having friends is like? Is this normal?" He feels punch-drunk. What the fuck is this. Maybe all the walking by foot has finally snapped him.

\---

Martin throws his hands up with that familiar idiotic tic he’s empathy-mirrored off Gerry. “In solidarity? You’re really worried about being normal— You’re a ghost with cheat codes on how to make me not _ bite _ people!”

\---

"Cheat codes that we manifested into existing, mind you. Also-- What are you insinuating. Okay? You're arguing for something here, and I'm-- Martin just be outright, yeah?"

\---

“I’m not  _ arguing _ for anything, I’m just saying it’s— It’s weird, obviously, we’re both in an impossibly  _ weird _ situation, but it’s not embarrassing. You’re allowed to be— “ Martin stifles a laugh. “—ghost-horny. You can just ask, if you’re pent-up about it now.”

\---

"Ask what. Martin. Oh my God. I can't believe you're smoother at this than me."

\---

“Oh, so the chaotic Satanist witch among us is the one who’s never been offered a no-strings-attached handjob? It’s— Wow, it’s literal. That’s hilarious. Just try holding my hand and that’s all you need.” His laughter starts up again, and he’s not trying to be mean, it’s— No one can blame him.

\---

"Wow." It's all he can say for a long moment, and thank fucking Christ or Satan or Archangel Michael above or look, he'll seek the other benevolents out there-- Please, dear Krishna take care of this-- that he can't blush anymore. It would just add fuel to the fire. He weirdly gets a kick out of Martin kicking back at him, but he doesn't need his face red to add to that fag pile. 

"Are you offering to get me off? Didn't realize you were that horny for someone to offer you breakfast. Wow."

\---

“I can’t believe you think  _ I’m  _ the moron, Gerry. Yes. Obviously. Clock’s ticking, though. Closer we get the worse I’ll be at everything, probably.”

\---

"Well--" He blinks. Thinks for a good two seconds. "We can try. I mean, ghost shit aside, it's been about-- What, it's 2016? 7 years."

\---

To Gerry’s credit, this is probably much weirder for him than it is for Martin considering he doesn’t really have to do any work here. Gerry did save him from spiraling into a nightmare crisis with this, too, so. 

Martin packs up his laughter and falls into line next to him, offering a hand and a comfortingly (at least, to himself) Martin-typical smile. “Go on.”

\---

Gerard turns to him, and his eyes are wide. "You want-- Oh, Christ. We're gonna keep walking while we do this. Do you know how  _ crazy _ it is? Can we sit, so I can focus? You don't understand how hard it is to focus."

\---

“It’s not that crazy. It’s-- I like being able to just have something nice, in all this. Here—“ Martin lowers his hand a bit to search for a spot, narrowing it down to a few options before settling. He cocks his head to some bent over old log and doesn’t waste any time moving over to it. 

It’s really not that weird. They could use a breather. Martin takes his bag off next to him and gives it a weight test. “This work?”

\---

Gerard pulls in a breath when Martin shows him where to go, because that just makes it real, doesn't it. Okay. Guess they're doing this. It's not just idle schoolyard jokes. Wow. 

"Yeah. Yeah it works," He says, settling into an uncomfortable sitting position on the log.

\---

“‘I’m not shy’,” Martin huffs in a fond mockery of Gerry’s voice, holding his hand out again without too much insistence in the gesture. He’d tell him it’s not serious, but that’s not fair, it very well _ might _ be for a ghost. No need to make him suffer about it.

\---

What are they doing? Gerard doesn't know. And the fun thing is, there's not much insistence in his brain to analyze it. He holds his hand out too, after a long sigh, and at first, there's no give; it's just wind through Martin's hand. So he has to focus, and focus, and really he should tell Martin at this point that Focus has reached the same level of word importance as his weird silly puppy training, but he doesn't, because he's doing just that. Focusing. 

And then his hand stops passing through with electric jolts and  _ connects,  _ and he immediately shivers.

\---

Martin isn’t expecting to feel anything, and what he  _ does _ get is likely a mild static shock compared to whatever’s coursing through Gerry right now, but it’s still nice. Nice in a different way. Nice in a way that lets him pull away from the rusty sickness leaving particles of Jon in his lungs with every breath, lets him get some sense of normalcy by way of helping someone else through what they can’t manage alone. 

His voice is calm, and he doesn’t have to force it. Unlike every whisper he thinks he’s uttered in front of Gerry, it’s not in painful confession or quiet warning. “I know you don’t  _ need  _ to breathe, but maybe if you try it’ll help you regulate.”

\---

He can't fully feel it. There's still a barrier, but it's so, so much closer than anything he's been able to manage thus far. He can feel the warmth in Martin's palm, and he can feel the weight, and he can feel the way it all combines to send strange shocks down into his form. It jitters and jumps, visual interference not unlike an old tube television, but it doesn't hurt. It doesn't. It feels good, even as it's overwhelming. 

He pulls in a solid breath. It doesn't do much, but it focuses him from staring at where their hands meet to where Martin's eyes are, and he's  _ grinning,  _ his teeth sharp, and he says, "I'm doing it." He wasn't sure he'd be able to.

\---

Martin has had enough chances to normalize the static interruptions to Gerry’s corporeality that they no longer frighten him, neither the side working on instinct nor the side that’s always existed. As it is, it’s becoming a remarkably helpful quirk to someone who’s usually very good at reading people’s reactions. Gerry’s just a person with a few different means of expression, conscious and otherwise. 

“There we go.” He’s beaming back, like they’ve both made progress here. Easy to get giddy about it when nothing seems to have gone right, recently. When this is the most useful he’s felt in ages. Martin curls his fingers at a slightly different angle to see if Gerry can adjust, not going so far as squeezing. Inches, not miles.

\---

Gerard shivers again, and without the walls of anger and frustration and hatred, his eyes are wide and kind and full of a natural curiosity. "Wow. So this... This definitely is a lot, already." His voice is quiet, embarrassed.

\---

Sure. It’s a  _ handjob.  _ But now it’s all weird and complicated despite being _ ver _ y literally the most simple handjob ever given to anybody, because Martin’s not... it’s not the same, for him. 

For him, it’s just adding another layer to what he’s almost sure is imprinting. It would make perfect sense— Newborn animals do it, and technically Gerry’s been here since the start of his own transition into someone who Hunts. That’s why it works. That’s why everything works. Why they can do any of this. 

It’s silly. Not romantic, but intimate. Deeply comforting on his end regardless of what it’s doing for Gerry. He’s going to have to learn quite a few new terms to explain all this to Jon, later. Shit. “Yeah? I’m nearly jealous.” He brushes his thumb over the side of Gerry’s palm, and vaguely makes an association— He must look something like this, when he reads statements. It’s the only reference he has. Not like he looks into mirrors after he does it.

\---

"It makes me wish I could fully feel it," Gerard nearly whispers, his voice solemn and confessional. He doesn't know how they've reached this level, but they have, and Gerard's not going to ignore it. It feels  _ good.  _ It's petty and juvenile. He leans forward on the log, closer to Martin.

\---

This just gets weirder and weirder by the minute, doesn’t it? 

“Maybe with practice,” Martin says with an exhale that’s clearly through a smile, and he’s not even sure if this is _ actually _ sexual or if it was some weird Gerry metaphor. Maybe he should ask. 

Martin tries what’s  _ kind of  _ a nuzzle in the sense that he’s trying to get gently temple-to-temple with a ghost.

\---

When they make contact, Gerard makes a soft sound deep in the back of his throat. The eyes dotting his body start to glow, brighter where he can Martin are close. If he had any grip on what's going on, it's gone now; it's taking almost all his will to manifest physically, and the sensation is so overwhelming it fucks any other thought out of his brain.

He presses against Martin harder, and squeezes his hand, and exhales an unrestrained  _ "ohmygod"  _ that has him squeezing his eyes shut for a moment.

\---

While Martin is honestly the  _ slightest  _ bit jealous of whatever is going on from Gerry’s end, he’s content with the unexpected display of vulnerability. It’s allowed him to numb everything else out, just for a minute, to handle _ something,  _ fix  _ something, _ even if it’s... well, this. 

The aching, feverish sickness from his own head is blessedly quiet. It won’t be, after this, but he can put that away one last time. 

“You’re breathing,” Martin finally says, somehow both proud and teasing, “Is it really _ that  _ good?”

\---

"It's... Taking all of my energy to do this," Gerard huffs, and it's not an answer. It's an excuse. It's true, but not the full truth. It  _ is _ that good.

Those little electric jolts keep running through him. There's a joke in his head about Martin being a real bibliophile, but he's in no place to speak it into existence now, and he just gives another shaky sigh, holding onto Martin like a lifeline.

\---

“We should keep going soon.” Despite the gentle nudge, Martin doesn’t move away just yet. He briefly wishes Gerry’s physical form could extend to all his own senses, weirdly-but-understandably given the circumstances, curious about what he would smell like. Especially against Jon’s blood. 

Christ, he’s insane. “Can’t have you passing out in— Oh, that’s literal too, isn’t it?  _ Afterglow.” _

\---

"Is it--" He pulls back just enough, the solidity of his form lowering like an opacity setting. "Am I glowing? I hadn't-- Christ." His laugh is breathy.

\---

With some distance between their faces, now, Martin watches Gerry’s reactions with - he hates describing it like this, but - acutely dogged interest in the intimacy of this entire situation.

“It’s fine,” Martin eases up on the contact between their hands, not pulling away immediately but working up to it. He stops with his own fingers just barely brushing over the pulse point at the inside of his wrist, where there is no pulse at all. He doesn’t want to cruelly rip Gerry from this, that sounds awful. “Better?”

\---

"Getting there." He starts to let go too, and slowly everything but the eyes on his hands, where contact remains vaguely, start to fade back into his skin. "Just go slowly."

\---

“Mhm.” He’s a little smug about already being well on his way with following that suggestion, and it makes him feel good about his own reading of the situation. With all the outbursts he’s had, competency isn’t something he’s felt he’s had at anything until now. Martin shifts to gently brush the backs of his knuckles against Gerry’s skin. “I’m not breaking it first, whenever you’re ready.”

\---

Gerry hums, and slowly, slowly, by increments, he becomes incorporeal again. The numbness washes over him, and it helps to fully calm down, the near-incoherent overstimulation that took his whole soul over finally gone. It felt good. In short increments, maybe.

With the numbness, come his thoughts. And with his thoughts, near immediate embarrassment at what they just  _ did. _ "Okay. Holy shit."

\---

Martin lifts both hands into a shrug, his gentle smile turning into something decidedly more smug. “Never had any complaints. Did it help? At all?”

\---

"... Yeah. Yeah, I think it did." The despair that's been sitting in his breast every time he's been awake has certainly abated. He can _ touch _ things. There's a realness to that.

"But also if we ever talk about this again, I'll actually kill you." He stands, and wavers slightly, visual distortion et al., and lets out a heavy breath. "Woof."

\---

“Woof,” Martin returns, sealing his own fate among the ranks of his growing collection of weirdos and their freakish behavior. He stretches up on the log, cracking his back with a soft sigh. 

“‘Course not. It’s private. Who could I even tell?” His light laugh feels good, it’s easy, it was fun and odd and silly and he needed that. “The Hunters I’m on my way to fight? Doubt they’ll be too worried about whether we hold hands.”

\---

"... I. I suppose that's all it was." Gerard blinks. He has to pull out of his mind a bit to realize that from the outside looking in, nothing really _ happened.  _ And yet it felt like one of the most intimate experiences he's ever gone through.

\---

“Honestly, it would be pretty convenient if sex were like that all the time. I still have to do it the old-fashioned way.”

Martin takes a few slow steps forward, gauging if Gerry’s capable of keeping up with the walk.

\---

"It  _ wasn't--" _ Nah. He cuts himself off. "Ugh. It really was." His first few steps are ungainly, but he stabilizes after a moment, and busies himself with pulling his hair up in a loose knot on the top of his head, the action letting him not overthink this.

"Hope you don't think you distracted me from finding you food, by the way."

\---

Martin’s smile twitches, threatening to pull into a frown. He stays composed, though, because he’s not that immature, and sets up a normal pace down the trail.  _ “Fine. _ I’ll eat.”

\---

"Good. Then it's settled. Let's go." He matches Martin's pace, a satisfied, shit eating smile plastered to his face.

\---

“I  _ am _ going. It’s not like you’re the one paying, it’s just me ordering food and you pretending you can even eat. I don’t— I don’t even know what food there is out here.” 

His usual impulse to brush shoulders with whoever he’s walking with when he likes them has to be held back for very obvious reasons. He misses lovingly shoulder-checking Jon on the sidewalk outside the Institute.

\---

"Yes. I get to enviously watch you and wish I was alive. It's an extremely lucrative situation on my end." Still, his voice is light, lighter than normal. "We'll come across something. It's America. There's always something."


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gerry and Martin’s Great American Restaurant Experience.

Gerard immediately regrets having this idea. They could have just gotten takeaway and eaten on the road, but no. His stupid brain had them all set on a true American experience, and now the two of them are being led to a rundown booth at a local IHOP, the waiter unfortunately cheerful and wide-eyed at the both of them.

Gerard keeps his hands wrapped firmly around each other, and it's a nervous caricature of the man he once was. But he'd really rather not set Martin off by the waiter or other patrons giving them looks if and when he accidentally phases through an object.

It's a little past noon, but that's still a lucrative brunch scenario in his mind, and really, he knows he's asleep a lot, but it does worry him that he's never seen Martin eat before.

He settles into the booth, a little too light in weight but not too much that the waiter is suspicious of anything, and he even focuses enough to drum his fingers on the table between them.

\---

The bright lights, utensils clattering against plates, different doors ushering new bodies in then back out, a thousand mingling smells all weave together into a palpable fog over his familiar trail. To say Martin is on edge is a criminal understatement, but he's placing it within the context of a test that's important to see through as he tries to settle across from his ghost. He's been tight-jawed and quiet since Gerry took the initiative to get him somewhere with food, and he's not looking any more comfortable now.

But he did come, and he did keep himself composed enough to get here, he's just scared about any factors he can't control. People used to be something he could manage, but he doesn't think he can now, not when he can't control the range of his own emotions. 

When he does speak, it's impossibly taut. "Do they have a menu without so many colors? I just want words."

\---

"... I doubt it. They don't tend to just have different menus at places like this." He keeps his voice quiet, soft. He won't antagonize, here. This is tense for both of them, but he can see the tension in every inch of Martin's body. 

"I can just… read it out loud to you if you want."

\---

"Don't read it out loud, people will look at us."

The sort of shiver that runs up over your shoulder blades and into your face when you're about to cry passes through Martin, but he swallows it down. "I-If you could eat, what would you order?"

\---

"They won't, because I can be quiet, and I could just say you're like, blind, or illiterate if some jackass asks." He snorts. "Um. Literally anything. You could just-- I mean, nothing beats a good English Breakfast, yeah?"

\---

"Oh. This would be much easier with sunglasses." That gets Martin smiling, if only for a second. "I can settle for that. I'm just warning you, I'm not-- I don't think I'm hungry. But I'll try, so you stop fussing about it."

\---

"Whatever. Just try. I'm not your mother; not gonna force it down your throat." He rolls his eyes. "You're focused on the Hunt. I know it's hard to focus on anything else."

He raises a couple fingers, his elbow on the table, just an idle motion to hopefully flag down a waiter whenever one is available.

\---

"Thank you." Martin sighs, leaning forward on the table to rest his chin over his arms tucked up in front of him. "I sure hope you're not my mother. Might make a few things weird, right?" 

There's a tinge of unspoken teasing there as Martin tries to regain his composure, but he's not mentioning any specifics. He's better than that.

\---

Gerard rolls his eyes. "Gross." He's about to say something rude, but the waiter saves him from breaking his rule of instigation, popping over with a plastered service smile.

"Can I start you folks out with something?" He asks, and Gerard gives him a thin-lipped smile.

"Just a full English Breakfast for him." He squints. "Tea for both of us. I'm not eating."

The waiter jots it down on his little pad and bounds away, and the second he's out of earshot, the rude has turned to something far more mischievous. "What, you've never soul-jerked off your mummy?"

\---

Martin had sat still as a statue through their short conversation, eyes fixed to the grooves of the table from children stabbing it through with forks and spoons. He can relate to that. 

It's not so bad, once the waiter leaves, just being quiet. "If I have, that's buried deep, deep, deep, deep down there. I sure hope not."

Someone laughs a few booths down at something completely unrelated, but Martin visibly flinches anyway. He's never going into another IHOP for the rest of his life.

\---

Gerard snorts. "Right." 

He watches Martin flinch and, shit, if they're not careful he's going to freak out the second they hit the downtown area of the city. 

He puts his hand in front of Martin's face and snaps three times, harsh and loud and with no warning. "Don't focus on other people right now."

\---

The first snap echoes with the same ghostly vibrations as the other sounds Gerry puts off in stark contrast to the harshly physical stimulus around him. His eyes fix forward, each consecutive snap driving it home. Muffling the background nonsense so he's able to fully absorb what Gerry tells him after. "Okay."

After a brief silence where Martin does little else but maintain his focus across the table, he feels vaguely conned. Embarrassed. "That... worked."

\---

"Good." Genuinely, Gerard means it. It's another thing he can add to the list of things to keep Martin present, focused, not feral. The literal last thing they need is for Gerard to be incapable of keeping Martin from snapping at some poor stranger down on Lakeshore. He's not sure he can exactly conduct a prison breakout right now. When did he get so invested?

The waiter drops off their teas, and Gerard once again waits for him to leave to say anything else. "I thought you'd try to bite my hand. Evidently not."

\---

Martin tests that focus by ignoring the new presence outright, and he ends up less tense for his efforts. He brings both hands around the cup in front of him, cradling the warmth. He's looking for things to ground him now. Work he can do for himself now so it's not all on Gerry. And it's good for him to control some things, here. 

"I-I guess not. I think I can pick up on it more. There's this, um, humming sound, almost? Like whatever sound you make but layered over and under it."

\---

"So being dead comes in handy here. Small miracles." He hadn't noticed; maybe he just can't hear it, the way Martin can. He wonders if others can, or if this is part of his spooky new Hunt hearing. They can test it on Jon, when they find him.

\---

"Miracles." None of that, his luck's already bad. Might be best not to believe in either. Better to think he's just encouraging the universe to ruin his life. 

That's entirely possible, he's earned it. Martin picks up the mug with both hands and drinks, near-instantly realizing how little water he's swallowed in the past... concerning amount of time. He doesn't even complain about it, content with the insanity of swallowing half a whole cup of hot tea without putting it down.

\---

Gerard blinks and then slaps his hands to his face, dragging the lengths of his nails down his cheeks. Easier to be dramatic when he can't actually hurt himself. He feels like a goth mime. 

"Martin," he hisses. "Do not tell me you just drank a cup of near-boiling tea. Are you crazy?"

\---

Martin doesn’t flinch, too busy with his own wide-eyed concern that the way Gerry just moved reminds him so much of...

Of someone else. “I drank half of it.” He tilts the cup for emphasis. It’s too warm to let go of it. “I-I don’t usually— This isn’t a thing I just do. Not like I had time to make any on the— “ He stops trying to defend himself and glares forward instead, because he can’t disagree. It is crazy. It also doesn’t hurt.

\---

"Right, right, just another Hunter instinct. 'Drink rancid boiling American tea. Hot off the stove. Super great and nutritious.' Love it. Love it." He doesn't mean to be rude, it just... Took him by surprise, is all. Hard to keep himself light and good and sweet when Martin goes and deliberately does shit that's shocking to watch.

\---

Eyes narrowed, Martin finishes it off. “It tastes horrible. And it’s not a Hunter thing. I haven’t— The last time I had water was when I swallowed some in the shower last night. I packed some, but I didn’t drink any. I don’t think I... “ Fuck, no, he hasn’t. “I don’t think I’ve eaten since the night before this all happened.”

\---

"Well-- Drink water, then! Tea is a natural diuretic, Martin. It makes you piss!" He narrows his eyes too now.

\---

"Don't tell me facts about tea, you witch." His voice wavers at the last word, like he's unsure about the insult. If it's even an insult.

\---

That breaks the grumpiness building in him all but immediately, and his laugh is more akin to a cackle than a laugh. He dips an incorporeal finger into his cup of tea. "Guess we'll have to drown me to see if I float."

\---

Go ahead and laugh, Gerard. Martin doesn't join in with his laughter, as his impulses have left him without a warm cup to hold between his hands. Now it's just a cup. 

"That's the plan. First I make you human again, then I kill you spectacularly." 

Without the immediate distraction in front of him, Martin searches the table to find something else that isn't Gerry's tea, because that's too much. He's not taking that, even if it's just for show.

He's not sure why he cares so much about that. There's nothing but sauces and sugar packets, so Martin's eyes wander around the rest of the place, growing used to certain things-- Light is easiest, he's dealing with that, but all the hushed voices and smells are just as overwhelming as the first time.

\---

"As long as it's spectacular... My first death wasn't 'spectacular' so much as pathetic, so there's always room for improvement." 

He's so focused in one what Martin's doing, he doesn't notice the waiter come with the food, and jumps slightly as he puts the large plate down in the center of the table, evidently assuming Gerard will pick off Martin's plate. How kind of him. Gerry waves him off when the waiter asks if they need anything else.

\---

Martin shuts his eyes as the plate hits the table. He leaves shooing the waiter off to Gerry, who seems to be spectacularly adept at it, before turning his focus down to the food in front of him. Much easier to focus on everything going on there than the rest of the restaurant with how loud it all is. 

He's about to say he's trying to make himself hungry despite it clearly not working, but it's different to keep smelling it all over the place and to have something he's been offered personally.

His stomach growls. Okay. Fine. Martin picks up a fork before Gerry can make some terrible comment about the sound and stabs it into one of the sausages, gnawing on it like it's something to be cautious about.

\---

Gerard leans back in the booth, crossing his arms. He can't help it; he stares. There's nothing else in this stupid diner that's interesting, and Martin has made it a point to announce how Not Hungry he is, so forgive him for being a bit weird about it. Martin needs to get used to his company being full of men who like to stare, anyways. They are Beholden, after all. "Good?"

\---

Martin barely chews before he swallows once he finally does, and he's finished with the sausage on his fork as quickly as he can with just enough self-control to try preventing the reality where Gerry gets to be smug about being right. 

Fine. He's hungry. Sue him. He feels unreasonably childish as he ignores Gerry's question to puncture the yolks so they smear over the next sausage he picks up. Very quiet all of a sudden.

\---

Oh, he is very, very smug. It's a terrible look on him, his smile wide and shitty. The exact picture of the kind of teenager that would get kicked out of a Hot Topic for trying to steal. Maybe even a Spencer's. How scandalous. 

It doesn't help that he has a weird pang of complicated emotions knotting in his stomach at watching him eat. It's not quite envy, but that's in there. A lot is. After his earlier. Hm. Escapade with Martin, the fact that he can't eat with him genuinely makes him feel... Not good. But he can't look away, and he's glad he was right, because Martin clearly needs food for the upcoming journey.

\---

No one's ever watched Martin eat, not since the earliest years of his life where he can remember, decades ago, being warned to keep his mouth shut as he chewed. He knew that, and luckily that was just about the most important rule. Beyond that, Jon never really pays attention to how he's eating-- They're usually distracted by conversation, or each other, or something else twisting around in their heads for it to ever be a thing-- and Jon's eating habits aren't the most normal to begin with. He hasn't gone on dates, he hasn't held a job where eating was anything but shoving a protein bar into his mouth while everyone's out on lunch. Or, no one's around at all. 

So he's not conscious of the fact that he eats like he's never eaten before and never will eat again for the rest of his life. 

He and his mother always lived in simple terms and with their lives roped around her needs, food was never an indulgence. It was both an upsetting need to sate just enough to not die and something that didn't come often enough to want to savor it considering how little they made by with financially, not much of what he did eat was worth savoring to begin with. It never cost money to indulge in the library, and getting creative with tea was cheaper than coffee. He needed the caffeine as a teenager. Well. Likely, he needed something else, but Martin's yet to learn the wonders of therapy and he was easy for social services to ignore. Go figure.

He's too hungry to care, the first pit in his stomach sending him back into normal bodily needs outside of chasing, chasing, chasing, until he's over halfway done with everything that's on his plate. It's cautious, even as he readies up another forkful of something that's turned into a mix of everything they brought out. "You're staring?"

\---

"Yeah, I am," Gerard says simply, and doesn't look away. "Does it bother you? I miss it."

\---

"Eating's not that great, Gerry. I don't--" Martin takes another mouthful, like he can't just stop long enough to have a short conversation. "--I don't care. I just can't say I've been looked at like a lab animal while I ate lunch."

\---

"Well--" He shrugs, his arms still crossed. "Get used to being watched by things, Martin."

\---

Martin takes one more bite before physically pulling away from the plate so he can leer openly at Gerry without the distraction. "I'd rather not be told that again. I've heard it-- I've heard it enough, Gerry. I get it. There's a difference between-- " 

He breaks the contact and looks down to the plate, internally smacking himself back to attention so he can go back to Gerry. 

"--Being watched by some all-seeing god of fear, all the time, knowing it has eyes on you and-- And a person, in a human way, across a table."

\---

"Fine," He says, and looks away, out at the other people. It's just not as interesting when he doesn't know the person. He is jealous of them. Envious and green with it, because they're normal and will always be normal and will rarely, if ever, brush against this world, and their ignorance is foul and tasteless in his mouth and it makes him stew. He hates the living, he thinks. He hates people, probably. 

He looks back for a second, says, "Everyone else is so ugly to watch," and turns back to the rest of the dining room pointedly.

\---

Martin rolls his eyes, wasting not a second more being polite about holding back. "Stop it. I said I don't care if you watch." He huffs, Gerry's own tense observation of the room stoking a nervous fire in Martin's own stomach. "Just don't be weird about-- About the word Eye-allusions."

\---

"Of course I'm going to be weird about a deity I sold my life to." He rolls his eyes. "I'm a ghost. We live in a world of monsters and Fear, what's the point in not being a little grandiose about it? Ugh. I can't do it." He looks back to Martin and scowls.

\---

"Read the room, Gerry." It's almost a growl, though Martin's not paying attention. "I want to-- I want to forget about that for, for ten minutes. Fear. Monsters. Just eggs and - and sausage and... you know."

\---

Gerard's expression thins. "Okay. Whatever. Fair. I literally have never had that privilege and it's all I know, so whatever. Enjoy your meal."

\---

Martin holds the fork over his plate and lets it fall so it makes this awful clattering sound over the ceramic. His voice is pained in the effort to keep it neutral. "You've gone ten minutes without thinking about monsters before, don't be dramatic. Unless the sex you had before was just as short as what we just did back on the trail."

\---

Gerard very calmly flicks Martin off with both of his hands, resting his hands on the table and keeping the fingers up for the duration that he speaks. "It's not about not actively thinking about it, it's just a worldview thing. It's just perspective. How I live. What my reality is. Christ. Yeah, Martin, when I fuck, I think fondly and lovingly about the fucking Corruption."

\---

"Yeah, yeah. I get it. Shut up, Gerry. You can sit and have lunch without bringing up the fact that entities are everywhere around us, which I know." Martin feels like the bad guy in this scenario, and he's not sure how to bring it back down. "I'll bet you do. Holes."

\---

"Watch it. I can just go to the bathroom and go to bed and leave you here. You're not even eating lunch." Well. Trying to not instigate has officially failed. He's forgotten.

\---

"Well, I'm sorry I'm not an exhibitionist. I'm not hungry, now I'm just-- Frustrated. Don't threaten to leave me alone in an IHOP over that."

\---

"Child." He looks away, glaring out at the rest of the restaurant again. The irony of a grown man with his arms crossed glaring out pettily while having the audacity to call out Martin for getting pissed is lost on him.

\---

Martin keeps his own thoughts to himself. He's being good. If he is, it'll just drive home that the ghost is more immature and emotionally compromised than the baby-Hunter. So he goes back to his food and finishes it off. 

He'd been lying anyway, he's frustrated and hungry. Just for the record, you ectoplasmic lie detector. "Okay. I'm done. Happy now?"

\---

He looks at the empty plate and then up at Martin, and even though his expression is flat and angry, there's a low-level of smug amusement glittering through his eyes. "I'm ecstatic. Never been happier. Hurry up and pay."

\---

Martin reaches into his coat pocket to pull out the wallet, taking out what he thinks is a reasonable amount of cash and setting it on the table. "Don't tell me to hurry up. I just ate lunch in-- In ten minutes. I know how to hurry up."

\---

"That wasn't you hurrying, that was you being ravenous and not wanting to admit that I was right." He scoots out of the booth and stands up, jabbing his hands into the pockets of his coat and rocking back on his heels while he waits for Martin. He avoids the looks he gets from the rest of the people in the restaurant.

\---

"Okay. Sure, you're right. I'm very satisfied. Let's go, I-I hate this place." Martin grabs his bag from the floor next to the table and starts a beeline for the door, and despite how quick this all happened he feels like he'd been in some all-American purgatory longer than he's been alive.


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drag him up with teeth to the shoulder and muddy limbs scratching for purchase on the winding staircase up to the earth. Kill the things that brought you to him, not because you hate what they gave you but to grieve that you don’t hate what you’ve become.

Coming into Chicago isn't exactly the most grand proclamation of city life ever seen. The thing is, Chicago is mostly a collection of either shit suburbs connected to the larger Chicagoland, or barren stretches of interstate interspersed with giant, cold, corporate buildings where people can mill their lives away in service of another, distinctly less glamorous entity. It's these sorts of boring, mindless, pathetic lives that Gerard could never find himself able to connect with. 

Gerard sleeps along the way; once they get to the city proper, downtown, he doesn't want to be too tired to wrangle Martin into something approaching human. So he tells him with a very, very serious tone in his voice not to wake him up until they're under skyscrapers. He doesn't say he's glad to miss the journey through suburbs and grafitti'd, dead railway courtyards, but he is. 

Turns out he is a GPS. Martin had asked how to get into the area Gerard was talking about, and there's no way he should Know, but his voice had gone flat and given several different possible instructions that he'd never have the wherewithal to remember from a journey to Chicago two years prior. But it settles it, makes it real, what they're going to do. Gerard will be woken up once they reach Calumet Park. Can't see skyscrapers so easily there, but it's a bit further out, and Gerard's GPS didn't exactly activate until Martin asked. He figures that's good enough; it's a good 15 miles out from Lakeshore, hugging the lake, and gives them enough walking time to actually hash out a plan, and or a working scenario of how Martin will react to the city life.

And then Gerard begs Martin to get some sleep, and to plan on a busy morning, and he goes to bed. Anxiety is a strange, muted thing in this state of existence, but he's got it in folds as he fades away.

\---

Without Gerry’s presence, Martin’s own trip is relatively brainless. Alone with his thoughts, he tries not to have any, and mostly he succeeds. More trouble than they’re worth to have when he wants this over with. He listens. That’s the important part. He keeps the book in his bag and refuses to be tempted despite the sheer pain of walking it alone through unfamiliar scenery and increasingly complicated environments. He makes it through by singling his attention to the trail. Trying to understand it. Come up with some ways he might be able to manage it constructively. 

It doesn’t do him any good except for a fleeting twinge of pride at having been able to wait. Even that falls away too quickly for him to grasp. It’s not like he can blame Gerry, he’d have to make it through this stretch with or without him, but—

This is nothing like driving the car through roads by fields and sleeping in the woods or shitty empty motels or even a diner. 

It’s playgrounds and children and sand and manicured grass and joggers and bikes and dogs and families and orders yelled out across sport fields and filled-up park benches and picnics and conversations and looks in his direction and putting off a panic attack so he can do one thing right like he’s capable of controlling any of this at all. 

Feverish and disoriented and overwhelmed, Martin finds the nearest tree, touched by so many people and dogs and pocket knives and wild animals and he’s not continuing that because he needs to call Gerry right now and figure this whole fucking mess out before he explodes. 

Martin sits in the shadow of it, by most accounts using the park for what it’s for by way of a book in his lap, except the book is made of skin and he’s not reading it so much as whining out Gerry’s name and forgoing the built-in ritual, as he’s steadily slipping into the habit of doing.

\---

The first thing Gerard does when he wakes up is sigh, because the book seems to make him manifest in the worst positions these days. His eyes glitter mischievously like the Cheshire cat upon the branches, and then he's there, sitting up in the tree, and even knowing he can't be hurt doesn't stop him jerking his hands down onto the branches with focus to keep himself stabilized. "Fuck," he hisses. 

Looking down, he finds Martin sitting with his Book, and he doesn't look great by any means, but he looks a lot better than some of the feverish nightmarish visions that he'd imagined before he'd gone to sleep last time. Maw covered in blood, hands curled into claws, yada yada, you've read werewolf stories, you've seen Hunters, you know. 

The sun is high in the sky, and if they're where he wanted them to be by now, that's good time indeed; they'll be able to make it to the downtown city proper by sunset at the latest. "Alright. You did it, then, huh?"

\---

There's his lightning rod. 

Martin tilts up just as Gerry turns down, waiting for him to ground himself and speak past single-note sharp expletives. There's something so fairytale about it all, and it has him grinning stupidly upwards despite the hundreds of different distractions competing for his attention. 

"I just remembered who Lewis Carroll was. I'd-- I know this part, but I really don't want to be Alice, and I really don't want to s-start this off by calling you a puss. We talked about sunglasses, right? I-I-I think I need sunglasses."

\---

"Of course you're Alice, Martin. You haven't realized that yet?" He snorts, and jumps from the branch with no fanfare, landing lightly on his feet but curling down nonetheless. His form wavers some; at some point, he'll have to see if he can just appear somewhere else, should he desire it. Jumping from a tree is a hard maneuver to manage both corporeality and incorporeality at once. A strange balance.

"I'd wager the Spiral would appreciate the comparison to-- Puss? I'm not so flashy." He stands, and stretches to his full height, pulling his arms up and over his head. It doesn't actually do anything to muscles that aren't there, but perhaps the psyche has a form of muscle memory too. It helps to make him feel real, here, present. One stretches when one wakes up. One yawns. One must warm up. He's going through the motions. 

"Well, we're out of Indiana. Finally in the realm of civilization. There must be a shop somewhere. Not very Windy, is it."

\---

With Gerry seamlessly following several different trains of thought, Martin realizes he can't keep up with it. He could argue he's not Alice and make it all worse for himself, he could think about the Spiral and have a mental allergic reaction, but neither of those will help him get through this. Unfortunately, getting to business isn't much better. It just opens him up to it. 

"I hate it. It's-- Loud. I thought the diner was loud. There's-- " Martin freezes as someone biking along the path nearby sounds off a bell. "--No Wind. It's just white noise. Too many-- " He pauses again, longer this time, sheer discomfort written plainly across his face. "There's a baby crying at the playground all the way back there."

\---

"Okay. Sunglasses AND earplugs are officially on the shopping list." Gerard holds out his hands, one to the trail on the left, the other on the right. "Which direction? We'll find something along the way."

\---

“How can I hear you if I’ve got earplugs in, Gerry,” Martin sighs like he’s given up, eyes following his hands. “Let me get up.” 

He zips the book back into his bag and stands up, unsteady on his feet. He settles on an option, looking to Gerry for confirmation like there’s a correct answer here and he’s not sure what it is. “Um, left?”

\---

"Well, is that the direction you were going? Ugh. Fine. Here's hoping." He starts walking; they've still got quite a ways before they reach downtown, and if Martin's nervousness is any indication, it's just going to be harder and slower as they reach more urban living. 

So he walks, and tries to distract. "You know, it's not Windy because of the lake. They call it that because of the turbulent political atmosphere. Like, a shitton of their governors have gone to prison."

\---

“I’m too afraid to know the direction I’m going, you told me to - to go to the park and I did.” Martin trails along beside Gerry, eyes cast down. There’s too many bodies. Too many bodies close to him. It just has him clinging as close as he can get without touching. “They’ve gone to prison... because of the lake?”

\---

"They've this-- 'lakefront affect', it's all anyone here talks about, and it gets windy and like several degrees colder near it. So people always think 'well okay, the Windy city. Because of the lake.' But it's not that, it's just that this place sucks and everyone is corrupt." Gerard shrugs. He wishes he could touch Martin without going literally insane; it'd be more grounding for Martin than Gerard and might slow them down significantly. So he shoulders on. 

"I think this is the way. It's fine."

\---

Gerry’s words might as well be in another language for how little Martin can focus on them, but he’s trying. Some couple with a fat Labrador brush past and Martin shrinks away to the other side of Gerry as the dog nervously pulls away in kind. Whether from Gerry or Martin, he’s not sure, but the skittishness is mutual. 

Somehow this is worse than the other side of the Hunt. Well— He knows why. Hunting is a game, while being prey is a whole different world. Price to pay for thinking he’s allowed to pause following what he’s after. 

His voice has no bite to it. “I’ll be sure to leave that in my review when I— When I leave. One star. E-even the dogs are corrupt.”

\---

"More like Fat Cats." He's quiet for a second. "Have you slept? Or did you walk through the night?"

\---

“I did, u-under some bridge? Woke up halfway through, someone had a... a shopping cart,” Martin says like it’s embarrassing, and omits the fact that some random stellar Chicago citizen saved him from the worst of a nightmare. “I tried.”

\---

That earns him a hum. "At least you got something. I don't think there'll be much time to rest once we get there." He steps off the path a second hopping up on concrete blocks meant to act as a barrier to the lake, and looks out at it. It's unto an ocean, the sky meeting the water in a kiss upon the horizon. It's sunny, and the water burns blue. He watches a moment; nothing much else in this life to do but Behold. And he doubts Martin will remember much of the sights.

\---

Martin watches with startled confusion as Gerry starts to climb, but he’s not in much of a place to question anything he does. In another reality where he and Jon sat down together and called him forward to join the sight-seeing, Martin would be elated at Gerry taking something in. As-is he doesn’t join him outside of pressing against the concrete to close his eyes against the noise, finding it helpful and comforting in his own way. 

The disadvantage to fighting off the urge to commit to the trail and commit to whatever insanity is to come is that he’s overwhelmingly lost. The meditative focus of Jon, Jon, Jon is so simple and singular that the normal buzz of life around him he’s been soothed by before is just jackhammers and screams. But he’s not ready. 

He loves Jon, wholly so, but part of loving Jon is knowing him, and knowing him means knowing what he hates. Martin’s terrified to become that as much as the rest of him is excited to let him become it the second he—

Martin’s eyes snap open, head swiveling around as something new draws his attention. Something familiar without the constraints of blood. Familiar enough that he’s surprised away from inspecting it, familiar enough that it starts to numb the worse things out. “Oh— Gerry, wait, w-wait, I think I know where I’m going.” He takes a few steps forward, not wanting to leave him behind but not inclined to stay, either.

\---

Gerard jerks out of his thoughts and smiles, a genuine thing, his hair whipping around his face as the lake's wind does its work upon him. He hops down from the concrete and follows, nearly at Martin's heels. "Good," He says.

He's not sure what they'll be forced to do, with Martin, once this all blows over. What will happen. He's not sure someone fully inoculated into the Hunt can leave it; he's not sure the Eye favors Hunters. Maybe. They can be useful. But from what he's heard of Jon... He's not sure they're getting any sort of wind-down holiday after all. 

Which is fine. Gerard has direction in his life. He's afraid of what will happen when he doesn't, when he's just a Book, aimless and unread and permanent in a way he didn't exist to fill him with dread.

But these are thoughts for another time; for now, there's a trail. "Can you see it, or do you just-- Know?"

\---

Martin smiles in kind, vaguely wishing he could sense Gerry’s physicality, know what his trail is like. He wonders what he smelled like, before. What he felt like when there was warmth to him. 

Well! Carrying on. 

Martin steps closer to where he’s being led, pinning it down in the air. Words come easier when his brain’s up in the clouds. “I’ve seen Jon’s once, maybe twice, I think, when I’ve been stressed enough, but it’s— It’s like tar, s-suffocating. I don’t like looking for it. Makes me desperate. This— “ He has to think as he walks, keeping an eye out for any ways it might change. “I have no idea. I’ve never— I don’t think I’ve sensed it before. But I like it? ...I think?”

\---

"It's-- It's a different trail than the one you've been following?" Gerard squints. "Do you think it's the right one, though, still?"

\---

“It’s stronger than what it’s been so far, but maybe that’s just us being closer,” Martin “It’s all sickness, then reward, and it’s been a while since I’ve felt good, maybe it’s just— Maybe that’s it.” 

Even Martin’s not totally convinced, but this feels less world-ending. It’s still the same direction they’re going anyway.

\---

He squints, and then after a while, nods. "Alright. Do you think you could handle a cab? Once we get closer?"

\---

Martin's eyes widen. He could handle a cab. He didn't think he could handle a cab until now, but now he really, really wants a cab. "Yeah. Yeah, yeah, I think I could. I could handle a cab."

\---

"We're only fifteen miles out. Could probably call one now and just wait. Take us twenty minutes to get there, instead of half the day." Gerard smiles; the sooner they get this figured out, the sooner they can save the day or whatever they're doing.

\---

"What do I-- Is it-- Can you do it? Use my phone?" Evidently, this trail has made him scatterbrained in an entirely different way.

\---

"...I have no idea. Can you at least turn it on for me? I'll try. Just make it easier. It's hard to do shit. I don't even know if my-- You know, my fingers will hit the buttons without..." He grimaces. "You know."

\---

Martin draws his phone from his pocket and turns it on. At least in all this he's been smart enough to charge it while it's off and not leave it on, for emergencies like this. He finds another concrete block and sits on top of it, satisfied with the effort, and then tries to pass it along to Gerry. "Try?"

\---

He takes it; the effort needed to hold something and feel it is decidedly different. He's worried about fingerprinting and warmth, though; how do touch screens work? Squinting down at the screen, his grimace isn't born of anything ghostly. "I haven't had anything with a touch screen before," He mumbles, and taps on the little icon that looks like an internet thing.

Technology's never been his Forte. He never even owned a smartphone, just dingy burners and flip phones and those old sliding keyboards with the rudimentary touch screens that were decidedly different from this.

Nothing happens, and he focuses a little harder, and nothing happens, and his grimace turns murderous as he focuses and lets himself be fully corporeal, feelings and all, and his whole body wracks in a visual shiver as he pulls up the internet.

He moves immediately to sit down on the concrete, and hisses, "Do not touch me right now, Martin," while slowly hen typing in a search for cab companies.

\---

Martin's not watching him fumble through it, and even if he'd been breathing down his neck through the process he thinks right now he'd have enough strength to not push Gerry's buttons. He hums down at him in acknowledgement and leaves it at that, kicking his legs slightly over the side. He's thinking. Gerry can figure out how a phone works without him now that he's figured out he can touch it.

\---

It takes him forever, not dissimilar to the clumsiness of him patching Martin together the other night. Finally, though, he finds a number, and he painstakingly punches it into the phone app that took him nearly two minutes to find, and dials.

When the woman on the other end says "hello?" Gerard responds in kind. There's a long silence and then another, "... Hello? Can I help you?" He requests a cab. She once again repeats 'hello'.

Right. Gerard shoves the utter despair and frustration that runs through him deep deep deep. Subtext, now, not text.

He shoves the phone at Martin. "She can't hear my voice. You have to order it. We're at Calumet Beach."

\---

Martin takes the phone on first reflex, cradling it like a living thing as he puts it up to his ear. "Hi?"

The words that come through from the other end are unpleasantly crackling. He hates it, but he tries to understand enough to form words back. Standing so he can pace around with the phone makes it easier to manage, at least.

After a few awkward 'sorry's and a botched description of where they're at, he thinks he has it figured out. Christ, he was good at this once. Who is he right now? What can he work with? Tourist, sight-seeing, going inland, yes, okay. 

He shuts the phone as soon as he can, a sheen of sweat at his brow from how stressful that was. "Okay. I-I realized I don't know where we're going other than a direction, so I can give her a... I can give her cash, until we get closer. Not to the Institute yet. I doooon't... want that. Right now. Not yet. Too much."

\---

"Good idea." Gerard stays on the concrete for a while, slowly pushing down his corporeality as he calms down. His form wavers a few times as he does so, and he gives a tired thumbs up.

"We should probably plan when we get there anyways."

\---

Martin tilts his head, like Gerry’s stopped making sense at all. “Plan?”

\---

"... You want to just barrel into a Hunter's Trap with no plans?"

\---

“... No.”

It’s easier to hold a conversation with his eyes closed, so he does just that. “I don’t know how to plan this. Do I buy— I’m not using a gun, do I— I don’t know how this progresses, right? So I’m— I don’t know.”

\---

"... Oh, yeah, buying a gun in a country you're not a citizen of without a FOID card. Smart. Easy-peasy." Gerard rolls his eyes. Now that they don't have to walk, it's nice to just sit, and calm down, and not move.

"Maybe you'll see more, uh, ideas of what's going to happen, when we get closer. I mean... You saw the lions. Was that the Hunt? Or the Eye?"

\---

“I said I’m not using a gun! Obviously! I-I don’t know if I saw that on the trail or if they mentioned it on the phone or what came first, or why I knew that, it’s all— All far away.” 

He feels like a worthless idiot, right now, being pulled in so many directions. He can’t remember everything that happened last night, let alone at the start of this. They’re just dark spots. The only parts he’s even able to recall with clarity are the times he’s bounced anything off Gerry. 

“I think I’m supposed to follow this. It goes close. I think it’s near the Institute. Maybe it’s important, it wouldn’t be so loud if it - it wasn’t.”

\---

"... So you're not being led to... Them? It's-- not the Institute?"

\---

Martin makes an indignant sound, like Gerry just doesn’t get it. “I can’t just not go after it. It’s— You can’t just take me for a walk in the park and not let me go after something!” 

There’s a cab pulling up to the road nearby, and Martin watches it cautiously. “I think that might be us.”

\---

Gerard, bless his heart, is kind, and does not laugh about the metaphor, even though there's a smile threatening to escape his lips. He hops off the concrete and does another useless stretch, eyeing down the car. "Right." He pauses. "You know, I'm actually rather curious how you'll find the city. Not the Hunter shit sensations. Just the sights."

\---

“Maybe someday I’ll come back and...” As Martin takes the perilous journey to the car, he steps around a circular puddle of black mud smeared across the road. “We’ll laugh about all this. And then I’ll like it.” 

Touching the handle to the back seat door sends a shiver of anxiety down to his stomach, but he ignores it to pull it open. He shoots a pointed, pitiful glance in Gerry’s direction, trying to usher him in with all his mental will.

\---

He takes the invitation immediately, not wanting to have to try his hand at getting it open himself. He ducks into the car, having to make himself corporeal enough that he doesn't phase through any parts of the car and tip the driver off. It's still slow-going. They'll have to come up with a public excuse at some point, in case folks squint at him.

He slides across the cab and then realizes the mortifying ordeal of having to work the seat belt, and just how long it'll take to that, and just ends up sitting ramrod straight with his jaw tight.

\---

Martin joins his companion in the cab with his own lack of composure buried deep down, using Gerry's nerves as a way to quell his own. He gives the driver a courteous 'hi' before reaching over to maneuver the seatbelt on Gerry's side until it clicks. 

It certainly helps that their driver seems very nice. Maybe Martin's just purposely looking for things to keep himself sane and normal here, but that's a good thing, and his hands are shaking along with his vague sense of trapped fear which is already bad enough. Be good.

"I, um-- We're tourists, so this is a bit new, I-I can just give you... here--" He reaches into the front of the bag he's undone to place in the middle and hands her a few tens. That seems good. "--If you could take us into the city, um, I think I'll know where we want to stop, o-once I see it?"

\---

The cab driver gives the both of them an odd look. Nothing too surprised or weirded out, but definitely the look of a woman seeing two peculiar men requesting a peculiar transaction. "...Alright. Tourist? Downtown? I can do that." And then she starts driving. 

Gerard gives a thankful nod in Martin's direction, and he'd blush if he could.

\---

The nod slips Martin's mind, too busy white-knuckle gripping the back of the shotgun seat in the now-moving car. He's never been a huge fan of driving past necessity to begin with and his recent experiences have conditioned him into a deep-seated fear within the metal box that could crash and burn at any second. 

He suffers through it for a minute that stretches into an hour before he casts a glance at the unfamiliar terrain moving past from the window. The sound that falls from his mouth is of pure, unadulterated relief and he immediately starts fumbling with the window controls without thinking to ask, rolling it painstakingly slowly down until it stops at the end of its controls. He can't second guess this or else he'll prolong his misery to the point of possibly doing something rash, so before the side of him that's conscious of other people's thoughts can intervene he's shoving his entire head out the window with his elbows at the door to breathe. 

The trail that's stronger than Jon's by virtue of how powerful it is comes through again, filling his senses to easily drown out the mingling old sensation of other bodies endlessly coming and going out from the fabric of the car. A wide smile cuts the tension in his jaw, the artificial wind through motion blowing from the direction they're traveling much, much stronger than the sporadic gusts at the lake.

\---

Gerard is quiet while they drive. He allows himself to zone out, to fall into the deep numbness that often seems to threaten to overtake him whole. It takes a level of focus just to hear and interact and be in this world, let alone do the things he's been doing for Martin. And rest assured; it is for Martin. He's accepted this. Without Martin, he's not sure how much will he'd have to try. Persuasive bitch. 

(Or something else, but he'd been doing a good job of not overanalyzing that.)

When Martin rolls down the window and sticks his head out, Gerard isn't in a place to speak much, let alone antagonize. He just leans closer, across the cab, to watch the glittering lake roll past them. Dully, he says, "What road is this." 

The cab driver jumps a little at his voice, and looks at them through the rearview mirror. "Ah-- Um. You said tourists, so Lakeshore Drive. It's pretty famous."

\---

After a few deep inhales, Martin starts to pull the pieces of this puzzle together. Something flowery you could glean from a floral-stitched, decorative couch in the den of a peppy grandmother with a penchant for homemade baked goods. Masked beneath that is something close to chlorine but without the pool, stormy and potent and hidden to the natural senses humans have abandoned in their own evolution. Not to him. He wants to go after it, to make sure it's where it's supposed to be, though he's not sure what that means. To chase the helium high and catch it where it stands.

Beneath that is Jon's own trail, and he's learned enough about that one by now to know where it ends and the new one begins. The sharp tang of blood drawn in fear, tears shed by eyes that See more than they see, post-rain mud pumped up from so deep in the earth it's punctured veins of oil now pouring out to the surface. That one will get him eventually, but that one's not as strong despite how deep their connection runs. Despite his fits of frenzied search for the one he loves, it's not as strong. No matter how much he wants it to be.

If he retained the rest of his faculties, he'd know this might have something to do with Jon's status as marked and primed for godhood, yet not quite there just yet. What he's searching for is far more intense for the opposite reason. It's already there. And it's causing something.

Martin giggles from the window, tilting enough that he can listen to the words from within. The driver's discomfort is a familiar sound that resonates enticingly in his ears, and he's not about to stop his mouth from running now, of all times. "Pretty famous? We're touring the country now to buy out some land for our employer-- You might not've heard of her, but she's the Queen of England. And-- Ma'am, don't tell anyone I said this, but she's on her deathbed-- Funny, right? The queen of England wants to die on American soil!"

\---

The look of subtle confusion blooms into a full face now, and the driver widens her eyes while her brows raise, and she says, "Um. You work for-- Sir, who do you take me for?" 

Gerard blinks rapidly and looks to Martin in equal confusion, the act of him speaking... Speaking like this pushing him back from the near-disassociate state he was coasting to something far, far more present.

\---

"Someone who can keep a secret?" Martin winks into the car with his tongue stuck out between his teeth, words falling from his mouth without a spare thought. After the wink he notices a small cross dangling from the rearview mirror, and it sends his head into a near-incoherent concoction that's not usually so detached from reality as his usual way to play this game. 

"She won't be gone for long, though. If she dies on American soil, we can use it for the ritual." He casts a sideways glance to Gerry, as if his strangely goth appearance adds credence to this mess. "Not much to work with on our little island, but here? Perfect spot for a few sacrifices. Less funny when you get down to the details, though. Know of any places around Chicago with a bodycount in the buildings up for sale?"

\---

The woman's hands tighten on the wheel, white-knuckled just enough to make it clear she's heard. "I-- Excuse me? You-- Sir?"

Gerard squints harshly at Martin, trying to peg what the fuck happening. This is not a factor he was expecting. He cocks his head questioningly.

\---

"Oh-- That's a no, then." It's not the same sort of confusion he's used to getting, he's making her an active participant here, not at all the same way he'd locked a waiter into a lovers' spat a century ago. But it's still a reaction, one that's releasing Martin's own angst away from his head in waves. "It's just more powerful that way, you know? When places have a history to them. Goes deep underground, and all that. You seemed like someone who might know, driving around the city for a living. Don't you hate that, day-in and day-out? Same famous streets, all the time?" 

The questions aren't compelled, exactly, rather quietly pulled into an emotion drawn up from his own mind.

\---

The breath she pulls is a little scared. Gerard can feel it, feel it because he knows he's partially made of the stuff himself, and he continues to stare at Martin, his jaw growing tight. "What are you doing," He hisses, quietly, a whisper, and avoids the look the cabbie is giving them in the mirror still. 

She says, "Do I-- Yes, I know these streets, sir. I do. It's not boring. It's just familiar. I don't know what you're talking about beyond that. How does Millennium Park sound, sir? Would that be an alright place for you?"

\---

Martin's developed a nice little blind spot that Gerry happens to fit right into, but that ghostly echo bounces around and interrupts the driver's sharp tone enough for him to blink back something worse to throw at her. Alive and awake, Martin lets the wind twist his hair into messy half-curls and breathes the trail up against the roof of his mouth. "Oh! That's exactly where-- That's where we're going, yes. I think you read my mind."

\---

"Okay, good," She breathes, and sounds relieved. Her hands are still white-knuckled on the steering wheel. "It's a nice place. You'll like it, I promise. Good museums, good art, good facilities. And it's still early in the day. Oh! Pity you missed it! August. Psh. July, there's the Taste of Chicago, all the foods of the city." She's clearly trying to move on from whatever the fuck just happened, and Gerard is quite proud of her. Martin's voice is weirdly persuasive and lulling in something he can't quite tackle.

\---

The company he's far more used to might cast eyes on his lax grin and half-lidded eyes and force him back down, down into shame at having been up here at all. Might read the calm, collected acceptance in his voice as a whisper cloaked in blinding seaside mist. There's no knowing mirror in the eyes of this place. There is Knowing, Gerry's existence is testament to that, but knowing is far more intimate, far more destabilizing. 

Martin only knows one person who can do both, and he's missing. He's prodding, but not in any one direction. It's entirely random, noncommittal, pawing at an unidentified twitching object. "Familiar is always easier, isn't it?"

\---

"It is. Familiar is comforting. I've been here my whole life." She says it easily, quickly. Little form of protective will; this is a woman who is used to being an authority, used to having the power over her patrons. Someone calling her, bringing her in, it's foreign. There's no natural protections there.

Gerard's lips purse as he figures out the game. "Martin."

\---

"Right! Of course. Nice people in Chicago-- All the routines figured out by now. You know the good streets, I figure you know the bad ones too, but you can avoid those. Bad people, though, less easy to pick out." 

Martin twitches at the reminder of his personhood, ignoring it like he's almost done, Gerry, hold on, don't rush me. There's something pushing through the undercurrent of his words, projecting, planting a seed of something like paranoia like it's normal conversation. It is, for Martin. "You're the one at the wheel and they're the ones along for the ride, but you can't always watch the back, can you? Easier not to think about all the times someone stared at the back of your neck and just barely decided not to grab it. Happens every day, you know, but it's not us! Might be the next one who comes in. Or the one after that. Wow, it's nice out!" 

He sticks his head further out the window, very okay with the intensity of all the sights, the sounds, the people all of a sudden. He's floating. This trip is going to kill him.

\---

The cabbie shivers, and keeps looking back at them, and suddenly, she's talking, and talking, and talking, and Gerard has no idea what the fuck is going on.

"I... You're right, sir." Her voice has tremors of fear in them, nervous energy running through them like veins of gold. "Especially considering I'm a woman in the city, there's been run-ins, I won't lie. More than I'd like to admit. Touchy men, gang members, just... Creepy people."

Her voice catches, and her expression snaps to Martin, wide and a little unfocused, like she's caught some of trail and is latching on. Or a bug, falling into a silky embrace it didn't know existed until it's stuck for eternity, and then wiggling and doing all the dirty work for the web. Wrapped up nice and neat.

The comparison has Gerard's expression evening out into a nonexistent emotion, flat and unamused, but listening.

"Once, something-- and I do mean thing, sirs-- something came into my cab and I have never felt more afraid in my entire life. It-- again, it looked like a man but it was no man, sirs-- it never even opened its mouth but I knew what it was saying, and I could smell... Something? Now I keep a clean cab, I do, and this was such a smell of... Like when you go into an alley, and you find a dead rat, and the whole of that area just has this stench about it. It was foul. It didn't hurt me. I've been hurt by patrons before. But I felt it could and it wanted to, and it made me take it up to Addams and Michigan, which is awful north for the time of night, who knows what it wanted. It was so..." she shivers. "Oh, God. I hope it didn't hurt anyone. I just... Took it where it needed to be. Didn't even make it pay. I fronted the cash. I've never felt more scared, honestly."

And then, all at once, she exhales, and her shoulders fall, and she looks exhausted. "Ha! You're not like that! Anyways, we're here. Um," her expression lands on the tens Martin had given her. Gerard watched her think. He Knows it's not nearly enough money. She takes it anyway. "Have a good afternoon sightseeing, sirs." And she comes to a stop.

\---

Ah, shit, he’s done it again. Martin’s nearly vibrating in this new and unexpected good-bad-overwhelmed fugue. He hadn’t meant to get a statement, he was just playing around with her. Wow, that sounds incredibly evil. 

Martin’s eyes are closed against the wind, but he’s still locked in here with her, into catching the admittedly tame smell of what he knows to be a vampire. His own trails cover it up conveniently, but he knows it’s not a good one. Into the fear but not consumed by it, as the things consuming him now are far, far scarier. A little rush shot into his brain that just makes him delirious.

“It didn’t hurt anyone,” Martin lies with a gentle smile, unbuckling his own seatbelt and then Gerry’s just as easily. “It wanted to catch a late showing at the movie theater, but it was too embarrassed to tell you. Th-thank you!” 

He grabs his bag and exits the cab, holding the door for Gerry in a subconscious reflex through his own dazed fog.

\---

She gives them both a far less kind smile than the one she gave them on the way in, and the second the door is closed, she gets the fuck out of dodge, and Gerard cannot blame her. the second she's gone a few blocks, he spins and turns to Martin, and his expression is fiery. "What the fuck was that, Martin."

\---

Martin pulls a step away from Gerry with a high sound of confusion in his throat. “Was that bad? That was bad, wasn’t it. I don’t know what that was. I’m— I’m sorry.”

\---

"I don't know if it was bad, Martin, because I don't know what the-- I mean, Gertrude, she sometimes could pull stuff from people in ways I've never seen, but that was--" He sounds mad, but he isn't even, fully. He's curious, and fascinated, and pissed, and confused. 

"Don't be sorry about shit that's in your nature. I'm just trying to understand what you did to get some random woman to talk about vampires."

\---

“Oh. Maybe it’s not bad, then. Back at the hotel a man at the bar did the same thing, just started telling me his - his story when I didn’t know I asked. People tend to do that. Jon was livid, and then I spent like half an hour trying to tell him I think I have a thing for him pretending to be a professor.”

There is so much going on. Now it’s making him confess random barely-related things, too. Martin raises a white flag. “I have a-a charming personality?”

\---

"....Yeah. So do I. It's our charming personalities and not the magic what does us good." He tries to get his bearings, and then fails utterly because what Martin just said is insane, and he is not going to give Martin the dignity of just breezing past it. 

"You have a thing for him being a professor? Jon? He can barely get a word out of his mouth without forgetting how to speak, I don't think you're getting much authority out of him."

\---

“You only met him once and he was nervous,” Martin groans, briefly covering his face with both hands. “I have... an authority problem. I think I manifested his ability to compel commands through sheer force of— I have to stop talking.” 

Martin sucks in a breath, then tacks on pitifully, “You can be charming and have m-magic powers.”

\---

"Yeah, alright, Marto. I'm mercifully moving onwards." He takes a few steps closer, so he can look down the streets. "Okay. We're on Randolph. Use your magic powers to be useful instead of charming."

\---

Thank Christ. 

Or not. Martin focuses back in on his trails, covering up the lower half of his face with a hand against how strong they both are here. The brief statement in the car had him distracted, but—

They’re right on top of each other. He’s never been so close. The air is pulsing with it, filling his l—

No, not that one, not yet. He’s not ready. He’ll know when he’s ready. He has a feeling it’ll be the only thing he’s got half a mind to chase. Right now he’s too human. It just wards him off, makes him scared. 

The other one doesn’t, the novelty of it enticing in a way Martin doesn’t have the words just yet to explain. Lowering his hand, he starts to walk, pace slow in his present state of borderline stimulus torture. The saving grace here is all the background noise, the people, they’re just gone. Blinders up, they’re practically invisible.

\--- --- ---

He sits beneath the reflective surface of the Cloud Gate. A sweet, lovely little tourist had told him it's the _Bean,_ and that was such a quaint little name. He rather likes the Vastness of its real name, though, and he enjoys the trapping kaleidoscope refractive quality as sheets of silver metal pull over and over and over to create incomprehensible mirror images of mirror images. 

O, it reminds him of his Hallways. He almost wants to put one here, beneath this structure, and see how many will fall in. 

But that's not why Michael is here. He isn't sure why he's here, not really, but he's not really sure about most things, these days. He's certainly not sure how long he's been sitting beneath the Bean, content to lose himself in his own reflections stretching and moving and warping in his eyes. 

He feels a presence, and he knows it's time. Time for something, at least. Time to talk, maybe. Time to see, and O, how the Eye sometimes pushes through the Distortion's being. Shelley's little influences over their form. 

Michael sits up straighter, putting his hands delicately in his lap. He dressed up nicely for the journey; America is so very special, and it deserves a special look. He hasn't seen Martin in so long, and it is technically 'summer' which means 'hot', and thus he wears a sunflower printed sundress, an oversized sun hat, gladiator sandals and large round glasses, and more than one tourist has complimented him on this. 

He can't remember if he bought these or procured them, but sometimes Shelley seems to be more aware of their situation than the Distortion would like. So maybe it's that. They don't question it; they just wait.

\---

If it were possible to have a good migraine, that’s where Martin is right now. The closer he gets the harder his heart pumps blood through his chest, coaxing and coaxing until it’s a need burning through him and not a suggestion. 

Martin’s not sure when he started speeding up, when his pace turned frantic and his eyes grew wide enough to see faint echoes of glimmering painted glass in the air, shattered and sharp and _dangerous._ Nonetheless, his reality now is one in the present. There is no past or future to worry about. 

He ignores the art display as he moves around it, even ignores someone’s shoulder brushing against his. They’re all ghosts, but not the kind he cares about. He’s even forgot about Gerry, and that would make him sad if he had the capacity to think outside of his trail. 

Unfortunately, with how obnoxious the whole thing is to all his senses, he can’t tell how close he is until suddenly he’s already there. Distantly, he’s aware the threatening start of a growl is coming up in his own throat and nowhere else, but he’s more preoccupied with his dead halt less than ten feet away from where Michael is sitting. 

It’s _Michael._

He’s not human, the shining, overpowering air about him clear as day, but with where they stand now— He’s not a friend. The plane of existence Martin is suddenly on for the first time doesn’t account for friendship, just for action and reaction. He slipped in, and now he’s stuck.

\---

The second Michael sees him, his hands fly to his mouth, a peal of shocked laughter escaping and echoing all around the reflections, the reflections, the reflections. In the metal, he looks grotesque, far more grotesque than the image of him on the floor projects. Even with the laugh, he flies to his feet; Distortion and dead and powerful and akin to a God, but not stupid enough to sit on the ground when his own senses scream _Hunter_ to him. Hunters can kill something like him. Hunters can kill most things. 

"I was not expecting a _puppy_ to greet me. Oh, Martin, Martin, Martin." 

And behind Martin is a _ghost,_ something that belongs to the End, and reeks of dog just the same, and reeks of the Eye, and O, no wonder he was led _here._

\---

Michael’s laughter drills holes into his skull and leaves him aching, tilting, upside-down but somehow still upright. Protecting his ears with both hands does nothing for him, keeping his eyes trained on Michael does even less. 

Behind the trail, behind the physical form of Michael himself, movement whips just above Michael’s shoulder enough to catch his attention. Turning his eyes up to it climbs quickly to one of the biggest regrets of his life. Skin stretching over masses of snakes desperate to escape, power lines jutting out to spark with malicious electricity at anything that dares get close. Violently delighted with the hope that someone _does._

Martin holds his ground despite visibly recoiling at what he knows is much, much stronger than him, based on where he’s at now. The noise in his throat is now less threatening than outright _disturbed,_ frightened and alarmed and still trying to come off as a warning despite his lack of confidence. “Go away.”

\---

"And here I thought we were friends, Martin. Replaced me with skin, I see." He laughs again, and steps closer despite his nerves fraying at the thought. This won't do. Their agreement will be quite complicated if he's a _Hunter._

"... Martin." The Skin-Spirit says, and Michael regards him curiously, patronizingly, his smile wide and sharp and ecstatic even under the low-level anger roiling in what was once a gut.

They had an _agreement,_ the Distortion thinks. And Martin's gone and ruined himself. That requires punishment.

"Who the fuck is this?" The Skin-Spirit asks.

\---

Martin takes a few painfully careful steps to the side, calculated but not calm. He moves against his own will, or rather the will of lower functioning, trying to bait Michael into coming at an angle where Martin won’t have to look at his reflection. 

A softer side of him twitches to focus on Gerry as his name is called, tries to, tries so, so hard. But Michael’s coming closer and he can’t take his eyes off him and his mouth’s watering and the explosion of light and color is taking up every ounce of his focus and _more._

He needs Gerry here. He doesn’t know Gerry’s here, except for the few precious seconds that his voice echoes comfortingly against Michael’s harsh cacophony. The second time, Gerry speaks longer, and Martin tries again. 

“Mm... “ Martin starts, breaking through the noise still stuck in his throat. “Michael.”

\---

"Okay. Michael. Easy, Martin." The Skin-Spirit looks above them, at the reflections, and its eyes widen, and Michael laughs and laughs again. The spirit says, "Knock that off, _Michael,"_ and it's said with such force that Michael snaps his mouth shut in sheer surprise.

"Audacious, Skin, you are, hm? Tsk Tsk. All I'd need is a flame to be rid of you, gnat." His voice is low, dangerous, properly angry.

\---

There’s a pang in Martin’s heart that makes him want to listen, want to calm down, but Michael’s fresh laughter cuts through it before he can de-escalate. 

Michael threatens Gerry, and Martin doesn’t want to de-escalate anymore. 

They talk, and Martin keeps inching slowly to the side, trying to slip out of Michael’s field of vision, out of his focus. He’s not growling, now, but without the tension escaping with the motion it’s locked up and coiled right, ready to spring. 

He likely could have handled Michael’s attention, his teasing, his threats beneath the surface until Michael took pity enough to let him climb back into clarity, to _adjust._

But he’s not allowed to threaten Gerry, Martin’s idiot animal brain supplies, you’re pack animals.

\---

"Fucking asshole. Martin said you were a _friend,_ not some little entity. Ugh."

"Friend? Maybe. Perhaps. But I'm no friend to _you,_ and the dog and his Archivist have kept me waiting for a long, long time on a bargain. Come to find out they're in _America_ sight-seeing."

He jerks when he can't see Martin, and turns to him, hissing, "Is your mind so full of sights, Martin? Too many to help your _friend?"_ Despite himself, he flinches back. What a stench. Disgusting.

\---

Martin nearly freezes as Michael twists back on him, but the flinch has him pressing onward. He consciously realizes, right then, that he can’t control himself at all. That he can’t speak, he can’t explain to Michael exactly what happened, he can’t _stop._

He’s lost his voice, and as reactive as he is to each little glimpse of fear and anger from Michael, his own fear is much _louder._ He’s stuck, but not in the same sticky tar pits of Jon’s trail. It’s a different sort of silence, one that buzzes and scrapes and cuts. 

It’s like they’re playing, but they’re _not._ Not any game Martin knows, anyway. 

All he can manage outside of this forced meditative trance is a painful switch from glaring daggers at Michael to Gerry, internally begging for some kind of out he can’t provide himself so he can find reason.

\---

"Hold my coat." the Spirit steps closer to Martin, and Michael wants to laugh, to scream, to do something, but he does neither of those things. 

Instead, he glares at the specter and takes another step back, and ignores his fear, ignores the way Martin's stench wants to make a prey-thing of him. He is no prey. He is no predator. He is outside this dance. He will not give in to its pheromone trail. He plops himself on the ground, sitting up tall, and glares up at both of them.

"I don't care about this. I am merely weary of waiting. Where is the Archivist? At least he actually plans and doesn't grow fangs. Ugh."

\---

Martin thinks to chase after him as he steps back, but Gerry’s close and his hand is already reaching out blindly for his coat and he _finds_ it. It’s not quite real, not to the part of him that’s weighing heavier on his consciousness right now, but it doesn’t have to be real to the side he wants _back._ Real enough to grip tightly and hold it in. Save it for when it _needs_ to blow up. 

Michael sits, too, and that helps. Less threatening down there. Martin starts to breathe, jerky, uneven sighs that level out into something near normal after... an embarrassingly long amount of time, but who’s counting?

He tries to find his voice several times after that, rubbing at his raw throat with his free hand not childishly clutching at the memory of fabric. When he does manage the words, each one is a unique struggle. “I can... explain. S-somewhere quiet?”

\---

Michael continues to glare, and then makes a childish flap of his hand. "Fine. Go through the Door." He points, and at the end of the underside of the Bean's belly, is the door, yellow and breaking the illusion of the gorgeous reflections. "I don't want your Skin-Spirit."

\---

Hmm. Martin isn’t in complete control of his faculties just yet, if ever again, but he doesn’t think Michael will kill him. Not until he has answers. Maybe he will go into the Door with a capital D. 

But he’s conscious enough to know he can’t compromise with this, grip tight as he tugs on Gerry’s coat without moving an inch forward in emphasis. “Need him. He’s coming.” 

He’s not sure how to explain this in any certain terms, his brain still swirling with unease and flash-bang lingering trails, so he holds up his other hand, crossing his pointer and middle fingers together so Michael can see.

\---

Michael's hum is more akin to a low growl, and he stares at Martin for a long moment. "Fine. It reeks of the End. I don't want my hallways smelling of dead rat." He pointedly does not look at the ghost.

"Into the Distortion's fucking _Door,_ Martin, are you insane? This is-- this is so stupid."

\---

Martin is being very good, and does not return the growl-sound despite how much he would really, really love to. 

Scrunching up his face, Martin tries to sum this up with what he has in his arsenal, which isn’t much. “People everywhere.” And he tugs Gerry along, feeling very much insane. 

Maybe that’s a good thing, right now. For getting back into Michael’s good graces. He’s not sure about any of this, but drug use _does_ tend to lead to risky decisions.

\---

'Saving Jon' has taken quite the detour. Gerard isn't sure what this is, but he does know this is fucking stupid. Risky, and for what? They should be _fleeing_ from something like this, or trying to kill it, not chatting with it like an old friend.

But clearly Martin has his mind set about this, and at the end of the day, what can Gerard do? Stop them? He can't.

"Stupid. If you get swallowed, I'm not making your death sound heroic to Jon." He's scowling. But he follows, of course he follows, flushed close enough to Martin that he can still hold onto his coat.

"Delightful." Michael stands, and the ringlets of his hair bounce playfully around his shoulders, and Gerard would very much love to punch its smug little face. Why the fuck is Martin _friends_ with this thing?

Michael steps around them and opens the Door for them with long fingers.

\---

Saving Jon is the climax he’s not prepared for. Saving Jon is the only part of this that’s not a variable, but an inevitable. He can’t rush, unless he wants to die too, unless he wants them both to die. Saving Jon requires a sacrifice he’s not able to make yet, not for lack of want but for a conflicting sense of humanity that exists despite the pain it brings to cling to it. 

This isn’t how he dies. He knows that. He knows that, he convinced himself as he walks into the open trap. You can’t Hunt or be Hunted if the chase is over before it’s begun. 

The last thing he says, as he walks into the Door and passes Michael, is an airy, distracted, “What perfume is that?”

\---

Despite the anger pooling in him, Michael smiles at the question; he does so like Martin when he knows what Michael wants to be asked. When Martin pampers his fickle moods. "Guerlain’s Shalimar. It is so very romantic, no?"

He follows behind them and closes the door solidly.

The Hallway is dark, low-light glittering lamps upon the walls the only source of light, barely enough to illuminate the mirrors and paintings and portraits upon the wall. The carpeting is a mesmerizing mix of patterns that distort the length, the width, the reality of the Hallway. Michael pulls his hat from his head; one should not wear hats indoors. Even indoors that happen to be his belly.

The Skin-Spirit jitters and wavers for a moment, and it's attractive, a gorgeous display of unreality, and he grins wide as he watches it. Perhaps it is amusing after all. It stabilizes, though, even if it seems rather painful.

\---

“It’s how I found y—“ Martin’s hand slips through the coat like it was never there at all, and that new development both grounds and uproots him. 

Grounds because it keeps him from overanalyzing their surroundings, to accept them as hallways. Uprooting because it’s Gerry, and he’s afraid he made a terrible mistake. Martin waits until he’s stable again before engaging. “Gerry?”

\---

"This place isn't real," Gerard says quietly, and shivers. "It's _cold."_ He feels freezing, and it takes too much of his focus to stay here that he can't even be happy with the revelation that he's feeling something, anything.

Michael laughs. "Of course it's real! This is me. This is my body. But no, it does not exist, persay. Not in this world."

\---

His lack of sureness in what he’s about to suggest leaks out through every word. “If it hurts, don’t stay.”

He can’t comfort Gerry here, but he can’t be driven to hurt someone as collateral. He can’t draw more attention to himself, to anyone who hasn’t signed up for this. Now he’s talking to Michael, creeping back into his sensibilities with his need to manage them both. It’s a painful thought, but maybe Gerry’s brief suffering is exactly what Martin needs to snap back to human again. “Can you— The doors. Can we go somewhere close? In... Chicago?”

\---

Michael's expression thins, and he looks between Martin and the Spirit, who is evidently named _Gerry._ Disgusting creature.

"What a favor you are asking me," He says at length, and purses his lips. "And for this dead mongrel. Why should I?"

\---

"It's not a favor." Martin ignores the way he's looking at Gerry, avoiding the temptation to snap at him. He turns it into productive energy. Yay for him. "So I can talk. To you. No people. And-- And be where I need to be, so I can... finish this, there, after. Faster that way."

\---

"Ugh." Michael frowns. But he is curious. All of this. It better be a good story. He clicks his tongue and then spins on his heels, shoving the hat back on his head and opening the Door behind him. It opens to bright light, not the reflective surface of the Bean.

"You'll be okay back... Out here?" _Gerry-_ Ghost asks.

\---

"I..." 

Martin shuts his eyes against the light. "Okay. _Okay._ Let me think." 

He does just that, combing through his own thoughts for something that might make sense. 

"I think... Michael, would it-- Would it make you happy if Gerry took a nap, and we-- You can't help if you're tired, and if I-I get worse, later, I... " It's already hard enough coming back to normal, harder still that the Martin Gerry knows is not the one Michael knows. "Michael, is there anything in here I could... destroy or-- Or work this out, that might be... f-fun for you? For a bit? Before we go back?"

\---

"I want to destroy nothing. I want answers." Michael says, and keeps holding the door open. "We are on the roof of a museum. Bring your Skin-Spirit or don't. I won't be so kind to let you go if you keep waffling."

\---

Fine. Fine! He'll take his pent-up monster-hunting rage with him to the roof of a museum, that's a fantastic idea. Not like he wanted to run around Michael's hallways and make a mess of his innards out of spite for his terminal lack of control _anyway._ He thought that might work. He has no idea what he's doing. This is making it so much worse. Wow, he's really throwing a tantrum about this, isn't he? Since when did he care?

Martin sobers up and steps through the door to avoid the indecision and the uncertainty of what it might mean to stay longer than he has to. He doesn't have time to calm down from whatever that was, to work out whatever that thing in the _cab_ was, and all of them will have to deal with it.

There's a shift in air pressure as he finds the cold concrete of the roof, and it makes his ears pop. Jon's trail is still _strong,_ but the height is helping, and he glares back at the open door like he's pouting there.

\---

Michael likes the energy wafting off the puppy; it's addictingly chaotic, and it's so very hard to hold back and keep hold of his anger and need to know instead of spiral. Maybe he will. As a treat for himself for getting through this. He follows, and to be rude, he slams the door on the ghost, and giggles when the ghost doesn't reappear.

He thinks letting the creature _sleep_ is a good idea. He doesn't want it here. He wants Martin.

\---

The door jolts Martin out of his thoughts, and the lack of _Gerry_ here suddenly has him feeling very put on display. Might also be the open air, the wide empty roof, the _space_ here that leaves him center stage without a script. He can't snap at Michael for not welcoming Gerry into whatever this mess is, because he's already on thin ice and properly cornered. Damn it, Martin, now is not the time to self-sabotage.

He drops his bag so he's free to move, trusting that nothing in there is valuable enough to draw Michael's attention. Just Gerry, who's valuable enough to _Martin,_ but Michael doesn't seem inclined to go after him. And then he starts to pace, trying to work out the energy thrumming under his skin. To avoid the trail that's still clinging to Michael and urging on a new kind of incoherency. 

"We came to America to research away from the Institute and-- And travel while we did. We thought Gerry might know about rituals, might-- Might put the last pieces we had together so we could help you. And we did, I-I-I think, it's hard, to think. Before we could... do anything about it, we-- Jon was taken by Hunters."

\---

 _"More_ Hunters? Eurgh. More competent than you, I imagine." Without that _gnat_ in his peripheral, it's easier to watch Martin. Martin, whose presence is so very clear to him. He does not pace; he stands still, unnaturally so, as he processes everything Martin has to offer.

And then he laughs, because it's all so very silly, and because Martin _has_ been keeping up his end of the deal, and he _has_ been researching their ritual, and it's just a big misunderstanding and Michael can be so very, very patient, he can. He can. "There are bones in this place, Dog, might we go fetch them for you? What a strange visage, you are."

\---

"Yes. Two Hunters. I've walked-- I had to walk at least a hundred miles, I've tried to-- They've been baiting me into this, this _thing."_ Martin gestures wide to himself as he paces, and despite the relief at how easy it is to bring Michael to a more reasonable disposition he's not any less close to boiling over. He hopes Gerry is okay. He's sure he is. The book is still warm, in the spiritual sense. He wagers it would be a lot more cold without him in there, leaving nothing but the untapped ghosts of some unrelated story. 

"I'm _not a dog._ I-I didn't know I was following _you,_ you were-- You smelled nice. It covered Jon's... trail." That's not helping. Martin scrunches his face up in frustrated disapproval. "I'm not explaining it. I didn't want to hurt you. I don't. I... I mean I do, but not-- That's not _me,_ it's... this." He pauses slightly, knowing he forgot something in his rambling. "Bones?"

\---

Michael's smile grows wider, a grin now. "Yes. Large reptilian bones, Not-A-Dog." The wind of the Museum is light and airy and it makes his hair sway lightly around his face. "Hm. I was not sure it was even _you_ I was meant to find. Sometimes I find myself called to things, not unlike your current state, I imagine. I come to, and lo and behold-- Chicago. Dreary city. Better than London. Less memories lurking behind alleys." 

He moves, then, walking to the edge of the roof and looking down at the wide limestone stairs, watching people mill in and out, watching the line of taxis that stand like hollow pawns. "They've made you powerful."

\---

Martin forces his body to stop, though it takes excessive concentration. Up this close, he's working on learning to filter the overwhelming _air_ about him. They'd have likely never become friends, or-- Or whatever they are, if he could always sense that. Strange, how his presence now makes him wonder why he spoke so _casually_ about the Spiral. Hard to remember how abnormal he is without the evidence blasting confetti cannons into your eyes.

He fights against the instinct to fight-flee-freeze and shadows after Michael until he can peer nervously over the edge. Parse what Michael's telling him. His hands are shaking at the side of the roof and he refuses to look down, instead enjoying the wind. 

One takeaway from today: Lots of good wind to enjoy. He's almost smiling by the time he can manage a few words. "They have vampires _lurking around_ instead. I... um, found that out today. Better look out for those." He hesitates, then heaves a heavy sigh into the wind. "I do feel powerful."

\---

"What a fun game, to turn you to a beast. They will enjoy themselves, until you spill their blood." Michael crouches, content to keep staring down at the people below. He can smell the lies that waft around all of them, delicious swirls of deceit and gaslighting and little white lies and lies you tell yourself to get through the day and lies you tell others so they can get through the day, and it's a balm to his senses. 

"I hate feeding," He says, at length, his voice poised curiously, as though it's a revelation he's just now managed to make. "You _want_ to feed. You smell so violent. Jon is still alive; I can feel the Mark I laid upon him. He's only a few blocks away. Why is his blood so muddy?"

\---

Martin is about to ask _why,_ to launch into some Michael-focused rambling about self-growth or maybe even prodding to find out what he hates so much about something integral to who he is, whether even the Spiral can't seem to escape the constraint of approved boxes as if there's a right way to do it. Gerry has taught him a few things about _rightness,_ about _rules,_ or the false perception of them. 

But as Michael's trail shatters his focus, his words follow a similar pattern. There's a frantic shift in the air, like Michael's made real what he's been burying down into the earth in one breath. It keeps happening. He can't keep putting it off. "He's-- He's that close? I-- I'm trying not to smell it r-right now, I'm not ready, I haven't planned yet... I'm still..." Martin pulls up his left hand in a thoughtless reflex, biting down. It's all he has to ground himself with Gerry gone. 

He's getting better at speaking through teeth. "You see it too?"

\---

"Of course. I can always see the both of you. You're mine." He glances back, and the stillness of his being is corrupted with a slight twitch, as he takes in the franticness of Martin's being. It's intoxicating. It's like asking an alcoholic not to drink when your friend is in front of you plastered and having a good time.

"Jon is touched by those who have not yet touched him, in this life. It's curious. It would take very little effort to take him and twist. He-- hah. He so reminds me of a man I knew with Clay. Such a precise spiraling. I wonder how sane he will be, after this. If he comes back correctly."

\---

"The Hunt, it's... it's physical." Martin says quietly, sliding down onto the ground so he's not tempted to move. To watch the crowds, to _look._ Look for something, someone, a sign, a way forward. Instead, he wills his thoughts into separating from himself as if simply inspecting. He stops biting down. "I think they're memories, not-- Not things that really happened the way you see it, but... your body remembers. The Buried. Michael, p-part of you still smells like... like _snow."_

His fears slip out regardless, laid bare as the blood gathering at his palm. "I-I just can't push myself hard enough to _do_ it. To lose myself, in this. They're causing him _pain,_ and I-I'm out here stuck on a leash I made."

\---

Despite himself, the reminder of snow makes him shiver, and his expression halts, something far more human and far more vulnerable leaking into his expression. It's there just a moment, and then he stutters it; he cannot think of Shelley right now. He does not want to _be_ Shelley right now. It has been harder, as of late. 

He focuses on the blood gathering in Martin's palm. So red. So thick. He reaches out and grabs hold of that hand before Martin can flinch back, and he squeezes, narrowing his eyes. "Do you need someone to unclip you?"

\---

Numb to the stinging pressure of his open wound trickling between them, Martin stutters in a half-breath that can't possibly keep him alive. There's no oxygen here in the space of Michael's hand, just the writhing, daunting movement just beneath. He wants to scratch away the skin and reveal the truth just out of view, be consumed by it, fall victim to a power much greater than his own. 

But more than that, he wants to cause the paralyzing fear he feels at the floor, tucked beneath Michael's hand. He _wants_ to. To the ones who brought him here, who pushed him into this for their own sick enjoyment, for their own grotesque purposes. It does make sense, why so many of the people he meets here are marked deeply by a special sort of pain, long, long before the monsters at play were anything but human mothers. 

Maybe that's why it hurts so bad, to learn that you have control now and didn't before, to admit that now you have it you _like_ it. That you can see why it was so appealing to the one who did it to _you._ Martin's voice is a whine, sure and scared at once. "Please."

\---

Michael's smile is gentle, soft and kind and full of love, and he digs his nails in hard, the wound opening by centimeters. Blood trickles down below, to the concrete, down Michael's wrist and hand.

As he does so, he lies. 

Lies to Martin in the form of visions that might as well be true. Jon bound and gagged and near dead. Corpses and the blood and meat of it all. Viscera and beautiful, spiraling patterns of blood drawn into concrete floors, and of course it's Jon's. Of course. How muddy. How knowing. How full of holes. Such blood shall make a terrible God. A sublime one. 

Sometimes, lies are just your own imagination crafting what could be real out of clay.

Each vision gets worse, pressing and harsh and terrible, and they make even Michael shiver with their intensity. And then it's done, and Michael pulls back his hand and licks down the length of it, his eyes half-lidded and _content_ from such potent feeding, such potent madness, and the blood is full of such sweet love it's toxic.

\---

Martin carves a hole inside his heart for each vicious lie to live, to welcome them into the ranks of half-truths and dreams and spoonfed self-hatred so dense within him he wonders how each gust of wind passing by can’t simply pass through like he was never there at all. With dark saucers for pupils there is no difference to the way they widen as words that aren’t his own pass from his lips and how they turn to black holes when sucking in any hint of blood and tears and dirt. 

It’s all the same sort of power coursing through him, and he’s a fool for thinking they came from anything but fear. 

He knows that now, lies weaving into truths until the very strands of each double helix within his cells are equal parts truth and lie fusing into need. He opens his mind to Michael, offers up his own creativity at the altar as the sacrificial lamb, their collaborative art project, not a purposeful descent into the dirt-caked hole of Jon’s personal hell, where to pull him out he has to become the very thing that trapped him down there in the first place. 

Drag him up with teeth to the shoulder and muddy limbs scratching for purchase on the winding staircase up to the earth. Kill the things that brought you to him, not because you hate what they gave you but to grieve that you don’t hate what you’ve become.

Despite the cold Truth as his only company on this journey, the second he’s offered a taste of what’s all the more familiar he bends to it without struggle, finding it _comfortable._

The best part is, Michael shows him nothing he hasn’t already seen himself in bouts of fitful sleep and waking nightmares and quiet moments by streams and smoking cars and in the bark of marked up trees and in the eyes of strangers he can’t bring himself to see as people.

The only difference is, told by Michael, he allows them to be true. 

For his part, Martin adds one of his own little lies: Jonathan Sims will not live through this, but he will come back. He adds it knowing it’s the funniest one of all, because it’s _true._ The lies by omission embedded into the core of proper noun Words and confessions pulled out from the depths of someone’s own core. Sight is, perhaps, the least reliable sense of them all. 

Martin comes back to the frigid roof, low enough to the ground that all he sees is Michael, the sky, and the slowly sinking dirt that’s so seamlessly replaced the stable concrete that moments ago covered the museum he’s yet to see. Seeing Michael is more complex than seeing _Michael,_ the painted glass shards floating between them as though caught in time the split-second after a baseball bat has smashed the window, the original image of a man sacrificed to a cause he never asked to join incomprehensibly broken, each piece too small to fix.

His own blood sits heady between them, and as Martin’s breaths come deep and labored, eyes pinned to Michael’s movements, noises falling unbidden from his lips in disorganized waves of laughter and sobs, he feels _free._ Loved, and wanted, and finally used in a way he’s begged for with his own deceitful existence his entire life. 

If he didn’t have a job to do, he would stay here. 

He soaks in one last indulgence, a trick of the light where the sights combine with the smells. The sun breaks through the clouds and cards through Michael’s perfumed hair, gold and pink and blue and red glittering from above and smearing into watercolor lies. It paints a portrait close to what he wants, but he knows it’s not what he _needs,_ and art is meant to be destroyed, isn’t it? 

If an attempt at murder could be described as playful, that’s the right word for what Martin does, spurred forward with want but not need. It lacks the lethality of what he knows he’ll shortly use full force, more of a parting gift than a death sentence as he breaches the space between them to sink his teeth into the wrist Michael’s covered with his own blood. Deep, deep into where an artery should be without pulling back, the pressure of his jaw at each side of his wrist prevents whatever fills his inhuman veins from pouring out.

\---

The breath pulled from Michael's lips is not one borne of need, but of shock, high and wanting and painful. But nothing worth wanting is free from pain; Michael knows this. Nothing worth needing is free from anguish; Michael knows this too. 

Michael does not pull back; if anything, he leans into the wound, and brings his other hand up to card through Martin's hair, pressing him down, down onto his wrist, letting him taste blood borne from clay, blood borne from failure, blood borne from lies and lies and lies and lies and his teeth transforms it into Truth. A Truth that quivers and shakes and wracks a Body-That-Not-Is but Will-Be again. 

The one facet to Michael Shelley that the Distortion revels in is that this body is one of lies. Lies of a perfect girl. Lies of a fragile boy. Lies of mothers and lies of Archivists, and lies red as strawberries in the ice of Russia. Lies as winding as his Hallway that speak of generations and generations leading up to this, one lie tumbling after the other after the other to produce golden ringlets of a lamb. 

The pain of this is one of his own sort of freedom, and his hand smooths down the slope of Martin's face to hold him by the cheek, brushing against the sharpened Hunter savagery. And he leans down, so that his curls dip into his own blood, into Martin's, the mixture foul and lovely and impossible and binding, and he presses his lips to the top of Martin's head, his hair soft against Michael's face. 

His kiss is motherly, but for once in their lives, it is loving.

"Go safely, my little Hunter," He whispers against Martin's curls. "Do not let the End claim you, too, tonight."

\---

In melding lies and truth into the incomprehensible space they’ve created, Martin doesn’t struggle against love. It’s of a sort he’s never felt but always wanted, craved, _needed,_ as they each melt into the singularity of instinct. 

He regrets none of it, couldn’t possibly think of anything not worth doing for the molten aluminum of love pouring down his throat, into each hole he’s made, burning him alive from the inside just to rebuild him anew. He returns with an understanding of something unexplained secondhand, a love given by virtue of creation, one you can’t earn any other way. No amount of slaving away for the slightest false smile of a shade-Mother who sees your face as someone else’s, drenched so thick in her own lies she forgets to provide what you deserve with each breath you manage to take because she _made_ you… No amount of that can give you this.

Each soft act of kindness from Michael is met with additional force applied behind Martin’s jaw, beyond the words he’s used his entire life to harm himself and others, having found a new way to show his love that can’t be etched on paper. He describes the intensity with which he absorbs Michael’s love in terms of pressure, knowing Michael will understand, will know the intersection of pain and love is measured in terms of two mirrors facing each other, reflecting an endless stream of identical images.

Martin swallows blood, down on his knees before the Spiral, before the being that is and is not Michael Shelley with each half of the whole deserving it in equal parts, and accepts love without question. To question is to complicate, and there is nothing simpler than this. He cries through Michael’s words, voice glittering and molten and captivating. 

Unlatching his jaw, Martin stays fixed with lips parted through the command that’s more of a promise, blood and blessedly wet, malleable clay flowing freely down his chin from where he’d let it pool in his mouth. In their ritual space, the lies are closer to reality than the truth, and Martin finally aids gravity enough that a few chunks of stained glass fall from his mouth to join the pool of blood they’re cultivating between them in the dirt. Might as well give him a taste of what the trail looks like to Martin. 

His voice, clogged by warmth and jagged cuts that do not exist, is thin as a flatline. He has no words, but his eyes drift from Michael to the bag where the book sits nestled safely inside. He needs the ghost to see it. He needs him to come. He needs to get to the Art Institute. Martin tries to convey all this without a word, but whether it’s to Michael or Gerry, he’s not sure. Does it matter?

\---

Perhaps each shard of glass falling to the concrete was once part of a cathedral. Grand, and sprawling, and covered in greenery that should not exist in the arctic, an impossible cathedral of impossible things with impossible art and impossible colors. He wants to grasp at them, put them together into a shape he can recognize, but he can't. 

The blood makes the shards brighter, anyways. Something new. Michael would like that. 

His hand drifts below Martin's chin and lifts, searching his face before latching on to what he wants; no words are necessary when the core of them are splattered to the ground. His gaze moves to his wrist, and it's a mangled mess, the kind that could not happen if Martin were human any longer. The blood dripping is a melody. 

He stands, and pulls his hand away from Martin, and the thick want-stench from Martin mingles with the End-stench from the Book. It is Shelley, more than anyone, with his care and affection and wanting, who speaks. 

"Are you sure? What Sight is seen cannot be unseen." He collects the bag, and unzips it, and though his wrist is still bloody, none of the drops fall on the bag as he pulls the book out, the static buzzing sounding more like a flatline to his ears. 

He looks to Martin for permission; he has patience, and he has kindness, and he's never felt the kindness he feels now, in the entirety of his lives. This is _his;_ and he knows the Ritual is half complete, because soon, he will be Martin's. This is the way of things.

\---

Martin waits, uncollared and settled by choice to see this through, knowing he'll get where he wants, where he needs to be the second this business is over. He's not patient by any means, shaking with anticipation as he sinks his fingers into the cool dirt slowly rising around him. He takes sick, fearful comfort in the knowledge that it's Jon's mark on him along the threads of connection bringing the earth so high up into the clouds, calling after him quietly. 

His nod comes with conviction. Gerry is the perfect witness, the perfect creature comfort provided in connection found in the shadow of the Hunt's mark. He wonders, with half-human thought, if he could mark him a different way, use the Hunt as protection, add to Gerry's own eye-warding sigils. Keep everything else away, keep the fire that could set him alight from stepping too close to send him to another realm. He needs Gerry, he wants to know about reptile bones some time, he needs to rescue Jon, he wants to exist here forever, he needs to go.

\---

Michael flips to the page that calls to him. The pages are thick, soul-clogged and heady and textured, and the ink upon them is layered in blood. Gerard's words are in blood, and Michael gives Martin one final look before he begins to read. 

His own voice goes academic as he does; the Eye, after all, was once his home, too. It calls to him, and perhaps one day, he'd like to go home, when the ritual is complete.

The glittering of green, vibrant eyes upon the edge of the building snaps him to attention once he finishes reading the passage, and there's a certain wonder in his eyes as he watches the Skin-Spirit manifest. It's a powerful soul; he is certain that no other spirit would be able to do this. But spirits are not his domain.

Gerard Keay stares at Michael, and his expression is one of rage, one of confusion, one of distrust, and Michael raises a bloody hand to him, wrist still openly sobbing with lies, and watches as the ghost's eyes snap to that, to the ground, and then finally, to Martin, and Michael thinks he understands, finally. 

A ghost is a memory, but sometimes, if a memory is played long enough, it shifts. And this ghost has shifted to focus in the present on Martin. Just look at those eyes. Devoted as the dog Martin is. Look at that body language. Obsessed as the mud-trail is strong. Michael cannot be angry at the spirit for this; he has tasted Martin's blood, he has fed Martin his. He knows, now. 

"What the fuck did you do?" The spirit hisses, and his eyes are molten fire, and thinks perhaps he is not so foul after all.

\---

As if found in another room eating a stolen object he shouldn’t have, Martin drools out the last of the liquid clay and most of the blood before focusing wholly on Gerry. 

He wishes he could share his thoughts with him, to make him understand what it took to get here, how this isn’t insane, or crazy, or stupid, or dumb. That he’s going to live and so is Jon, that Gerry gets to come with them and not see any more shitty fields. He gets to be a person, if he wants to be. They get to go home. They all get to go home. 

All he can do, right now, is throw that into the space between them that’s as much Michael’s as it is Martin’s, hoping Michael’s in the vein of kindness to be a reliable translator. 

Martin rises up to his feet, not uneasy but clearly held back with every ounce of control he has left in his body. The only thing he manages, in this entire endeavor, is a weirdly light-hearted lie spoken through a mouth cut up with blades and filled with dirt. “Nothing.”

\---

"Nothing," Gerard repeats, and pointedly looks down at the puddle of blood pooling and cooling and hardening and solidifying a permanent stain on the roof of a building so old it has shaped the very city it sits in.

"If you were to keep him tied back, choke collar upon his fragile neck, he was going to die, Gerard Keay," Michael says, and closes the Book in his hands with a solid _thump,_ placing it into the backpack once more and zipping it up.

It's too much. The blood clogs the nostrils that once were, and the memory of it all clouds him. He takes an uneasy step and nearly falls, the intent, the desire, the want and need all mingling and overwhelming what access he has to the real world. He cloaks himself, for the first time, on purpose with something that numbs him, phases him from being too human in this heroic time of need, and it makes his memory-form... Duller, almost, his expression evening out. 

He knows this is the right move; he can see it in Martin's everything. But he knows there's no turning back from this, and now the Spiral has its hands upon him, quite literally, forcing choking clay down his throat even as the blood-trail calls him. He can't imagine it. He refuses. 

There is so much to do, when this is all over. But he chokes it down like vile poison, deep deep deep to address later. "Are you ready, then?"

\---

The book shuts and Martin flinches, ready for Gerry to disappear. 

But he doesn’t. 

Yes, Martin’s ready. 

His next few steps toward the bag are purposeful, methodical, despite his head now clear of thought. The worst pumped through him just to be flooded right back out, baptism by pain. And now he has approval by all parties capable of being present. 

Without the care Michael extended with his things, Martin drips dots of blood over the bag as he picks it up, marking it in his own way. It weighs nothing. There are no more stops to make. He wants to drop in on them with the Spiral’s blinding trail, the Eye’s blessing in tow.


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Howl for your Moon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter:  
> \- Stab wounds  
> \- Character death   
> \- Graphic violence  
> \- Sickening amounts of love

Jonathan Sims has not been dreaming. 

His existence has been a pummeled, bloody, rust-rot one, and what sleep he has been allowed has been fleeting, dreamless, a body forced into rest without the brain capacity to concoct images. His lungs are a choking, rotting thing, an endless bruise upon his neck and windpipe, an endless pain upon his limbs and joints. 

Blood has become the standard, in his nostrils. He misses the sheets of his bed, mingled scents and Martin Martin Martin. He misses the incense-heavy smell of his office; he had done Nag Champa, but now it is sage, sage because Martin had liked it, and he has never once missed scents and yet. And yet. 

His wrists are bound in rust and iron. The mind is a wandering, fearful creature, and it becomes easier, after the first few days, to just not be. To just speak and do and be as is told, to not think and react. But sometimes, that is not enough; sometimes, his instincts make him compel, snot upon his face mingling with tears and his voice a live wire that makes Julia and Trevor speak and speak and speak and  _ feed _ him. 

Jon learns quickly that feeding, in this capacity, results in pain. It results in crushed windpipes that heal too quickly, it results in bruised kidneys that do the same, it results in blood and concussions and the thought that he’s being just barely kept alive. For something. 

For someone.

He’s in a basement. It’s a frequent thing, these days, and when he breathes from his mouth, his nose broken for the third time in as many days, he can nearly scent the stench of the city upon his upper palate. A snake does not become chained and bow to its captors, though, and so the comparison grows stale. 

Mud fills his mind often. So too: blood and violence and paranoia and a stomach dropping out from great heights and long twisting hallways and the coldness of death and the boring of holes and the thrill of being chased and the and the and the and the and the..

The thick rotting earth mud is easiest, most present. It numbs him like a drug and keeps his brain quiet. To be a body rotting within the earth would mean no more pain; the Forsaken might be gentle, but the Mud takes things into its own pressing, pressurized hands. A weighted blanket for the soul.  _ You shall be unto the Earth,  _ it whispers, and Jon wants that to be so. 

He is uncertain that his existence is one that will end in burial.

The Hunter scent is furious, clogging, musky. That too, he knows, can be fixed with the Dirt. Oh, to push Julia and Trevor beneath the coffin. To tame them. To collar them. To fix them. Then they would know. 

This is his existence. And then, all at once, it isn’t. Because he can  _ feel _ him. Feel his Martin coming close, the veins that have shed so much blood singing and humming and screaming in agony and love and safety and fear and worry. He’s close. He’s close and laughs, in this concrete dungeon, and for his efforts, the Hunters who have slowly grown frazzled and frantic kick him to shut him up, and the blooming bruises do just that, the whine that escapes his throat a learned response, a submissive giving in, but for once it isn’t full of clogged horror. 

He pushes his mind. And it sends visions of horror but love wherever it shall land, and his concrete tomb becomes akin to just another step in his ontogenesis.

\---

The realm of perfect attention exists on a mental plane devoid of irrelevant life. Without polluted abstract thoughts, all the once-overwhelming stimuli fades into muffled muteness to pave way for the thump of a heartbeat he recognizes. 

His drive to retain the half-true image of who he is that he knew could be loved led to a prong collar of his own making with the key pawned off to a ghost.  _ His  _ ghost. Gerard Keay, now tied to him outside the constraints of corporeality, the bodily limits of blood. The collar was a flimsy thing, so easily snapped at the first tug by someone with the perspective to know it was cheap. To know exactly how to send a creature over the edge and pull it back out free from pesky moral dilemmas and uncertain noncommitment. The distorted cloak of madness hones him into the center of a spiral, a nasty concoction of borrowed gifts working in tandem to draw him ever closer to his goal now that he’s willing. 

As chance would have it, he and Jon’s parallel marks weave a divine thread that brings Martin to the end of the trail with precision he can sense but not see. His ghost is present but faded into the necessary emotional separation from what they’ve set off to do, what they knew they had to the moment they knew he would say  _ yes. _ As evening creeps in the lamp posts turn to thick trees rotting from the inside out. Manicured gardens and concrete paths morph into cloying leaf-strewn forest floors. The few strangers that catch a glimpse of him avert their eyes just as quickly, as if sensing somewhere at the earliest built functions of the brain that they are prey. Not the one the desperate, frothing hound is after, but he could just as easily turn to the side and snap. 

He won’t. He’s good. Martin is good, and only wants to hurt what he has to.

That numbing veil across his senses sheds at the unlit center of a storage room beneath the ground. This is a place where all sensations are relevant, now, where each rustle of fabric and drop of a pin could change the outcome out of his favor. He’s not about to question how he got here, how the path narrowed down so perfectly, how the love in the air is as thick as the fear.

As Martin maneuvers through preserved works of art, they’re nothing more than rocks, logs, and shrubs that don’t exist. In the dark, it’s easier to stick with what he’s given, to ease into the familiarity of the forest his new brain is used to. A symbolic accent piece to his bodily loss of control mixing seamlessly into Jon’s own. Maybe someday, Martin will pick out the poetic filth from the rubble and think that perhaps the tale with him at the center is drenched in literary metaphor by no coincidence at all. Maybe it’s part of who he is and what binds him.

The storage room gives way to the mouth of a cave, his voyeuristic specter the resigned keeper for an animal that can’t be controlled. As he falls deep into the earth, he lifts a rock from the ground with the mindless confidence he’s practiced before. Except this rock is heavier, this rock is worth quite a lot of money, and this rock is shaped oddly like the distorted caricature of a human bust a la Honoré Daumier.

Past the entrance of the cave that is not a cave in a land full of things that Are-Not-What-They-Are, Martin is no longer a reliable narrator. The world divides into two sections: What is the man named Jonathan Sims, and what is afraid of Martin Blackwood. Everything else is dirt. 

Chaos erupts at the basement, and that black ink from his nightmares crawls back up into his eyes, obscuring his vision in time with his own heart as if wormed deep within his blood. He cracks the statue against a skull some point early on, earning a startled cry from the younger one that splits the interwoven hunters down the middle. He knows that, and only catches up to the fact once he’s fighting tooth and nail at the floor in mutual feverish desperation with the  _ other _ one. Lucky, lucky Martin, the Spiral’s trail still clings loudly to him, no doubt tracking the scene through excited eyes not even the Dark could escape from. The disorienting smell of a new bond might even give him the edge he needs. That, and the strings pulled snugly into place by various interested parties beyond Martin’s view.

Where he ends up, fittingly, is the windpipe of a vampire killer turned foul. In the hands that claw at his coat, he can sense each torture he’s inflicted on his prey between the microscopic grooves of each finger pad. Most clearly, he feels Jon’s, the echoes of suffocated screams soaked deep into the Hunter’s flesh like cigarette smoke to a couch. Do unto others, or something.

Martin wishes he could inject mud into the lungs of the hunter fighting beneath him, but he’ll have to settle for a moment of clarity as Trevor’s legs kick in the clinging mud beneath them both, as Martin keeps a hand over his face with fingers pressing over the man’s eyes. Martin’s not without cuts and bruises and pains of his own, but his own pain is absent from the equation. 

Oh, he would love to know that in another world that can never exist again, the creature known as Peter Lukas was torn to shreds in his name the way Martin carries this out in Jon’s.

\---

In the choking, rotting, miserable, aching tunnels of a pain that is familiar and not, lived and not, understood and not, Jonathan Sims knows when his love returns to him. It is not a Knowing, but it's a truth nonetheless, a truth as deep in his breast as the earth that clings to the walls of his ribcage. 

His skin is a thin, roiling binding, and each passing moment before it happens, Jon is acutely aware of everything about him threatening to burst. He doesn't know what it is; this, at least, is a new sensation.

The Hunters pick up the trail of their downfall, and Jon laughs, and he laughs again, and it earns him a kick to his side that has him wheezing on the floor, opening wounds that trickle red blood that smells right and yet wrong, like it's changing into something he can't comprehend. 

In the Knowing comes the Sight, and in the Sight comes love. 

Martin is as beautiful as he is grotesque, and the cloud that hangs above him is one of thickened sharp teeth, and the dappling of leaves through a forest floor. It's mesmerizing, the way the sunlight fractures and fragments above him, the way the thick predator rage binds and moves with him. His limbs are a live wire. 

The dance of the Hunters is a chaotic, spinning madness, and Jon tracks it where he lays bound, and he is so pinpointed on Martin that he forgets about the  _ other _ one, a woman so choked in trauma he feels for her, even now, he feels sorrow for her life.

There is a moment of clarity before it happens.

Martin is not beautiful; he has been lost. Trevor's sickly yellow teeth snap animalistic, and so, does Martin's. Jon did this. Jon allowed this. Jon will have to spend an eon and more to fix this, when he's freed from his shackles. He won't. Fix it, that is. He will merely shape it, control it, weave and watch and paternalize, and when it's done, they will all be changed. He wonders if this is what Elias wants.

It's his last conscious thought. 

His eyes wide, bloodshot, fearful and engaged, he fails to see Julia Montauk come behind him, dripping blood from her temple. He fails to see the knife. He fails to know or even Know that this will solidify so many different rituals, all at once. 

He fails, because with one swift stroke, she ends Jonathan Sims, his airways finally freed from the choking, earth mud as she releases his blood. To put it simply: one knife stroke across the throat is an effective tool in ending your Archival career. Or at least it should. 

The last thing he sees is Martin, and he tries to commit him to memory, as much as possible, tries to see him, see him, see him, and convey the love that is there, and the noise he makes is one of abject pain for what he's done to Martin. And then he can't see anymore.

\---

With his mouth to Trevor’s throat, fighting with every fiber of his being to keep them from flipping over, Martin is powerless to do anything but watch. If he loses here, he’s not coming back up. They’re two seasoned Hunters, but the blood drunk air makes them all messy. 

Martin lets Jon see. Anything he wants, like a child whose pet has died and gets to have whatever he wants to be consoled. See anything he wants to, every part of him turned inside out. Willingly offered as though he’ll need what he gleans to cross back to this side of the Styx. You’re coming back. You’re coming back. We’re going home. The pain looping through Jon, through Martin, transfers in kind to Trevor, to Julia, each hot wave of Jon’s ritual blood bringing him to bite deeper. As if he could take the pain away by causing it in equal measure. 

Though, a slick and steady knife is more of a mercy than what Martin’s doing. Jon will come back. Trevor will not. As Trevor’s own red mess starts to leak beneath his head, Martin takes the hand he’s been using for leverage at the floor as a barrier to prevent it from spreading too close to where Jon’s is cascading freely. He won’t give him the luxury. He’s starting to fight less, though Martin doesn’t ease up, the bite meant to draw this out. He won’t tear, won’t succumb to the grotesque animal savagery of mutilation, because this violence is much worse. The panic, drawn long and low and palpable as his lungs start to fail and drown in what made him strong ever slowly, a new seal for death with each attempt at breath. Martin is torturing him. 

His eyes sit glued to Jon’s body as it twitches without the conscious life of the man he loves, knows he loves, and he does not feel guilty for watching. He can’t mourn, there’s no reason to mourn, because he knows deep down as Jon is deep into the bowels of the world, they’ll mourn together. 

Martin feels so very loved.

\---

Amidst the blood and the ritual space of something far greater than any mortal could bear, Gerard Keay stands witness to this slaughter. There's not much else he can do; the strength in his body is limited, the corporeality of his form fragile, and though he would love nothing more than to get his own hands bloody and bruised, this is a dance that's beyond him. Even as a human, he would not be able to compete with the Hunter's movements. 

So he watches. 

The madness that swirls around Martin is light and dreamlike, a clouded, noxious mixture not unlike the heavy perfume of Michael. Gerard had not smelled  _ that _ but it's much the same. The Hunter's mark upon him erupted, blood clots and thick, jagged violence. If he could dream, the sight of Martin's teeth upon the throat of a man would sit solemn in his every nightmare. 

When Jon is murdered, the eyes upon Gerard's body glow, pulsing and green and wide with an excitement that is far beyond the reaches of Gerard's own perverse watching. The Eye knows what this is. The Eye wants this. The Eye has been cradling the man bleeding out before him, and now it is time for him to ascend.

And he will ascend. He will say yes. There is no question about it. Gerard has only a moment to feel jealousy, before he's pointing, jabbing a finger to Julia, who is trying to get to her feet, weakened but made strong in her shortsighted victory. He directs from the shadows of the storage facility; a relic like the rest. 

_ "Martin," _ He says, and the point is a cue. What Hunting dog does not know the cues? 

Trevor's blood is rotten; Gerard can see it like a double layer. But Julia still lives.

\---

Spell broken for another to slot into its place, a fresh tape poised to record, Martin lifts his head. While his dutiful attachment to Trevor’s throat felt unbreakable, his willingness to listen eclipses the need. Finds a new one. Loads it. Aims it. 

Martin’s hands start to wander, grasping at coat pockets and pouches foreign to the touch, as he watches Julia recover. As Gerry’s echo courses through his senses, though the room, the only other noise is the wet, heavy bubbles of blood at Trevor’s throat and mouth as he falls far beyond coherent words. 

His fingers close around a knife, one Trevor never got to pull, and while it’s not steady in his hand it’s still a message, a threat of violence. 

Martin has no practice with knives. He rises up off the floor, wound up with ragged breaths and the taste of death on his tongue, to wait for her. He’s not offering vulnerability up to her, not until she does first.

\---

The Hunter might have once been a smart, shrewd, survivor of a woman, but beneath the rage and the Hunt and the need to kill, Gerard can see fear, anguish, despair. Perhaps Hunters can bond; if so, Trevor was that. Was. Gerard can see he's dead, or soon will be, and permanently this time, too.

Her first move is lethal, and her body is lithe and built for fighting, but the grief is shining through; when she lunges, it's with the desperation of a desperate predator caught in a trap.

Serves her right, Gerard figures.

She attempts to slash across at whatever available skin Martin affords her, and her voice is low drawn, choked growl, and her hands are covered in Jon's blood.

\---

Martin will have to abandon his coat, when this is all over. Scratched and bitten through, coated with layers of blood too thick to wash out, memories woven into the fur that protects him right now. 

Just enough that when something sharp and drenched in red-hot love twists into his own stomach, it’s prevented from sinking all the way down to the hilt. His own growls free of self-conscious humanity are nothing short of pained, desperate, and after a few failed attempts to return the favor she’s left there he abandons his own blade. 

He throws it somewhere neither can reach it, using the close quarters necessary for her to retrieve the knife from his innards to grip her throat as hard as he can squeeze.

\---

Julia claws at the hands at her throat, but Gerard can see she's weak. Perhaps normally, she'd be a fierce, contested fighter. Not with Trevor dead and her own head wound bleeding freely down her face and chin.

She spasms and makes animal noises and pulls and pulls and even though Martin is wounded, Gerard can still see the madness on him, the hunt, the everything, and for a moment in this fight, he's frightened, frightened of Martin and what he is.

He's confident they'll leave this building; he's not confident in the aftermath.

\---

This dance warps the boundaries of prey and predator. Martin is never quite sure who is who. Both, of course, in different contexts. It’s an exhausting, single-minded, obsessive way to live. 

He can’t fight instinct just as he can’t fight his own fatigue, so while he’s kicked and prodded into finishing the job with a deprivation of oxygen his hands can’t keep up with the task. He’s not built for this beyond will, and he’s not without his own deep-set wounds. 

As the delirium of chasing fades, Julia’s breaths hoarse and weak where they’ve taken the tail end of their fight to the floor, Martin lets go. Bruises stain her neck where his fingers pressed to skin, but she does still breathe. 

Jon gets to come back. Trevor does not. He doesn’t spare her with pity, but with hands too tired to grip and a locked jaw that’s run out of fatal bites to offer. Martin slips away from her, not ready but willing to pounce if she tries to engage again. The thick post-Hunt air of mutual loss lulls him into refusing to use the last of his energy on her. 

He still has to get them out of here. Before they’re hunted by something else. Before the other animals of the world sniff out their vulnerability and come to finish the job.

\---

The Hunter delivers a mercy; it takes Gerard by surprise, his own ghostly breath pulling in sharply in surprise. Part of him thinks it's a mistake.  _ Leave nothing behind, _ a lesson he watched another woman, another time, not listen to. She left him behind, after all.

But she doesn't get up. She breathes, and groans, and her voice is thick with tears and anguish as she hisses,  _ "Take him, _ you beast," and the trauma around her is thick as a black cloud of Darkness.

Gerard steps forward, and the eyes begin to fade, and he pulls himself close to Martin's shadow. "Unless you want to go to trial for the murder of two men, I suggest we call for a Door."

\---

Martin heaves his own relief, catching halfway as the motion stretches the knife still jutting from his coat beneath the skin. The Hunter, alive but ripped from the well she taps into, no longer exists to him, and Martin crawls through a sea of blood and leaves and dirt that’s starting to look a lot more like a concrete basement in Chicago.

He will call Michael, but first he needs his reunion, his reward, the body of what he chased and sacrificed for still warm as Martin eases Jon onto his back and uses his chest as a place to rest his head. 

He stays there, pressing and leaning even as he lifts the wrist of the hand the Spiral so deeply marked. In his own animal reverence, Martin kisses the inside of it once, where Trevor’s and Martin’s and Jon’s and Michael’s and Julia’s blood run together in an incomprehensible swirl.

\---

Gerard turns around, to give Martin some privacy. The urge to Watch, to archive, it's still there, but lessened now that the Hunt is over. It's like a palpable feeling in the room; choking, violent direction gone in a wisp.

He glares daggers where Julia lays, and after a few moments, she starts to sit up, her hair matted with blood and her eyes unfocused, tired, given in, and he watches as she all but skitters away. Prey escaping a very bad situation indeed. Perhaps she'll come back one day. For her sake, he hopes she manages to get out of this life, lest she end up like the mangled corpse of Trevor.

He starts to look around, to collect their things; the bag isn't in the blood-soaked room, but it's close, and as the Watching took little energy, he exerts himself, picking it up from around the corner. Strapping it to his back would be a bit much, but he has strength enough for now to hold it in front of him with both hands, as they wait for their chauffeur.

\---

With Michael called and Gerry easing the burden of finding material things off his shoulders, Martin reaps his first reward. 

Each brush of fingers across Jon’s bare skin reinforces the _ rightness _ of coming here, potently different from any high his new drug has bestowed upon him before. He leans sideways with the knife up so he can cradle Jon’s hand with the one connected to his shoulder at the ground, unrequited in motion but not in the way their fingers slot together perfectly. His other hand traces over the fabric of Jon’s shirt, one he recognizes, one now coated in Jon’s blood. 

He won’t fall asleep here, though he’d very much like to. The blood he chased is not diluted here by the other Hunters’, this corner of the room so wholly Jon’s that makes curling up here against him feel like it's its own sort of home. Martin waits, waits for Michael, for their rescue, and he knows it will come, trusting that he’s never had less control than in this moment. 

Over himself. Over his things. Over Jon’s life. Over Gerry’s. Over Michael. 

Yet, he’s never been less lonely.

\---

The Door comes, because the Hunter is his, and he now has a vested interest in seeing Martin make it. A half-fulfilled ritual sits heavy in What-Is-Not-A-Heart, and the Distortion lays claim to it. And Michael wants him for other reasons, now, too.

He opens the door, letting it angle open to this dingy concrete prison, and the blood is intensely disorienting. Michael dares not step out of his Hallway; the urge to Spiral, to ruin it all, to ruin Martin, it's too tempting in this moment.

"Martin," The Skin-Spirit says, and he's straining under the weight of the backpack that houses his soul. "We need to go. He's here."

Michael says nothing; he knows Martin will come.

\---

Martin perks up, dazed but present enough to understand. This is what he saved the energy he could’ve burned for. 

When Martin leaves the floor, he takes Jon with him with one arm looped beneath his knees and the other angled at his back so his head fits against the spot between Martin’s neck and shoulder. Not crudely leaving his open throat on display. 

Every step is painful but he can’t take it out, can’t nurse his wounds, not until everyone is safe. Not until he’s done everything he has to do to see it through. Joining Michael in his hallway is easier than breathing, waiting for Gerry with a distant sense of pride at how far he’s come just as easy.

\---

Michael smiles as they step into his Hallway; what a strange thing, to be a savior, to be safety, to be an escape, rather than a downfall, a spiral.

And then the Door closes and he can smell Jon's body and he takes a revolted step back, his lip curling into a disgusted grimace, wracking his body in a strange distorted jiggle as the human-shell threatens to fade and erupt at the  _ threat _ sitting dead before him.

"Oh, no," He says softly, and in an instant, there's another Door, down the hall, and his hand shakes as he points. "You can't stay here. You can't. He can't be here. You did good, Martin, you did, but he can't be here."

The Ghost is already staggering in fatigue, but it's not him he worries about. Something is  _ leaking _ off the body of Jon. Michael feels so very watched. "Call, when the Ritual is ready. I will come for you. This Ritual, right now, I will not bear witness to."

\---

Martin’s grip tightens protectively over Jon’s body, and the nuance is lost to him. What threatens to happen to Michael as he reacts to Jon  _ frightens _ him, but despite his wide-eyed confusion, he listens. 

While ‘grateful’ isn’t exactly in Martin’s vocabulary right now, he won’t feel guilt for not expressing it. He did good. He’ll keep doing good. No wasted words or empty promises, he’ll split Michael in twain for his efforts soon enough. He exits the door as quickly as he’d entered.

\---

The Door opens to a moonlit beach. The sand is soft here, and the waves crash upon the shore gently. No salt pilfers the air; this is not an ocean. But it is a Lake, and the Moon stands high above them, a night-eye that watches unblinking, unmerciful, immobile.

Michael closes the Door behind them, and Gerard falls into the sand, exhaustion pooling heavily around him on all fours. The bag falls from his hands, and with a sigh, he closes his eyes, and the Moon keeps watch for him. For just a few moments. He just needs a few moments.

\---

Martin’s knees give out just after Gerry falls forward, struggling to hold Jon’s corpse as sand shifts below him, as his arms grow sore and tired. He watches the moon, mesmerized and profoundly confused. Why did Michael put them here? What is he supposed to see? 

Martin pulls his knees out so his legs stretch out moving Jon so he sits in front of him, head resting against his thigh. He needs space. 

Spasms of pain gnaw around the edge of the blade within him, trying to heal, to mend, failing against sharp grooves. Martin grabs the hilt and whimpers as he pulls it out, fresh blood soaking the inner lining of his coat. He tosses it into the sand to have it away, away from him, from anyone it could harm. He sheds his coat, then, and it’s kind to still call it a coat after what it’s been through, wincing through aches and bruises and wounds. 

He balls it up so he can lean all the way back without his skull on the sand, prone and spent and covering the deepest wound with pressure from one hand. From down here, there’s only the sky, only the moon.

\---

All it takes is one  _ yes.  _

It once took Jonathan Sims six months to give his assent, to make the final push. An avatar of the End itself had forced him to choose, had told him what to do, and in those dreams, he had looked upon the Eye's watchful gaze and had told it  _ yes. _

It doesn't take six months. It's hardly been an hour. But then, this was inevitable from the start. In his dreams, he wonders if this Eye knows what the future was like; if it remembers, as he does. 

In his dreams, his knees have made a home in the sand, each particle a speck of knowing, a speck of pain, and archive of fear and base human existence. 

On the beach of a reality he has not yet rejoined, honey snow begins to rise from his prone body, light and airy and blinding and binding this stretch of beach as an altar to the Eye. The light rises and rises until it flickers out into the atmosphere, firefly golden.

In his dreams, Jonathan Sims cries. Tears of mud wash tracks down his cheeks, and the Eye that stares holds no mercy, but it does hold its proverbially arms out to him. It does not speak; it doesn't need to. Its mouthpiece is right there, sobbing in insolence that this has happened so soon, so soon. But the Eye is patient. The Eye knows the end to this. The Eye sends its beloved  _ thank you _ to the End for allowing this to happen. 

And perhaps, across an ocean, another man sends gratitude through a poisoned tongue, words warped around a grin that has waited so very long for this. 

On the beach, the light continues to rise from his corpse, and Jonathan Sims ceases to be; he says yes, yes, yes. And more, he says it enthusiastically, mud tears in his dream clearing to golden saltwater, bright as the light from his mortal body. But isn't mortal anymore. His throat, underneath the layers and layers of blood, begins to knit itself back together.

The Archivist's chest rises in his first breath.

\---

Held by the soft sand on one side and the dead weight of love from the other, Martin rests with his eyes open. 

At the first flecks of ethereal light, he thinks he might be dying. Stuck in the simple world of primal sight there is no nuance here, only blank wonder at something he couldn’t possibly understand. Beholding, transfixed,  _ afraid.  _

As much as he wants to, he won’t shield his eyes from the light. Even as it burns dark spots into his eyes that flash when he blinks, he’s supposed to see. There is no other option, even as he truly believes for one miserable second that this is the end. That he’s made a terrible mistake, lulled into his own undoing. 

A breath cuts through the fog and Martin jolts up as though immune to pain, immune to death, purpose clicked back into place. It sends fresh blood coursing from wounds he’d left bare, but his hands are focused at Jon’s face from above, carding through hair and brushing dirt from his face, Martin’s own eyes alight with renewed life.

\---

The second breath is as stuttering and weak as the first. Slow and halting, like it's an impulse the now-alive body has to remember, like it's not quite instinctual anymore. It slowly, by inches, evens out into something normal, and for a few minutes, Jon does not open his eyes, does not move, does nothing more than breathe, and feel the weight of his home below him.

He's home. Martin is here.

When he opens his eyes, it's to the glittering Moon above, and Jon knows he is watched over. His vision is different. He sees so much. The milky way stretches into infinity, and he can see every dead star, every live one, every little possible detail, and his next breath is a shocked gasp, his hand flying to his eyes to cover them for a moment. It's overwhelming. It hurts. It's love and fear and purpose and it swirls as potent as the spiral above him.

\---

Martin sits stoic and patient while Jon binds himself back to the surface of earth, not within it. Each breath he takes is a beautiful, perfect little prayer to life, and Martin finds his own breaths following the rhythm. 

Jon’s eyes snap open, and Martin revels in the difference. Shrinks beneath the power layered there, a natural response that makes him want to pull away, fall into the color-drained filter within. 

Jon shuts them before he can and Martin bends closer, shadowing the moon with his face, gently nudging Jon’s hands away with his own. He finds his words, or rather his _ Word, _ voice broken and bloody and owned. “Jon?”

\---

Jon can't see it yet, but the inverse of his eyes-- the whites gone black as the Dark, the pupils white as the Lonely-- reflects the stars and the moon, until they don't, because Martin's own face is reflected instead.

Wide as saucers, he stares. And stares. And stares, and slowly, his shaking hands move above himself to take Martin by cheeks, holding him soft and tender and _ his. _

"Martin," He breathes, and the overwhelming presence of him blinds him, for the moment, to the scent and aura that clouds over him like a haze. For now, it's just Martin.

\---

The great cosmic significance of the moment is broken as Jon’s hands reach up and Martin’s throat sounds off a soft ‘mrp’, but isn’t that just how it goes? 

He grins down with blood-stained teeth, canines turned to subtly sharp points. Jon’s voice washes over him, clears him of pain and worry and the agony of uncertainty. His sightless eyes stir something hidden dormant within him, an enraptured instinct muffled by generations of evolution unlocked by his newfound connection to ancient  _ somethings.  _

“I found you,” he whispers protectively, proud and honest and overwhelmed in the best of ways.

\---

"You brought me home," Jon responds, and his voice is a garbled mess of healing tendons, a wheeze rather than a bravado. His hands wander, and it's a strange, awkward angle, but one of his hands dips low enough for him to brush a thumb over Martin's lips, to peel the top one back so he can get a peek at what he glimpsed through his grin. 

His expression turns to wonder, his own mouth parting as his mind heals and heals and collects information, trying desperately to See what is happening, what this reality is, what has changed.

\---

Martin angles his head to give Jon the view that he wants, though he’s not really sure what’s so interesting about his mouth. He runs his tongue over the top row of teeth, earns a pin prick from a surface changed from decades of familiarity. Oh. That’s new. 

Sheepish above his steady gaze, Martin’s hesitant to interrupt the touch at his mouth. Shivery with the dawning realization that he’s  _ won, _ Martin adds more words to his slowly returning vocabulary. “Is this home?”

\---

"You are." He pulls his hand back some. The teeth are giving him pause. Everything about Martin is giving him pause. He tries to sit up, and makes a wounded animal noise in the back of his throat with the effort, his body still a livewire of nerves coming back alive after an hour of death, still sensitive and slow and sluggish. 

His hand moves to his own throat, and comes away slick with blood and he grimaces where he lays, the feeling of being  _ slashed  _ all at once coming to his mind, and his breathing picks up. 

Something about Martin is wrong. He is not with the Hunters, but their marks remain on his body, and his body is rich with the smell of dried blood, and now his hands begin to roam over his prone form. His nose is healed, but it's not what it once felt like, and there's something about Martin that's wrong. Bruises on his legs and arms and midriff are in the final stretches of healing, a dull, healing pain that hurts but is familiar in all the ways pain shouldn't be and there's something wrong with Martin.

The sand beneath his body is soft, but there's something wrong with Martin. 

"Sit me up," He says, still rough around the edges, because he needs to See. He needs to. He has to.

\---

"Careful," Martin warns with the tail-end of the word a protective growl, softening just as soon as he sees Jon's in pain from his own wounds. Nothing else will hurt them here. Except maybe Gerry when he's in a mood, but Martin doubts he has the energy for that. He can't think about that now. Endorphins, Serotonin, Oxytocin, Dopamine, Dopamine, Dopamine. 

He can sense that Jon is searching, but Martin presently lacks the worry that kept him from reaching his goal for so long. The worry of being unloved, discarded, reprimanded, hated. Martin is far more preoccupied with his own love for Jon to second-guess the requited nature of it all. So he eases him off the sand, all gentle, careful touches until Jon has a stable upright torso.

\---

Once he's up, it's easier to stay that way, even though he sways as he sits. He shifts enough in the sand to twist and turn and face Martin, and it's then that he squints, and the full picture shows itself to him. His next inhalation of a breath is one of horror. 

Shattered glass sits suspended in thick red and yellow fumes, and looking at him makes his nostrils fill with the scent of clay once more, and he wants to weep, weep from new eyes that still hurt from the Sight. The violence, the thickness, the deep primal fear and  _ savagery _ that sits in his gut. Oh. It's so very nauseous. It sticks thick upon his tongue, and he closes his eyes in instinct, not wanting to see this, not wanting to know. but of course, he does Know. He always will, now. 

Martin is beautiful. Beyond anything he's ever seen, he's whiplike and dangerous and protective, and Jon feels safe with him, safer than he thought possible. It's horrible. It's grotesque. It's his worst nightmare.

_ "Martin," _ His voice is a hiss. "What have you done?"

\---

Before Jon responds, his reaction is written plainly across his face. Martin catches every miniscule twitch, tracks the seeking motions of inverted eyes, the horror screaming out with silent piercing arrows straight to his heart. So sickening as to be unbearable. His eyes shut, but Martin remains frozen in his own sudden terror, terror at the thought he could be looked at this way and deserve it. He doesn't want to come back into himself, to examine the parts Jon recoils so profoundly from that Martin's hands pull back as if burned.

His breath hitches at Jon's voice, mind imploding with animal fear that his sacrifice for bringing Jon back into the world was to lose him a different way. A worse way, one they both now live with. More than anything, he's afraid of _ frightening _ him. Of plaguing his dreams. Of being so ugly that Jon can't bear to look. 

The fear shrinks him down, makes him shake, overwhelming and wrong. Jon thinks he's  _ wrong.  _

Martin leans away until he's prone, again, back against the sand in displayed vulnerability that is not a conscious decision, but non-vocal submission nonetheless.

\---

Jon doesn't realize he's following Martin's submission until he's over him, on all fours, staring down at his Home while he shakes. His expression is thunderous, and his eyes are open once more to stare and stare and stare, and his voice is still a mess of frayed vocal chords and blood. 

His hands splay on either side of Martin's shoulders, digging up to his knuckles in the sand, knees between Martin's legs. "I don't--" 

But it's wrong, isn't it? Words like this. Words aren't correct, right now. Could never be the Truth, could never be Reality. Not when they're both like this. So he doesn't speak. He cuts himself off and leans down, nose to nose, and stares deep into the eyes of the man he loves, and then he kisses with the intent to never, ever, ever let go, and it's weak in his post-death haze, but the possession is  _ there. _

_ No matter what you become, I am yours. _

\---

Fingers clasped tightly together against his sternum in mock prayer, Martin cowers against the lie fed by a burning look too complicated for his current measure of understanding. Easy targets in soft organs and an unprotected throat for execution he knows distantly - far enough to touch the moon - won't be today. Martin powers through the most basic of instincts to cast his eyes down-- Locking eyes with Jon above him is not a mandated act. 

It flays him open.

The flinch of surprise as Jon goes for his mouth and not his throat flows away with the fear as a whole, and Martin wonders how he ever thought what he's done would make him abhorrent, revolting, unworthy, unloved. He cries, tears held back and bottled in an avoidance of expression set loose at once, anguish flipped over to relief. His hands find Jon's face to bring him closer, love freely given with an open mouth, until as much as he'd like to continue forever his own limitations can't keep up. His hands wander over wounds healing over from the inside out, checking that all of Jon is there, it  _ is,  _ making sure he's safe. Intact. Alive. He only breaks the kiss once he's sure of each fact, until the lies that threaten to burst forth into reality are unfounded, breaths pained with the effort it takes to move at all.

\---

When their lips are pulled away, Jon whispers, "I'm sorry," And it's for so, so much. But perhaps most pressing is what he's said yes to. What he's forced Martin into saying yes to. Under the moon, it's easy to confess to sins done without your full permission. 

Waves crash upon the shore, and in another lifetime, the sound would be Jon's downfall, rather than his revelation. "I've loved you for so long."

\---

The tonal shift cracked into life by the kiss has Martin reeling into something akin to 'deliriously loved'. Jon apologizes, and Martin hates it, only marginally less at the confession. Still close enough to nip at his bottom lip with a surprisingly firm _ Don't be sorry,  _ Martin does exactly that, his posture easing into a tired calm. 

Safe and open beneath Lighthouse beacon eyes. The words are so strikingly human, against the odds. "I love you too."

\---

Jon's lights up above him, the smile stretching wide across a blood soaked face. After a moment, he says, "You smell so different, now," but it's okay. It's alright. It isn't, at all, but there's no energy among them both to deal with that now.

\---

"You smell good." He means it literally, but it might not be the best idea to comment recklessly about the sensate details of Jon's blood. The thought that he can filter out bad ideas from good ones brings him comfort. Martin tries to connect the pieces, letters and sounds and emotions beyond basic need. Easier, with Jon's gaze pulling, pulling, pulling words from his throat. 

"I don't... know where we are." A pause. He likes that tic. One of his human tics. "I brought Gerry." Martin tilts his head back, the beach upside-down in his vision, to find his ghost again.

\---

From the Sand, Gerard says, without lifting his head, "It's Yellowstone Lake." the hand he flaps upwards is one of hello as much as dismissal.

Jon's smile is slow to spread, but it's still there, and he keeps staring down at Martin, enraptured. "You need a bath. I'm glad Gerard is here."

\---

Upside-down Gerry's confirmation surprises Martin into wheezing, dully painful laughter. He's still watching Upside-Down Gerry - like he deserves some eyes on him, too, as part of the strange family he's accidentally pieced together through he and Jon's connection - when he speaks. Words coming ever easier. "I... need to... not bleed." 

His hand brushes over the worst of his wounds, wincing as he draws near. "H-how do we... leave?"

\---

Jon still hovers over him, and like a gospel, he says, "I think we cleanse ourselves." His gaze falls away from Martin for a scant second, face sliding to look at the rolling lake tide, and then snapping back. "It'll help, I think." His voice is faraway, dazed, unfocused. 

Poor Gerard, who sits in the sand. Who must watch this, and be dead for it. Jon slowly pulls himself backwards, sitting back on his thighs, and angles his expression to the ghost. "You got him here?" 

Gerard huffs out a breath, "Yes" on its wings. He, with effort, pulls his head up from the sand, still lying prone on his belly. When he takes in Jon's eyes, his own myriad of artificial ones glow slightly, a surprise; a fish in the deep layers of the abyssopelagic zone flashing its colors to prey, or predator, or what have you. Jon isn't sure what he is. 

"Thank you," Jon says, and gratitude pours from him, and as it does, Gerard smiles tiredly and falls away, dissolves into the sand as easily as a mummy. Jon turns back to Martin. "We stay, for now."

\---

Martin's head lolls between Gerry and Jon as they hold their own conversation above Martin's own understanding. Inebriated weariness clouds his mind as the remnants of this phase passes from his blood. It stays, deep to his core, but that's a problem for a Martin that can handle it down the road. Gerry disappears, and his eyes widen in mute shock. Jon seems to be okay with this. Martin's not baptized.

Startled words burst forth from him unbidden. "You-- You Eye-fucked my ghost." Belly-up below Jon, It's so much easier to exist. So much easier than each and every second that passed without him. He knows the truth already, but he indulges the lie. "Did you kill him?"

\---

Jon blinks. And then he laughs, and it's harsh and garbled and rough and scratchy from a throat still healing, and he holds out his hands for Martin to take, and all of this is sheer instinct. Jonathan Sims has left the building, ladies and gentlemen, the Archivist has arrived. That too, makes him laugh, but his palms are still stern, solid, firm. 

"He isn't  _ dead. _ He's-- He, you know. Disappeared. I'm sure you did more than that. You smell like him. I just-- I looked at him, Martin."

\---

His hands bend to Jon’s will as much as his own, and Martin rises from the sand. The rush of blood sends little swirls of light into his vision, and he hums his way through it as though soothed by vibration. 

“I like him,” Martin says breathlessly, holding Jon up as much as he’s using Jon to prop himself up. He wishes he could describe exactly how silly his all is, this whimsical nature of cleansing at some foreign lake in a strange new world. How it makes this seem like a fairytale. “What is it, magic water?”

\---

"If you want, I suppose." With the brace of Martin's hands, he shakily begins to rise to his feet, bare soles planted upon the sand. There's still a smile plastered upon his face, and after a moment, he recites, "'But I am swallowed in the swell, of her heart's ocean, sagely dark, that holds my heaven and holds my hell.'" 

He turns, to look at the tide. "This blood is suffocating-- it's. It's too much, Martin. Swim with me?"

\---

“Love of my life,” Martin echoes, the sort of sappy romanticism he’s never quite unlocked conviction with in reading off the works of others. He always liked the imagery of this poem, liked to imagine the grand mundanity of human life, but for how familiar the poem is it’s the only line he can pull from the disordered memory bank of his brain. 

He wants to speak. He wants to feel better. He wants to make true what is not. Martin smiles that bright new smile, his only one that’s not self-conscious. “It is magic water, and... and it’s not  _ cold.” _

\---

"Okay," Jon says, because he knows Lies now, but it isn't his place, in this tumultuous space to correct them. He pulls back, but his hands stay wrapped firmly around Martin's. His limbs are weary and slow.

His heart is aflame. Maybe the water will help. "Come on," He pulls. "I'll judge it."

\---

"Okay." 

Martin isn't lying. It's true. He wants to stop hurting. He wants to wash away the blood and gore and nauseating smell, replace it with something Jon would like to lean on. He's not sure what's happening, but Jon is his guide. Jon is his eyes. He reaches for Jon's hand, careful, gentle, light, uncertain, weightless to be strung along.

\---

Jon clings to Martin as they walk, and each step in this new life gets lighter and lighter. The water pulls at him, some childish nostalgia that still sits deep in his breast. He used to go to the beach, once, when he was young and bored and restless and lonely.

He's none of those things now. The first press of his feet against the tide makes him shiver, and he turns to smile at Martin. "I never got to this point, last time, I don't think," He says mildly, and takes another step. He feels great.

\---

The closer they get, the more wary Martin becomes. Jon steps in but Martin hesitates after him. 

“My shoes,” he says quietly, and with Jon’s hand connected to his own he starts the painful, laborious process of unlacing his shoes with one hand and a hundred wounds. “Last time?”

\---

"When I died. It's different, this time." He breathes in and looks up to the moon, and there's a small smile playing on his face. "It feels better." The moon reflects in his eyes.

\---

Martin shucks off his shoes and socks, unable to put it off any longer. He takes his first step into the water, driven by a quiet, desperate need to come to Jon wherever he is. 

Despite how cautious he is about this, the water feels  _ good.  _ Soft, gentle, kind in a way his life has not been, as of late. So much is happening that he doesn’t know how to process. “You came back.”

\---

Despite it all, the look Martin is met with is a grin, hungry and elated and full of a euphoria that Jon's not certain he's ever really felt before. His skin feels like it's buzzing. "Of course I came back."

He steps further into the water and watches as it dyes a light pink where it touches clothes so bloodstained he's forgotten what their original color was.

\---

Momentarily overtaken by the sheer confidence behind Jon’s smile, like this was the easiest thing in the world. Tears start to track lines in the filth at Martin’s face, down his chin. Of course he came back, but what, for Martin? For this world? Solidify it as his, theirs? The real one, and not the one he lived before? 

Martin whimpers as the tears flow freely now, as Jon draws them deeper into the water. It’s such a precarious existence, profound Hunt-shaped love and moments of spiraling anxiety. “I-I can’t swim. I can barely stand.”

\---

"We don't have to swim. I just want to stand in the waves. You don't have to." Jon steps closer, and not even their force breaks his stance. He won't lose his balance. This, he wills. Takes Martin by the face again, hands cupping him so gently, and his smile falters, just slightly. "What's wrong?"

\---

“I want to follow you,” comes Martin’s reverent response, Jon’s hands a tingling current up to his brain that’s more heady and palpable than the rush of any statement. It has him babbling, comforted and held. “You - you chose me, I want to, I don’t want to be scared. I’m not. I’m not scared.”

\---

"I don't think we need to be scared right now." Because the fear is there, of course it is. It will always be there. It's what they are, now. But in this moment, the fear feels so very far away. "The waves are gentle."

But he isn't walking anymore. He won't go deeper without Martin. He doesn't want Martin afraid right now.

\---

Jon’s touch pushes it away, singles his focus and slowly nudges the fear away. It’s a choice to let go of it in this moment. 

It’s Martin who pushes forward next, into the cradling mass of slow-moving water. To show Jon he can, to show himself that he can. This space is beyond rationality, and he wills away the confusion. Jon is not confusing. Jon is the one thing nestled so deeply in his heart it drowns the rest out.

\---

The grin is back, and Jon follows happily, his hands smoothing from Martin's face as he walks and resting upon his shoulder blades. The blood washes away, the last reminder of what was once human lost to the tide.

"We should wash, I think."

\---

Martin dips his hands into the water with a short noise of contentment. Blood separates from skin, clumps of dirt to liquid nothings, taking aches away with them. 

When he brings them back out, drops falling softly from his fingers to rejoin the endless mass, it’s to brush thumbs over the edges of the mark at Jon’s throat. Impossibly careful for a rabid dog. Martin dilutes the blood gathered there and when he can wash it away no longer he brings his hands back down to the water, just to repeat the process again.

\---

Jon's eyes close to slits of contentment as Martin works, something soft humming in the throat that knits itself slowly. He does not flinch, though it hurts; no fear, no pain. He stands still for his Martin, and it means: I love you.

\---

Spurred on by the infectious vulnerability, Martin continues, methodical with each press of his thumbs against skin a sacrament. His eyes serve as a conduit for the Beholding’s sight, and at this moment the Hunt’s mark is not a grotesque thing. It amplifies the details of what he sees, striking color and detail across each inch of Jon he can reach. 

Martin loses himself in this, naturally. With Jon’s throat bare and marked but free of dirt, sweat, blood, he moves to his jaw, the sides of his neck, his chin to clear them just the same, vibrating with the amount of Jon he gets to touch that no one else can have this way. Possessive as much as he is possessed.

\---

Jon stands prone, and let's Martin mark him as much as he's marked Martin. He won't like this tomorrow; but it isn't tomorrow, and this lake baptism is far, far more important than the future.

The scent of the Hunters plastered to his body, his bones, falls away, and it's like he's being made naked in this, becoming just Jon. Just Jon and Martin, whose fingers press, and lavish, and take.

He filters his eyes open a hair, and the grin has long since turned complacent, content, and he says, "I See you." It's so clear, so clear. Martin is the brightest thing here, brighter than the moon.

\---

Martin shivers under Jon’s gaze, even mostly lidded as it is. He has no doubt that Jon can See him. That might scare him later, but now he wants it all to be taken. Catalogued, understood, put into place. 

All he can do beside the power that radiates from him is continue, hands moving without hesitance despite never having done this at all. Only when Martin’s thumbs wipes mud away from the outer edge of Jon’s eyes does he find a word for this. 

Welled up with tears, captured by his attention, all he can say is _ “Jon.”  _

It’s his own prayer, their prayer now as it sits between their faces.

\---

_ "Martin,"  _ Jon gives back, and it too, is all he has right now. He leans in close, wanting to be touched more, an instinct to get as close to Martin's hands as possible.

\---

Martin smears the pain away, his name on Jon's lips rewinding in his head so he can hear it over, and over, and over again. It's only once Jon's face is as clean as he can manage that he's able to form thoughts beyond the space between them both, to reflect. With a soft kiss to the underside of his jaw, Martin reaches down to scrub caked-in grime from one arm. Mouth still there, he speaks. 

"I walked. I brought... clothes, for you, your journals, I didn't- I didn't open them, I asked for help. They hurt you."

\---

Martin walked, and all at once Jon knows what it means. His eyes widen some, and his free hand moves to cradle the back of Martin's skull, a strange embrace, but one nonetheless. He just needs to hold him.

"A pilgrimage," He breathes, like it's profound, because it is. In this space, he cannot lie to Martin, and so he doesn't try. "They hurt me. They made me a weak and broken thing. No more."

\---

"You never were," Martin sighs, but not at Jon. At the things that made him believe that was true. He's never been religious, but right now he thinks the perfect point of vision would be at his knees before Jon's grace. What a bizarre, complicated thought he can't indulge in the water, unless he wants to drown. With Jon as clean as he can get without help, Martin lifts a hand to his own face, thick grit streaking over his own skin as he rubs it off in a far less methodical fashion.

\---

Jon allows Martin to wash himself for approximately five seconds, before he's pulling Martin's hands away and growling,  _ "No."  _ He begins where Martin left off, cupping lake water into his hands and lovingly wiping all of it away. This is a selfish adoration. He let's himself have it.

Martin's skin is electric below his, and he spends as much time feeling as he does cleaning. "I want to know your journey."

\---

The growl startles Martin into immediate compliance, not out of fear but out of... respect? Acceptance? He's not about to question and rationalize, there is no way to do that. He's also not about to stoop to the depravity of referring to it in terms of "obedience". He closes his eyes. Trying to think. As if that's an easy task when they're this close. Each sentence comes non-linearly, a separate thought. "I crashed the car. I almost bit Gerry. I... got scared of a tree. I picked up a ladybird. I-I listened to your voice. I held his hand. I took your scarf." 

He realizes it's still wrapped low around his neck, bloodied and frayed ends dipping into the water.

\---

Jon stares at him and slowly his eyes dip down, to look at the scarf hanging from Martin's neck. His smile grows, and though this story was told out of order, he understands immediately, as though he can see every event, know it all, see it through Martin's eyes. He can't, but it's a near thing.

"I like it on you. I'm so glad we're here. I missed you. I think I'm going to end the world. I've never cried so much as in the last few days. I like your teeth." His is not a story of events, but one of emotions, falling from his lips like a fountain. He isn't thinking, just reacting, operating on sheer instinct.

\---

Each of Jon's sentences functions as a self-contained statement lighting him up from the inside out. "I know." Martin shivers, and shivers, and it ripples along the water with an incomprehensible stream of enthusiastic agreement, for all of it, turning it all into we. We, we, we. All of Jon's statements are gifted to Martin for collaboration.

That includes the one in the middle.

Martin isn't afraid of that right now. Instead, giddy with love and painless fever, he presses one last soft kiss to Jon's jaw and bends down, ducking his head underwater just long enough to get his hair wet. When he comes back up, another layer of dirt is pulled away, he's suddenly alive. Alive enough to make this moment everything they are. Not just the poetic nonsense, not just the confessions, but the completely childish stupidity, too. He shakes his head just enough that errant drops of water fly from his hair, over Jon, over the both of them, over the surface of the water, the reflection of the moon.

\---

The water startles him, and he laughs, high and light and free, and he copies Martin's movements, pulling himself underwater. He doesn't come up for a long moment, though. He opens his eyes and he can see this aquatic world clearly, crystalline, and he pulls himself down enough that he can float, suspended in this cleansing realm, and he doesn't need to breathe, he thinks.

His hair plasters itself to his face when he rises, laughter pulling itself from his lips again, water rushing down his face, and he feels reborn in more than one way.

\---

Martin waits. Trusts that Jon will come back to the surface. He doesn’t Know he will, as it’s not quite his jurisdiction the way it is Jon’s, but he trusts. 

When he surfaces, Martin laughs with him, airy and unburdened by the worst of his pains. His voice is louder than it has to be, like he’s calling across an ocean to reach him. His descent beneath the surface has muffled his senses. “Jon, I don’t know if this can fix _ stab wounds.  _ I’m afraid to check!” 

He’s not afraid, not with his smile wide and toothy as it is, but it’s the only word he has for it. “You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever met in my life!”

\---

Jon holds out his hands for Martin to take, palms up to the starry night. "Then you  _ have _ the most beautiful person." He ignores the stab wound for the time being, because he cannot let his mind stray to the bloodgoremuddeath of it all. They're alive. It's such a beautiful thing to be alive. What a gift to be given.

He feels powerful. Possessive. Possessed. He's never been these things, not in any way that has felt good. He wants to press Martin to the sand and tell him without words what that means.

\---

Martin’s giggles thin out as he takes Jon’s hands with his own, but they haven’t died completely by the time he says, “I know, Jon, you’re  _ my  _ person!” 

He’s not completely clean, but he’s close enough for his own comfort. For him to feel free in body and mind. Free inside drenched clothes that weigh him down like a second skin. He wonders if his need to roll an extra pair of pants and shirts for them as small as he could so he could just. Make. Them. Fit. Was more than a kind gesture. Something planned. 

“What now? Do you— do you feel better?”

\---

Jon begins to walk backwards out of the turf, holding on tightly to Martin's hands. Now that he has been cleansed, the beach seems better.

"Anything," He says. "I've never felt better. I have you. What else is there?"

\---

Martin follows. He chases. He finds. 

The air is cold, but Martin tells himself it isn’t. He’s already shivering enough. His feet hit the sand and the earth is no longer suffocating. 

Anything. What else?

The answer-question turns over inside him, smoothing the stone. He wants Jon, but he already has him. He wants to be comfortable, but he already is. He wants to be warm, but Jon’s hands are already there. He has everything he could want. 

It isn’t compelled. It’s just Jon. The sheer mind blowing presence of him. There is no break, no pause, no stutter. “I want to forget that I thought this would make you not love me.”

\---

Jon pauses just out of the reach of the waves, and his expression stutters, shock and surprise and something more Jon than this post-death euphoria has allowed him so far. "You-- Martin, how dare you ever think I could stop loving you." His voice is quiet, but firm. Soft, but thunderous.

He steps into his space, flush against his chest, and looks up for a moment. Two. "I have to show you how much I love you now."

\---

Ah. Right. He won’t dare to do it again, then. 

Jon stares up at him, and Martin stares back, and there is nothing else. What was he supposed to forget, again?

He’s forgotten that he’s taller than Jon. Surrounded by giants, lately, and he always imagines Jon’s presence as requiring him to look up. 

He wants to be shown. He wants to feel loved. He wants to feel the conclusion to his pain he’s earned, earned, earned with Jon through ripped out throats and visions of pain, through sensations that destroyed his brain, through his own transformation into something wholly new. “I need that.”

\---

Jon pulls him a few more feet up the beach, and then he smiles. "Okay.”

And then he's kissing him again, with much more control than their initial rendezvous, cleansed from the lake and cleansed of any thought that isn't  _ them,  _ and Martin's lips still taste of blood and ozone and death, but it's alright. Anything Martin is is alright.

Jon holds his hands tightly, pressed between their chests, and his kiss is unforgiving and harsh and he stares into Martin's everything.

\---

Martin opens up for him in body and mind, lips parted and knees threatening to buckle under the weight that's not physical. The vice keeping his hands where he already wants them might as well be a silk ribbon for how easily he presses towards it. His head is free of the thoughts that haunt his dreams, and isn't that funny? A man so worried about plaguing others with nightmares freeing Martin from that fate with the ease it takes to blink?

Wow. He's never felt like a damsel before. (Sidenote: Jack just had the funniest idea about them having a sticker that says 'Who rescued who?' on Jon's laptop). He's never let himself be loved enough to reach this peak of breathless wonder that has him dizzy and melting and pliant beneath the one person who could kill him and have Martin saying _ thank you. _

\---

Jon thinks he might want to take Martin apart. It would take him apart, too. Wouldn't that be nice. He kisses, and kisses, and then he starts to push down, trying to pull both of them to the sand. He doesn't want to stand, anymore. He wants to crawl on top of Martin and show him what it means to be loved. Down, boy. 

(Sidenote: Mikey approves and thinks Jon's problematic computer is a very good bit.)

His head is light, as though he's flying, but the thought that the Vast could ever have him almost sends him laughing at the audacity. He knows what he belongs to now; even the Eye does not hold his leash as tightly as it thinks it does. That honor belongs to someone else.

\---

Martin enters his own freefall without resistance, a feather in the wind until he's suddenly on the ground that is the sky that is the void of the world that fits around the center point of Jon. Martin breathes, heavy and dazed and fatigued-yet-renewed, each exhale an offering for the man above him. You're the only Entity I care about Assisting. 

There are pieces of the past surfacing everywhere, all around them, phrases buried by the separational trauma of their grand American road trip. None of them are bad. As he accepts the bad, so the good returns, his bond with Jon is strengthened by evidence. For so long there was no time to inspect his love for Jon, only to get it back. That's the real reward. He gets to remember why he went through that in the first place.

From the sand, hands in Jon's, Martin keeps breathing. "Our clothes. We'll get colds. I..." Oh, he doesn't want to be rational. No, not at all. He wants to give in to the animal impulses that let him go so long without showering, without eating, without caring. With all the mental will he can muster, he tears his eyes away from Jon for the fraction of a second it takes to settle his gaze on the bag Gerry saved, then back to Jon's hypnotizing gaze. He can't say this out loud, it's too many words, he's tired of saying words, but he needs his side checked. If it's still wounded, he needs bandaging. The kit is still there. If it's bandaged, he can roll around in the sand however long he can stay awake to do it. 

Then he can have what he needs. Jon, Jon, Jon.

\---

Immediately, Jon's hands fly away from Martin's to dip lower, press against his belly where the knife wound sits. His expression stutters, and rage flies to his face-- how dare they, how dare they, how dare they, he'll rip her apart for this-- before the chemical responses catch up to his brain again and calm washes over him. "Of course," He says, and slowly gets back to his feet, to go collect the bag Martin brought him. 

He sets it to the side of them, just out of reach of the waves, and unzips it, a smile on his face as he looks at what Martin  _ kept.  _ He doesn't look hard, fishing the first aid kit out first. But then-- 

In the open air between them, Jon's hand, holding the first aid kit, pauses, and Jon angles narrowed eyes at Martin. "You got rid of the tapes."

\---

Once past the throbbing pain of pressure at a wound he’d made quiet until now, Martin sneaks glances where he can. Of Jon walking away with the promise of reunion, of the upward tilt at both corners of his mouth. Of his hands at the kit he’s no longer afraid of. 

Prone on the sand exactly where he wants to be, minus the clothes heavy with water and now sand, Martin grins dumbly at the comment. Jon’s voice, even harsh at it is when he says it that  _ way,  _ wards his own stutter off. “I kept the folder, all the statements. Couldn’t fit the tapes. We’ll record them again.”

\---

"We must," The Archivist says, and then he presses the kit into the sand and opens it. He looks at the wound and then with a grimace, pulls the dreaded bottle of antiseptic out, but even that grim idol can't fully cut through him right now. He will patch Martin up, and then they will be free of this whole grisly mess. 

He pours antiseptic on the sterile cotton wipes, and he says, "You smell like Michael. I can smell a _ lot _ actually. It's new. Has he always smelled like this?"

\---

“Thunder and Guerlain’s Shalimar and snow and this weird love that’s not  _ really _ a lie but it’s so new it still feels enough like one enough to break through the Spiral? Not all at the same time. Depends on which Michael he is.” 

None of it is forced by anything but his own mind. There is no dread in the face of compelling that isn’t, answers freely given. Usually these things don’t even make it to his _ own  _ conscious thought. Yet here they are, fully-formed words. “He wanted to help us.”

Help Martin, specifically, but right now there’s no difference. With the smell of antiseptic so close to his nose, he’s made humble but not stuck. He’s not sure what he means, but he trusts that Jon might take something from his own angle that he can use. “I didn’t like that collar.”

\---

It's a lot, all at once, and it threatens to push through the soft, powerful haze of what he's become now. "Love? Which Michael? Collar?" He asks it all softly, quietly, as though his brain will hear the questions and begin to catastrophize in the worst of ways.

Jon presses the antiseptic-soaked cloth against Martin's midriff, his fingers gentle yet firm, a confidence in unshaken fingers that he is too high and hazy to be proud of, right now. Oh, how the coward borrows gifts of strength. Only takes the price of your life. 

He can Know, but unlike Elias, he cannot see these events, these memories, and he is left to deduce, to infer, to bring implication to life with clumsy hands.

\---

“Part of him cares about people, I think he’s surprised. Michael  _ Shelley _ likes the freedom of being a person the way he wants to - to be seen— “ 

The first touch of cold, sharp liquid wrapped in cotton breaks his focus just enough to have him inhaling roughly, but that’s a normal reaction. There is no descent into a memory that was once too painful to look back on, so painful it could only be lived through as if fresh. 

What isn’t normal is the way his pain ignites more words he wouldn’t think to say. “M-my fears, my problems about all this, about being out of  _ control, _ it kept me from - from saving you, I wanted to, I was so  _ scared  _ to just give in to it and— Ah —accept it even when I wanted to, and I-I needed help letting go of that. Thinking too much. I’d tied myself up in it and I couldn’t move. That’s what I mean.”

\---

Jon pulls back just a hair, and his eyes are still slightly narrowed as he digests what Martin means. It's the thing he's avoiding, the thing that cuts harsh like daggers across his mind, that ruins this space, ruins this lake, ruins the moon above. The one lie he's letting himself taste. "Michael allowed you to say yes to the Hunt," he says, and there's a tremor to his hands.

\---

"I said yes the day they took you." His voice wavers, not because it's a lie but because it's overwhelmingly  _ true. _ He would have given in slower, Jon's torture extended by his own inability to commit until it was shoved at him with enough force that he only had the choice to throw himself right back at it. "Michael just... didn't stop me."

\---

"... Yes." Jon's attention drifts down to Martin's wrist and hand and he puts the cotton pads down on top of the first aid kit, and that Mark is so clearly reflected in the blacks of his eyes. He cradles that hand in his, and after a moment, he pulls it to his mouth, trusting Martin will trust  _ him. _

He presses his lips where Martin's palm meets his lips. "I can smell his love on you. It's peculiar. The Spiral sits deep within you."

\---

Through each touch Jon gifts him, Martin remains fixed to his eyes. Everything is different now. Somehow, everything is good. He could ask for nothing more, not now, not ever, each press of skin against skin lingers like a fire-hot brand. Martin likes it very much. Even the white circles he now stares at with complete hypnotized devotion blind him greater than staring at the sun. 

Wow, he’s being very poetic right now, isn’t he? Jon’s made him  _ purple.  _

Michael doesn’t exist here. Private little bubble free from pain. “I need  _ yours.” _

\---

"You do. Patience." Jon agrees against his wrist. So close to this Spiral mark, and it feels like going to the dentist and taking in laughing gas. It's an unhinging mark, and his focus spools out for a moment, the glass Martin has concocted sitting heavy in his vision in the air while he let's the spell take over his mind.

He laughs against his wrist and leans back. "Wow. That's addicting." He's forgotten about Martin's wound for the time being. Martin has spent so much of this night pushing it down, lying, and with this spiritual entity-whippet in his nostrils, that lie becomes reality for a moment and he blinks dazedly up at Martin.

\---

Just as Martin’s accustomed to, their moods shift like the tide. One minute he thinks he’s about to be sacrificed before the Moon by the only person he’d go to willingly, the next his laughter brushes up against his soul as wind chimes. 

Gertrude Robinson killed her disciples with a lack of knowledge to keep them in the dark. Jonathan Sims has undone his with just enough for those disciples to sacrifice themselves. 

Martin still believes it is a choice. He still believes they’ll make it out of this okay. Most of all, right now, he believes the absurdity of Jon breathing in Martin’s grand perverted image of Michael as a scattered rainbow Isaac is the funniest thing in the world. 

Laughter is a contagious disease and it spreads like wildfire. Without anything to cover his mouth, Martin joins him, giggling with childish wonder at what he’s made of Jon. “I might bite  _ you n _ ext. Make your new trail look like - like a bunch of angry baby owls with the power of my  _ imagination.”  _

His last word is over-pronounced, dramatized and ditzy as a cartoon about magic school busses.

\---

The laughter slowly abates into giggles, and then a soft sigh, and once it passes, once Jon has the ability to parse what Martin is saying, he lifts his head, chin high, somehow managing to look down the slope of his nose up at Martin. "You can mark me later. It's my turn, now." 

And then, just to hone in _ patience,  _ he looks away, down at the first aid kit, and starts to look for gauze. Knife wounds and shattered glass play discordant music in his ears, and he lifts one idle hand to point at the Moon, their current eye in the sky. 

"I need to smell like It right now. But you are beholden to no such need." He says it all idly, casually, like it's the most basic information in all of the universe. "I'm going to strip the Hunt from you, eventually."

\---

Martin sits back and waits, the epitome of patient despite every part of him shivering with anticipation. He has no defenses for the way he speaks, and that’s such a good thing. 

His gesture to the sky lets Martin move from one set of eyes to another, the light of the moon reflecting in both of his to make a perfect set. Free from impulse control between the Hunt’s dirty bait-and-switch and the Spiral’s affinity for chaotic mischief, Martin takes his newly freed hands and cups them around his mouth. 

He thinks it’s much sweeter than words, much more succinct, to turn his head up to the sky and use his breath to howl.  _ Eventually,  _ sure, but not now.

\---

What a sweet song from the Hunt. Has the Eye ever felt so loved from it? From any of the others? Jon doubts it; it shatters the determination to end this Hunt in Martin, just momentarily, because such a serenade has him pausing, staring, his smile doting and dumb and blinded by his own Siren. 

Jon is not the Beholder. But he is one of Its Eyes, and he feels so very, very seen right now, seen and told as such with sound that tickles upon his ears. 

His skin is warm, feverish, when he presses the first loop of gauze to Martin's stomach, blindly feeling for the right area while his eyes bore into Martin as he howls. The Hunt in his aura is sated, happy, the reds and yellows more like Holi than anything choking, and they're both alright, now.

\---

The sound projected with lungs that have no right to hold so much air is broken by the thought that for all Martin talks of wishing these fears could be fed through joy, he might be right. Broken as Martin cracks up, eyes finally taking a moment to close with his own mirth. Such a silly thing they’ve made. 

He holds still for Jon until he can’t, squirming beneath the hands that bind with bandages, shifting with the need to touch. Ha-ha, the Spiral snarks. To be held. One of Martin’s wayward hands slides over Jon’s bare arm, thumb rubbing antsy circles to hold him back from anything that might get him in more trouble. But he keeps his mouth shut. No complaining. Not with words.

\---

By the time he rips off the end of the gauze and tucks it into itself, tight and bound and safe and bloodless and healing, Jon is shivering, the touch of Martin's fingers all too much. 

He very slowly places the remainder of the gauze into the kit and takes his time snapping it shut, forcing himself to practice the same command he leveled unto Martin. Patience. They have all the time in the world. They will make time, it seems, when they need it. 

The Spiral wreaks havoc upon their Sand-Bed, and the Hunt keeps them primal, and the Eye, the Eye watches, and will remember for them what won't be remembered by mortal body. All at once, Jon  _ pounces,  _ pushing Martin back into the sand on his back by his shoulders and leaning over him, his smile sharp and his eyes hungry.

Jon tilts his head up, baring himself to Martin. "Kiss my throat," He commands.

\---

The impact punches out a huff from Martin’s open mouth, his hands finding purchase in the strangely drying fabric of Jon’s shirt. Later, he’ll be ecstatic at the chance to offer him something clean, dry, still smelling of the detergent they used a lifetime ago. 

Right now, his voice commands his full attention, and Martin’s lips find his throat with a soft gasp. Overstimulated in this new world where all he can taste, see, touch, smell, hear is what he finds at Jon’s skin, Martin quivers, otherwise motionless as he grounds himself there. 

He’s not quite recovered by the time he’s moving to trace a pulse with his lips, controlled enough not to bring out teeth.

\---

Jon gasps, and the slope of his neck is a vulnerable, trusting thing. He can feel his energy fading, inch by inch, but he needs this. He needs this more than he needs oxygen, and Martin's kiss heals him more than any gift from the Eye. 

The wound isn't entirely gone; a slash of something scabbing over still remains. If he had his faculties about him, he'd be grossed out letting Martin put his lips to something that hasn't even technically been sanitized. But he's beyond coherent mental awareness. The sand beneath him, his cradle in this infancy, feels like a blanket.

\---

Jon’s gasp vibrates at the throat where Martin lives. Encouraged, he draws out the flat of his tongue up the very edge of his wound to the side of his jaw, his next kiss given with light pressure. Where Jon commands, Martin begs. 

“You look beautiful,” Martin whispers sheepishly at his jawline, “from down here.” He nuzzles there, needy, needing him, needing his voice, needing his warmth and his heart and his eyes. “I thought you said it was your turn to mark me.”

\---

The whiplash of control, ebbing and flowing in each other's hands has Jon's mind spinning, and he blinks dazedly down at Martin for a moment before remembering-- Oh yes. He would. He would like to mark Martin. Perhaps the spiral has him foggy. Perhaps he's getting tired. Perhaps Martin's touches upon his throat just have him feeling content in a way that is hard to push past. 

"It is," He says softly. "Choose where."

\---

“My...” His voice fades to nothing, caught between a stuttered laugh and a moan. “...Oh. I wish ‘everywhere’ was an option. And I wish the first word I thought of wasn’t - wasn’t  _ dick.”  _

He bites Jon’s ear to stifle his own smile, which might not be the best way to handle that. “I am— s-so-o- pent up.” Don’t Spiral now, Martin, you stupid whore.

\---

Jon's head cocks downwards, as though to instinctively give Martin more access to the bite, and then he's laughing, and laughing and laughing, and whining, "Maaaartin..." because there's no way he's marking his  _ dick,  _ even though he'd love to do certain things to it. That's a fact. 

"I think dying makes you high," He says, idly, and pulls back to regard Martin. He's starting to see it, though. The picture in his mind. The intention is there. He laces his fingers through the fingers of Martin's unmarked hand, and pulls it closer, resting his lips upon a bare, empty wrist. 

"I'm yours," He says, and says it with Intent, and says it with power, and his lips are soft against this blank canvas. He does not need to scratch, or bite, or draw blood; their blood is already wound together thick as wine. Jon just needs to speak it into existence. He needs Martin to speak his part, too.

\---

Oh, he loves those laughs. He missed them. He missed causing them. Missed him missed him missed him. 

He’d rather not have the Eye curse his  _ dick, _ of course, whatever that might entail it’s certainly not good. 

Jon shatters the twisting pattern of his brain he’ll have to learn quickly how to keep at bay as well as Jon does to him. 

With his Archivist above him, the Moon a gracious halo bordering the edges of his silhouette with a soft glow, Martin is owned. 

“I’m yours,” he says with no breath at all, eyes wide and stunned in their own silent dialogue.

\---

Lips pressing deep to the vulnerability of his wrist, Martin's pulse jumping and alive at the crest of Jon's mouth, he wraps his hands around the rest of the flesh, pressed tight. It's a prayer. It's worship, and it's his. 

The moonlight stands as their officiant. Does anyone object? The waves certainly don't; their crash upon the shore sounds of exultation, weepy cheers, and as he kisses Martin's wrist, tears fall freely from his eyes, and soak into the flesh of a wrist that is dually owned.

\---

Martin’s own journey to tears is more choppy, one intake of breath that comes tumbling back out in a sob released from the pit he’d boarded up from the start. All the tears he held back just to bite them into his own hand, to snap at a book bound by skin, to tighten his fingers at the wheel, to walk, and walk, and walk. 

Through it all, his crying is done with a smile. It’s elation so deep he almost confuses it for pain. His fingers meet Jon’s skin as he flexes, curls them forward to touch any part of him they can reach with a mouth at his wrist searing him with love. “You’re mine,” is what he says, but behind it is a tone of near-disbelief, and it’s  _ good.  _

So much is happening, and it’s all so world-endingly _ good. _

\---

_ Magic isn't real, _ Jon might have said once. But now he is in love, and he knows better. Magic is love, pure and simple; the world turns upon the passions of those inflicted with red-hot desire, romantic or otherwise. And in this moment, his lips burning a seal of passion into Martin's wrist, magic is very much real. It is a swirling, forgiving, brutal, autonomous thing that bends to their will as much as they willingly bend to it.

When Jon pulls away, it's with an unfocused edge to his expression, happy exhaustion and love allowing relaxation to take his muscles by storm. Martin smells and looks like a potent mix of all his marks; his own stands to make Martin a golden saint, light pouring around the crown of his head, and it makes the Spiral and the Hunt and the other, duller marks flattered. 

He holds onto Martin's hand for a long moment, and then pulls away from that, too, and his voice is soft, melancholy when he speaks. "I think I'm done for tonight."

\---

Martin’s own poetic train has crashed. Where the Spiral filled his heart with lava, where the Hunt turned his care to desperate madness, neither filled him so perfectly with downy warmth that knows each part of him and does not judge. He could sleep right here in the sand for a century. 

Neither the Hunt nor the Spiral managed to pull the soft sound of bliss he makes effortlessly here. 

Exhausted in kind, Martin nods. He looks to Jon for Answers. “How do we get home?”

\---

"Unless you want to call your Distortion, I think we're here for the night," Jon says. He blinks. "It  _ is _ a national park. Surely there's-- Do Americans have hotels on these parks? It feels like a very American thing to do? Maybe not." He laughs hoarsely, so very tired all of a sudden. "I could sleep here."

\---

“No,” Martin sighs through his smile, “no doors.” He’s the last person to ask if there are hotels around here. 

“You’ll hate it tomorrow if you wake up covered in sand, I brought... I brought a change of clothes.” He looks to the bag, and as his head moves away from Jon’s focus, he’s suddenly so, so drowsy. He wonders if Jon put a spell on him. “Somewhere off the beach. Can’t move if you’re on me.” 

He’s not that committed to moving, but he pets at Jon’s thigh as if to stir him into moving regardless. For Jon’s sake.

\---

"Ah? Oh. Oh, yes," He murmurs, and slowly pulls back, pulling himself heavily to his feet and brushing the sand from his knees, his palms, his everything. Martin's right; it will probably not be a pretty morning. But that's alright; the night has been kind enough to them to justify an unloved sunrise.

\---

Martin sits up after him as though connected by strings. His eyelids droop in the moonlight, but he snaps them open to finish his work. To the bag. 

“Are - are you hungry? I kept some of the... things you packed.” He rummages around in it, has to place their journals in the sand. He’s mumbling as he works his heat-numb hands. “I kept the good rocks, and the pens I know you put in your mouth the most b-because I watch you, and... oh. Here.” 

They’ll be wrinkled rolled up this way, but that’s okay. He holds them out. “If you need shoes, you can take mine tonight.”

\---

Jon forgets to answer for a long, long while, content to just watch Martin speak and rummage around their belongings. He loves this man. And this man loves him. He can smell the way their beings have mingled in these things, in the journals and pens and his silly habit of pocketing small objects like rocks.

"I'm not hungry." He takes the clothes from Martin, blinks, and then passes them back to him and holds out a finger so he can strip from lake-cleansed but not washing machine-cleaned clothes, unabashed in this headspace to pull shirt and pants off without hesitation. Once he's discarded them on the beach, he takes the clothes back and pulls them on. The pullover is soft, and kind to his skin, and the pants are, too, and it smells like Martin and himself, rather than blood and tears and sweat and snot and fear. "Thank you."

\---

Ah. He loves this man in every state of undress. Martin pines from the ground. Jon’s made him into a coat hanger. That’s fine. His smile as he watches the scene play out before him is dopey and sluggish, but he’ll absolutely remember this fondly. 

Reaching back into the bag to grab his own set,  _ just in case you smell terrible when you find him and take him home,  _ the knuckles of his newly claimed hand brush against skin. Martin breathes out, a sensation that once repulsed him now familiar from use. He takes the book out carefully, resting it between both hands. 

“I hope you like each other, later.”

\---

"I already like him, Martin," Jon says, pulling the waistband of his pants up over his hips. He's skinnier than he was. It's not like they bothered to feed a man that was going to be dead in a few days. But whatever brought him back has kept his appetite at bay; he's certain his body will be far less acquiescing in the morning. That's a problem for future-Jon.

"I can see him on you, too."

\---

Martin tilts his head. The motion almost sends him to the ground on his side, but that would mean dropping Gerry in the sand, so he stays upright. “What does he look like?”

\---

"Hm." Jon has to dissect what belongs to what; these marks tend to mingle, he's learning. But Gerard's isn't as full of fear as the others. "It's green. Stagnant, unlike the others. Not--unchanging, just. Still. I think maybe that's the End's work." Martin's starting to look like quite the rainbow to Jon's eyes.

\---

“Mmh.” Martin runs a thumb along the spine before putting it back in, pulling out his own new set. Everything else goes back in, and then he’s easing the scarf to the ground, taking off the shirt now lined with cuts with a soft noise of dull pain. 

Ugh. Pants. Time to stand up. “I think it’s a nice green.” It’s like shedding skin, here, a comfort he hadn’t allowed himself in the form of sweatpants. How did he ever wear anything else? 

Martin makes it through one second of standing there in clothes that aren’t bloody, wet, and scratched to Hell before yawning.

\---

"It is. A bit, ah, witchy." Jon watches Martin change in pleased contentment, and he's so very patient. He steps closer through the yawn and takes hold of his hand again, his smile amused and tired. "Time to use those animal instincts to find us somewhere to sleep."

\---

Witchy. Of course he is, he’s a witch. A witch who wouldn’t let him sing Wicked in a field. 

“‘Kay,” Martin says quietly as he takes the bag over his other shoulder, hand in Jon’s, and walks over to his shoes first. Past that point he spares one last long glance to the Moon. 

Another yawn breaks the contact, and Martin shakes his head to wake up. He scans the edge of the beach before his mind seems to settle, and then he walks. Up to the point where sand meets dirt and it’s far, far easier to move along.

\---

As they walk, it seems whatever spell Jon has been under fades fast. Each step has him sleepier and sleepier, muscles aching and body heavy, and by the time they make it to the dirt, his jubilant trailing has turned to him all but resting his head between Martin's shoulder blades as they continue.

"My back is going to kill me in the morning," He giggles sleepily against Martin. "Or afternoon. Or night. I think I need to sleep for a long time."

\---

They don’t go very far before Martin finds a tree that looks reasonable to what lingers of his need to protect Jon that very  _ specific _ way. He breaks contact just long enough to walk a full circle around it, something he’s not really conscious of doing, and then he sits up against it with roots on either side. 

“Turn around and - and sit, in front of me? Let me work out some of the knots, first. I-I don’t know how long we’ll be out.”

\---

"... Okay." He does just that, sleepy enough not to argue that Martin should _ sleep, _ sleepy enough and still riding the fading high to not argue that Martin was _ stabbed _ and should be doing no such thing.

He sits dutifully where Martin has carved a space for him.

\---

Martin breathes in against Jon’s hair, both hands now warm from all the contact Jon’s given him sliding easily up his shirt. The softest noise of contentment falls between his lips as his thumbs track up either side of Jon’s spine to rest between his shoulder blades, and everything slots together so perfectly. 

He rubs little circles of pressure against Jon’s muscles, searching for somewhere particularly sore, perked up and singularly focused on this task to ward off sleep. Meditative by all accounts.

\---

Jon falls into each press of the thumb, each pressured bliss, all but immediately, curling over himself and humming deep in his throat. His voice still isn't one hundred percent painless, or scratchy, but it's better. Everything's better. And Martin's perfect.

He nods off, of course. After days of pain and torture and fear and confusion and-- that what Mars his throat--this relaxed love lulls him into a catnap that jumps straight into a light sleep.

\---

Staying awake right now is a more difficult task than trekking across states to kill for a lover. Martin continues even as Jon starts to doze, working out what he can and hoping for the best in the morning. 

But he only had a few minutes left in him regardless. He moves his hands to fit around Jon’s waist and pulls him flush against him, resting his own head back against the tree. 

Nothing will come here. Not when the air is still thrumming radioactive with this. That knowledge is what lets Martin finally close his eyes and join Jon in sleep.


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after the honeymoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings;  
> \- Throat injuries  
> \- Vomit  
> \- The Spiral, in general

The late morning light filtered through the minimal shade of the forest they find themselves in is what wakes Jon up. The first light of a new life, and shouldn't that be poetic and grand?

It's not. It's really not. His body hurts, and his head hurts, and he wakes up with panicked breathing and the knowledge that he's going to be hurt, he's going to be beat, he's going to have his windpipe crushed or his legs kicked out or or or--

Jon sits up all at once, and a hand flies to his throat, where a thick, scabbed over wound sits. What's a hangover times thirty? That's what he feels like, and his vision swims with the sudden motion, breathing irregular and depriving him of a steady oxygen intake that doesn't seem to be making him all that light headed and that just panics him more, and--

Oh. He was lying with Martin. He was-- they. He turns to look at him, and his frown is immediate, the breathing picking up more, because oh. Oh. It's all setting in, now, isn't it? What they've done. What they are, now. Gone is the euphoria from a moonlit beach. He just hurts, now.

\---

Jostled from his sleep by Jon’s panicked motions, his uneven breaths, arms still wrapped protectively around his torso is how Martin starts his morning. 

There are bags under his eyes. He could’ve slept so much longer, he wanted to hibernate, of all things, but Jon is reacting to something and now he needs to wake up and make sure they’re safe. 

But they are safe. He’s too groggy to put together all the details. He just holds Jon closer, unsure what’s changed, why his own insides feel so different from yesterday, why half of it is a flurry of blood. He tries to stabilize this, because they’re not in danger. He knows that with his own version of the Eye that is quite a bit lower to the ground and cares more about dogs. “I’ll bet you’re hungry now.”

\---

Jon jumps when Martin speaks, and all at once, he's clawing to get out of his arms, needing space, needing air, needing-- oh. His stomach is growling. His everything is growling, sans his mouth. No wonder his body aches; he has not eaten food nor fear in  _ days _ now, and he...

Can't think about what happened.

He holds himself, on the forest floor, nails digging into his upper arms, and he nods.

\---

Martin lets go. It _ hurts,  _ but he lets go. Jon is on the ground, and Martin wants so, so badly to follow him, but he confirms the question and the next he blinks he’s already at the bag. 

He presents snack bars and a blank, unassuming folder before his person at the forest floor. This is a ritual, but it’s like, the child drawing version of one. His voice is hoarse, too, and as gentle as he can make it. “Jon.  _ Hi. _ I-I don’t have any water left. There’s nothing to boil it with.”

\---

He takes both wordlessly, blinking a few times as he tries to keep up with his senses. Everything is so bright. Everything is so detailed. He opens his mouth to speak and then closes it, opens it again, and rasps out,"... Hi. It's-- it's fine. This is. It's fine. Thank you, Martin."

He goes for the food first. Nausea is already clawing at his stomach, and he knows if he falls into the thrall of a statement on an empty stomach, he'll regret it for the rest of the day. He grabs one of the bars and starts to unwrap it.

\---

Martin sits on his knees in front of him, smiling despite his half-awake state. They’re safe. He’s safe. He won. They won. Martin’s teeth still taste like toxic metal. He has Jon. Quite a lot happened yesterday, didn’t it?

The Hunt, in its simpler mind, leaves him with a more steady calm. Sensation of a full stomach, basking sunlight, little pinpricks of sensation winding down. As a predator can go days of starving to make a kill, so Martin does in the afterglow of his own. Nothing nearly as special as the moonlit beach was for Jon, but it  _ feels _ that way when he looks in Jon’s direction. 

Satisfaction. It will be taken away, and it will come back as a gnawing ache. For now, he’s simply bloated on the corpse he’s consumed in spirit. Anything to get Jon to look at him again, to see him. “Do you need anything else? Right now?”

\---

The shake of his head is slow. Everything is taking so long to process. He chews, and mumbles, "No," when he swallows. Oh what he wouldn't give to be in his bed right now. Is he Hungover? Can you be God-Hungover? Ugh. He doesn't want to think about... That.

"Did you really crash the car?" But he Knows Martin did, and Martin probably knows Jon Knows and the question is really quite shitty actually.

\---

Ah. 

Martin frowns down at himself. He definitely hits himself for that one. “...Yeah. I-I don’t think I’m driving again for... well, a while.”

\---

"Well, can you-- you know. Rent a new one? We're in-- Martin, we're in  _ Wyoming." _ If a man could look venomous while eating a granola bar, it would be Jonathan Sims.

\---

“I want to, but I... Driving is a-already stressful, and I... I got hurt, in the crash. That’s what I mean. I don’t think I can drive.” Great start, Martin. Already disappointing him in Yellowstone.

\---

"You got hurt?" Jon squints. "Not anymore. I-- I mean, last the stab wound. But that's healing too."

\---

“Jon, my nose is crooked.  _ Jon, _ I want to drive, but I’ll probably just— I’ll just cry. Okay?” Martin moves to lift up his shirt and touch over the bandages, and it hurts much less. He can’t sit there and poke at it, but it’s a blessing in terms of recovery. “I got hurt plenty on the way here. Mostly by me.”

\---

"Then I guess we find-- what are they? Ah. Park rangers. Ask very politely for a ride to the nearest airport. Or something." He sighs and sets his half eaten food on his thigh, using the hand he frees to pinch at the bridge of his nose.

"I've been. You know. Looking forward to this trip for months, a-and we're here now, and all I want to do is go _ home." _

\---

“We can do that. I’m sure we could find a trail near here.” 

That feeling is mutual. He wants their bed. Their pillows. Their den. The one they made at their Institute. Martin bends forward to lean his forehead against Jon’s. “Of course you want to go home. You were tortured. It’s not going anywhere.”

\---

_ "Tortured. _ " Jon scoffs. He doesn't pull away, though, even if his expression has much to be desired. "That sounds so archaic. Makes me sound like some-- some middle ages vagabond."

\---

“We were both tortured. It was pretty barbaric. Did I already ask if you needed anything?” 

He must have. “I missed you. Even when you’re cranky.”

\---

"I miss you too, obviously." He still sits with his nose pinched, his eyes closed. "It's just all different. Your teeth are insane."

\---

“Gerry would have words for that if he’d noticed, it must have happened right before.” Martin snorts a little, pulling back to feel at his own mouth. Running the pad of one thumb against a sharp canine sitting in his own mouth is certainly a bizarre feeling. “It’s...  _ kind of  _ neat?”

\---

"It's more than  _ neat, _ Martin." He opens his eyes back up purely so Martin can see him roll them. "Even if it means you're.... You know. A full and proper Hunter now.  _ Neat. _ God."

\---

That gets a little laugh out of him, and Martin pulls away from his mouth. Oh, right. Those eyes. “What does that mean, Jon? More than neat?”

\---

"Oh, come on. You know." He's not going to just say it. Be a little intuitive, Martin.

\---

“If it’s what I think about your new built-in contacts, then yeah, Jon, I know.” He is intuitive! He is. God forbid he allows himself the indulgence of hearing it from Jon’s mouth. Figures.

\---

Almost got him to admit it out loud, too. But Martin's comment stutters that thought immediately, and he squints. "What?"

\---

“You’ve got little moons in them.” 

Pieces start coming together. “I— Did I really howl at the moon last night?”

\---

"Probably. Yes? I don't remember. I don't care right now. Stop changing the subject and find me a mirror." His voice comes out stacatto, finally sitting back up to his full height and fully pulling his hands away from his face, blinking rapidly like that will somehow get him to see what the fuck Martin's talking about.

\---

“I’m not changing the subject! It’s all the same subject.” 

Sure. He’ll find Jon a mirror in the middle of the woods. He doesn’t want to drag his body over to the lake right now. Instead, Martin stands up with him, stretching up to crack his back. 

Then he bends just enough to be level with Jon. “Do my eyes count?”

\---

"Oh, did you crash your phone along the way, too?" Jon scowls at him.

\---

Martin grumbles little nonsense words to himself as he stands straight. Back to the bag, then. 

It’s in the little front pocket. He doubts it’s got much charge left, but it should turn on long enough. He pawns it off on Jon without a word.

\---

He catches enough of a glimpse of himself in the black reflection of the screen to immediately drop the phone onto the dirt, a small gasp falling from his lips. He scrambles to pick the phone up again, and squeezes his eyes shut as he turns it on, not daring to see the half-reflection until he can access the camera app.

And when he can, he just freezes and stares, his eyes wide and searching themselves. He holds up a hand to one of them, fingertips brushing around them softly. "... This didn't happen last time," He says hollowly.

\---

“Well.” 

That’s a bit obvious by the reaction, isn’t it?

“I sort of like them.”

\---

"Great. Fascinating. So you're weird and I'm a freak."

\---

Martin throws his hands up with a confused noise. “Oh, so you get to tell me all about my teeth but I don’t get to tell you about your perfect— Stupid— Moon eyes?” 

He whines. “That’s not fair. You’re not a _ freak.” _

\---

"Yes, they are stupid. Not-- _ Martin." _ It's a whine. He's whining and plaintive, and in the camera the slash across his throat is vivid and red and it hurts just to _ look _ at it, and it shouldn't have scabbed over this quickly, and all at once, he's pretty sure it's hitting him, and he drops Martin's phone again. He doesn't bend to pick it up, covering his eyes with his hands the moment they're free.

\---

Martin bends down for the phone automatically, putting it away. It’s causing problems. “Jon. Jon—“ 

There’s panic rising here. Bubbling up from Jon. He can sense it in a way that almost makes Martin raise hackles that don’t exist. Still on the ground, getting his knees dirty, Martin holds out both of his hands for Jon’s. “Look at me? Please?”

\---

He doesn't. "I'm -- I'm going to b-buy contacts a-and sunglasses and oh God.  _ Martin,  _ I- I can't even  _ pretend, _ anymore." He stands, almost quivering where he stands. There's a sob that's slowly building in his chest.

\---

“N-no— Jon—  _ Wait—“ _ His fretting isn’t working, and Martin fights the way his knees protest at how fast he gets up to grip Jon’s shoulders. 

The gravity of his own voice surprises him. Maybe he’ll feel bad for it later. He can’t defend Jon from the thing he’s wrestling with out here, with his teeth. He has to do it the hard way. 

“Stop it. It’s real, and - and you can handle it. You can. I  _ killed  _ a man yesterday, to bring us both home, and you’re not allowed to - to hate yourself. Remember?” He hurries to move his hands up to his face, holding him there even as Jon refuses to look. “No matter what.”

\---

"Even if I deserve it?" His voice is child-soft, trying and wanting to believe Martin in equal parts that he wants to  _ not, _ to continue fruitlessly in this vendetta against himself. Wanting to punish himself for this heinous act of survival after all he's done.

He keeps his palms plastered to closed eyes. Eyes that are foreign, and yet deep in the darkened parts of his gut speak to truth. Eyes that are so inhuman, and yet his bones whisper  _ good  _ to his ear, trying to lull him into an acceptance so similar and yet different than Martin's loving, caressing admonishments.

When he looks at Martin, pulling his hands down just enough to peek through his fingers, he thinks of that door again. Not Michael's; his own. The one that brushes against him, the filtered parts of Martin's thoughts just an untriggered  _ avalanche  _ in the making should just...  _ push _ the door open. Just a crack would suffice, for it to all come tumbling down, the crash of waves that would be far, far more consuming than the gentle lapping of moonlit baptism.

Jon pulls his fingers back together again, shielding his face once more.

\---

“You don’t deserve it, but  _ yes,  _ Jon, even if you did.” Martin softens his voice, smiling wide enough to crease his eyes when he peeks. “You say it to me and you expect me to  _ believe _ it, and I do, so you have to... you do the same thing. That’s a rule. I’m making that a rule for us.” 

That’s a good idea. Jon likes structure. Jon works off it. Feeds off it, independent from the Eye. “So stop hiding, I just found you. I just... I just found you.”

\---

Jon stays still as a statue for damn near a minute before he slowly, by increments, pulls his hands away from his face, and his expression is ready to crumple. In the harsh morning light, his eyes are like the deepest depths of the ocean, pupils like the foggiest of days.

When did Martin get so good at talking him out of mental spirals? It's still there, of course it is. It always will be; a panic so deep it ought to be genetic. But Martin buries it swiftly, kicks the dirt over the wound, makes him forget, reorient, reorganize, redirect. 

"You just found me," He mumbles and he means it as an assent, an assent to the rules, an assent to this diversion. He can't be selfish with his emotions right now. Martin's hurting too.

\---

“I just found you,” Martin repeats with conviction, “And— You saved me right after. What’s next?”

_ Anything,  _ Jon had extended him.  _ Anything,  _ he extends right back. Martin is gaining clarity. Not the kind that makes things exactly the way they were before, that way wasn’t quite right. But it was enough to know it could slot together with enough work. He’s willing. He wants that. Wants it as much as his hands burn with the paint splatters of ritual energy.

\---

Jon's anxious energy turns into a full body shiver. "I don't know." He chooses to let this distract him, to push him back to work. To be Jonathan Sims, the Archivist once more, rather than the shaking, hurting mess that he wants to be. 

He turns to look at the beach, then to the woods, and he says, slowly, "I think we walk."

\---

Martin’s hands fall back to his shoulders, trying to rub the tension away and out. 

“We should take advantage of this, right? Me. I can track things, didn’t really get to test it all before— I just need a-a direction, I think I can do it if it’s for you. Can you walk?” He almost suggests carrying him. To have Jon’s arms around his neck, hands under his thighs to hold him there. He thinks he could do it, just for Jon. Maybe don’t push it, Martin.

\---

"I- I think? I'm not-- I just feel hungover, really." He squints at Martin. He doesn't _ want  _ to invoke the Hunt. Not really. It's not good. It's not good to indulge this. And-- But. 

But he imagines Daisy treating the Hunt with this kind of playfulness and a smile darts to his lips despite his frankly horrendous mood, and he grabs the hand on Martin that's so deeply marked by the spiral to feel  _ something, _ to continue that thought deeper and deeper and spiralling into it, letting himself wash away the pain, and the directive becomes clear. "Find us a forest ranger."

\---

He can’t explain it, but the source of Hunt and Spiral draw from adjacent pools, where rippling one with enough force draws movement at the surface of the other. Jon’s hand throws a stone into one, and Martin giggles as if it’s made him ticklish. 

It clears his mind of complications. Paves the way for the order. Martin breathes in. Scurrying animals once too shy to approach their private beach go about their business as usual, the scent outline of a trail in the overwhelming packed dirt pressure of people and their things, a trail he knows will lead to a road. “I can do that.” 

He tries to get their things together with one hand so Jon’s touch won’t fall away, and as he bends he remembers. “Would you take my shoes? It’s a trail. For  _ hiking.” _

\---

"They won't fit, and then  _ you'll  _ be barefoot." Jon whines, and the thought of him stomping through the woods with oversized shoes almost makes him giggle, a smile on his lips again. Oh, this Mark is going to get them in trouble. He's going to feel guilty about it, later. "Ugh. I feel hungover  _ and  _ high. Is this uni again?"

\---

“They’re not  _ that  _ big,” Martin offers helpfully. Maybe if they shoved a sock inside or something.

He zips up the bag and swings it over one shoulder so they can head on their way. He’s getting so tired of this bloody, awful bag. “Only if you wanted it to be. Back to school, but this time you’re magical. Oooh. That strange, strange Jonathan Sims, always seems like he  _ knows _ the answers! Wonder if he’s cheating?”

\---

Jon leans away from him to squint, and he says on the crest of a laugh, "Martin, everyone does magic in school." Pause. "Right? Not to cheat."

\---

“I don’t know, I never got to do magic in school.” Martin forces his mouth to stay neutral, serious, composed. He is none of those things. “Gerry’s going to teach me how to act like a Satanist.”

\---

Jon blinks, and then the smile finally comes, a crooked thing. "I knew he'd be into satanism. I can't-- I'm glad you two seem to be getting on well. Really. He's-- I mean." He pulls his hand away from Martin's, just because the high-rise giddiness of the spiral is getting to be too much, too fast. He knows he could just... _ not  _ feel it, but it's addicting right now, when his body aches and his head is full of unprocessed... everything. 

"He was so saaad, the first time."

\---

Martin raises an eyebrow in puzzled curiosity at the sounds coming out of Jon’s mouth. Almost sounds like words. “He’s a little sad, but now he can kick my ankles and throw rocks at smoking cars and give me animal trivia. Still can’t drive, so you two have that in common.” Jon has got to stop touching that thing. It’s like it  _ activates  _ the second Jon starts being ridiculous. 

“He’s a good keeper, i-if very throwable. I miss him already.”

\---

"We literally _ have _ him. In your bag." He pauses, and then snorts. "You describe it all like a-- Like a John Hughes movie. He's the punk teenager, obviously."

\---

“We’re dyeing my hair and I’m getting piercings, so you might want to rethink that,” Martin says as he bites his tongue between his teeth at Jon with a stupidly charged wink. “Is that, is that permission, by the way? Can I ask him? What, right now?”

\---

There's a lot to filter through all at once, and he gives a few rapid blinks. At least he's been successfully distracted. "Dyeing it  _ what? _ I-- you. You don't need permission from me to bring your friend here. Martin-- that's not. That isn't how it works."

\---

“Gerry?” No answer for Jon. Keep him in suspense. “Um, are you listening?” He calls it louder than his usual voice, then brings it back down. “I don’t know if he’ll come if I do it this way. It’s— A learning process.”

\---

It's strange, how different a few days can drastically alter the way of things. What is still novel, an action Jon has only seen twice prior, is familiar for Martin. Or at least must be, considering the vague, out of order set of adventures Martin keeps rambling about to Jon.

Green eyes held in suspension in the air, and though the stench of the End sits heavy, the familiar and lulling surveillance of the Eye also brings itself to his nose, and Jon wonders if he, too, smells like such a peculiar assortment of marks.

Gerard's roots look better today. Darker and less haphazard and Jon wonders how this ghostly Visage works. How it chooses what Gerard looks like. It's less a visual image that brings itself to Jon's mind and more that he just Knows, all at once, that Gerard did not look like this, in the end.

"Evidently, I'm always listening now," Gerard grouses when he's Whole, but he's looking at Jon, his own eyes wide, betraying the casual way he tries to stretch as he stands in front of them.

\---

Martin smiles, wide and welcoming and in complete, accidental dismissal of the previous day’s events. He’s gearing up to properly introduce them both, like he’s become someone entirely new over the course of their short time together. “Wait, you mean...  _ always?  _ Like - like everything?”

\---

"Mm... No. No, I just don't exist until I'm called. But I guess you saying my name-- you saying my name-- something in me hears it." He shrugs, and looks around them, taking in their surroundings. "Oh. We're still at the park. Hi, Jon.  _ Great _ to see you looking less like the first victim of a slasher film."

"...Hi, Gerry. I think we-- bathed? Last night."

\---

Oh. There’s suddenly a lot to address here. Martin has to pick one. “It felt weird not having you in the woods with me, and we did promise you, erm...” 

Jon keeps implying he doesn’t remember. But then he does, but then he doesn’t. Martin does. Shouldn’t he Know? He’s thrumming with too much nervous energy to focus wholly on it. The idea that he remembers and Jon  _ doesn’t  _ mortifies him. 

Shit. 

“Gerry, check out my teeth.” 

He lifts the side of his top lip with a thumb.

\---

Gerard immediately grimaces, even as his eyes light up in fond mischief and amusement, and the laugh that comes from him is borderline jubilant.  _ "Martin, _ you dog. Guess that's what you get for ripping some old geezer's throat out. Sexy." 

Jon, ever the stick-in-the-mud, frowns at that, and Gerry turns on him immediately, his smile turning sharp. "Oh, don't  _ you  _ act all high and mighty. Guess  _ you _ got a gift for getting your throat ripped out. Extraordinarily fucked up. Hey, Marto, think my eyes would have been like that if my skin hadn't been flayed?" 

There's something in the water today. Well-- Air. Maybe Gerard is just happy they're safe, and alive in whatever capacity, and it's  _ over, _ and there's something and someone to be here  _ for.  _ But that's sappy, and there is something in the air that he can lay blame to. Something that smells an awful lot like that blond bitch.

\---

There _ is  _ something swirling about. Maybe Martin’s just so used to smelling it on himself after a day that it’s gone and faded to the background, but it’s there. Vivid, colorful. Violent mantis shrimp. Gerry’s words are making him light up, like he could somehow flash with color the same way. “No— I think they’d be green, two little traffic lights. I— Wow, I really did kill someone, didn’t I?  _ Woof.” _

He’s lost in a short stream of airy laughs, and he blindly grabs for Jon’s arm with one hand like that could ground him. “Oh. What’s happening right now?”

\---

"You let  _ Michael  _ in your head, is what happened." Jon tries to scowl but can't manage it, his lips turning upwards despite himself. It's freeing, to be a bit mindless; when they get back to normalcy, he'll have to be strict about invoking these marks. For now? Barefoot and tired and healing and dead-but-not, it's easier to justify letting it in.

\---

“I ripped his wrist out with my teeth,” Martin whines through his laughter, his grip on Jon going stiff when it flips violently over to tears out of thin air. Like a car veering off a cliff. “There’s something wrong with me.”

\---

Jon pulls back to get a better, shocked look at Martin, and Gerry steps closer, and both men are twin concern as they say, "Martin?"

\---

“I don’t know who I am and I don’t know where that came from,” Martin shakes beneath the overwhelming hysterics of sobs to laughter and back again, and it’s not funny anymore, but it really, really is. “I  _ killed _ someone. With my  _ mouth.” _

\---

"You _ killed  _ a dangerous monster." Gerard says, and he ignores the way Jon twitches at that. "And you let one go. Do you know-- you were in the thrall of a Hunter's chase, damn near Slaughter, and you let one go." He's not sure if it's comforting. He's not exactly good at this.

But this is a Martin he hasn't seen yet. Rage-filled, chaotic, impulsive and terrified, yes. Tear-stricken and grieving, yes. This is a different kind of meltdown altogether.

He feels a twinge of envy that Jon doesn't have to say anything, can just step closer and press himself bodily against Martin, a wordless confession of safety, of love, of I’m sorry it happened, but I love you nonetheless.

\---

“He was a person, I-I-I’m like a line, and then you’re dots— No, it’s— F-food coloring and white frosting, dots, you’re dots.” As he babbles his vision starts to turn, subtle nausea-throbbing shifts of color at the corners of his eyes. “No one say anything funny.”

\---

Gerard steps a little closer to their triage anyways, his hands open comfortingly at his side. He could have told everyone that just indulging in the Spiral casually wasn't a good idea, but then he wasn't  _ here,  _ now was he. The helium lifts away from his head easily, when he tries; madness has no permanent hold over the dead.

_ "Easy.  _ Breathe."

Jon looks to him curiously for a moment, expression unreadable, and he looks about to say something to him, but evidently thinks better of it and turns back to Martin, his own gaze slightly unfocused. He looks like he's looking at something around Martin's being, but Gerard can't see it.

"You're not  _ cake frosting. _ You're a knight." Maybe their Archivist is still flying high a bit, too.

\---

Breathe. He can do that. Martin gropes around in the air near Gerry’s side with his other hand, the one marked by Jon, trying to find the ends of his coat as his frantic breaths start to slow. 

A knight. Good Lord. He can’t even laugh at that, their early morning praises in the form of poems. Somehow it sparks something, too, some knowledge that isn’t, an idea. Drenched in Spiral lies but a truth nonetheless. 

Martin keeps it to himself. 

“I should go back to finding us a park ranger.”

\---

Gerard blinks and remembers to focus, to let Martin grab hold of his coat. It's an easy one; whether because clothes are different from flesh, or just because they all have decided that reality, which makes it easier, which makes it true, he doesn't know. It doesn't matter, if it works.

"Maybe a good idea," Jon says quietly, around a strange little frown and a slight cock of the head, and Gerard never knew he could sound so soft-spoken. Wow, he's thrown his lot in with some remarkably broken people. Fitting, perhaps.

\---

Rainbow assortment of gems and gold, he’s a knight for someone. Something. Martin wishes he could write that down now, but he’ll remember. He’ll make himself remember. He’ll handle that later. Instead, he orients himself again between them both, and soon his world stops turning wrong. 

Back to sniffing the wind. Martin lets go of them both at once to keep trekking slowly down the path that isn’t yet a trail. This is probably illegal. He wants to get them home. He wants to bring it all down to normalcy. There is no normalcy. “You two should get to know each other.”

\---

Gerard snorts, and Jon's expression turns focused, as they follow behind Martin.

"Don't have much choice, considering you're the keeper of my Book and we've got your Jon back, huh?" Gerard says it lightly, without bite.

"You want to come back to London with us?" Jon asks, and Gerard finally feels a little more settled on the Earth in the aftermath of... Whatever that Spiraled feeling had done to them. Grounded, so to speak, even if he can't feel the dirt.

"Sure. I'm not going back to Pittsburgh."

\---

Martin tilts to the crunching leaves beneath his boots, his self-made path to lead them home. This is going to be a problem. Maybe he’d like Jon to rip it all out of him. Much nicer way to exist with his face to the dirt. 

“At this point I’m pretty sure you can carry your Book, so it _ is  _ up to you. Might want to keep Elias’ hands off.”

\---

"I'd at least like to come home for a while. I think. I dunno. Never thought of London that way. But I'm sick of American highways."

"Well, you're welcome to.... To, you know. Stay with us." Jon gives him a smile, and then looks to Martin for confirmation.

\---

_ “Obviously _ you’re welcome to stay with us, pretty much saved my life. Animal control would’ve had me on day one otherwise.” 

Martin finds a break in the trees and pushes through it. There are tracks everywhere along the dirt road with thousands of footprints in every direction. He’s very happy about it. He chooses to start heading right.

\---

Jon's eyes light up as he watches Martin  _ move.  _ "Do you-- how does it work? You just Know?" His voice has a thick layer of excited curiosity to it, energetic and pursuing of knowledge and understanding. 

He understands the Hunt; as a preything. This side, the tracking, and the teeth and oh, he remembers how it controlled Daisy, and now Martin, bloody and feral and enraged... As much as he's seen it, he doesn't understand it. Not the way he understands the fear of pursuit.

\---

“Not the way you Know, not really,” Martin says distantly, “It was kickstarted to find you. So it’s easier to dredge it up if it’s in context for you. But, um, it’s more like I’m very, very aware of... smells, tastes, trails, p-paths.”

It makes him sound deranged, but he quells the thought. “It made me sick, then it felt really  _ good, _ and now it’s evened out, gone all mellow. Like if Knowing was in scent trails? I have to pick them out, but it’s mostly not... not conscious.”

\---

"Mine isn't, either. I-I mean. I can... Push, and find, and pull, if I want but I... Try not to." Jon worries at his wrists. Pushing means tempting the doors to open, the floodgates to open, the drowning to start. The temptation is stronger, this time. It was slower, weaker to build, the first time he did this all.

"Yours is.... Pointed, but instinctual." At least, that's how he's understanding it. Hm. As much as he hates that Martin is like this, it is useful.

"Wow. Lucky you, getting to know things that are convenient." Gerard scoffs. "Seems mine is-- a walking fucking dictionary. Or a zoltar machine."

\---

“Compelling is like pulling a little, yeah. I’m just a Pointer. Like the... never mind.” 

Martin scoffs back, but his is fake. Just to drive home how stupid it sounds to put himself down. “You’re more like a narrator. Dictionary is just spouting random words. Yours have purpose. It’s very helpful, but it’s against my morals to show Jon by asking you right now.” He rubs a hand over his face to stifle the smile growing there. “And I don’t know if I’ll still want to bite you if you hit me for it.”

\---

"It's not up to you if you bite me or not, now is it?" Gerard rolls his eyes, and his tone is mildly bristly.

There's so much, it seems, that Jon has missed. It's easy to see now, now that he's not... Whatever he was last night. He stifles the memory before it has a chance to rise to the forefront of his mind. He knows once he starts thinking he won't stop, and he's too tired, right now, to even try to attempt to digest it. To remember it.

\---

“What, don’t want to show Jon your  _ other _ power?” Caught in the trail at hand, it’s easier for Martin to fall back into this odd, pushy teenager banter. 

Something fundamental has also changed, within him and Jon as a unit. He feels freer, in speaking his mind. In just, well, existing. At peace with that. Jon’s stuck with him now. Nice catch, there.

\---

Gerard flashes him a petrified, angry look, his eyes blazing. "Martin." He says with finality.

Jon looks between them and pushes. Just a little. Just a small bit. Just enough. "Corporeality?" That earns a glare leveled at him, too.

\---

Martin shivers, hesitant. At first his answer is a stifled "Mmm..." until it caves in on itself. "Yes." 

He turns over his shoulder to glare at Jon with near-identical weight behind it.

\---

"... You two have  _ secrets _ now. You  _ know _ I don't like secrets, Martin." He crosses his arms, and doesn't even care how childish he looks.

\---

"It's not a secret," Martin says like he's unsure, gaze flitting once to Gerry and back again to Jon. "Well. Gerry can tell you about our trip while I-- Um, sniff out a park ranger." 

He returns to the trail at hand.

\---

"Gerard," Jon says with venom, and glares at him. There's an authority there that Gerard didn't see in their first meeting. And in their second... Well, there's a lot about that second meeting he hasn't quite processed yet. Black moonlit eyes reading his very soul and giving him permission to rest. "What is Martin talking about."

It's a question, but it's more than that. His form wavers, electrically filled with _ something,  _ and he knows without looking that his tattoos are glowing. He's never playing poker again. Nasty tell.

His mouth opens to speak, and he glares, Knowing all at once that this is one of the abilities Martin had spoken to him about. He tries to avoid it. He doesn't want to be  _ controlled. _

But something in what remains of his soul tells him to comply, and he resists, he resists, until it comes out in the most undignified manner possible, all but a squeak, strained and jerky and not at all what he wanted to say. "What do you think about spiritual polyamory?"

"About  _ what?!" _ Jon asks, and heat rises to his voice.

\---

Gerry, in his utter lack of trail to follow, is difficult to get a read on the way the Hunt's gifted him an inside look. If Martin isn't  _ looking  _ at him, judging up his body language, he can't sense much from him at all. 

Jon, on the other hand, is tense as a whip behind him, a weight to his voice that makes Martin terribly glad he's chosen to aim it at Gerry instead. It makes him want to roll over, which is embarrassing enough, but he can  _ feel _ the way Jon buckles down as Gerry resists. It gives Martin secondhand goosebumps all along his arms. 

The first word from Gerry's mouth has the pressure dissolving, but something frantic in a different way quickly replaces it. Wait. Hold on. 

Martin's own voice is very, very quiet. It's more of a response to the way Gerry's said it - vulnerability from someone he trusts, not a prey animal - but he's struck just as dumb. "Define -define that, please?"

\---

Gerry stops walking. He stabs his hands into the pockets of his coat and glares daggers down to the dirt. He has half a mind to just disappear and leave the two of them to bicker this out. He's pretty sure it would make Jon feel guilty, and leave Martin floating aimlessly, and something in him likes that he could produce that much control just from leaving.

Jon forced that from him. "I don't know! It's not exactly what I wanted to say! Your Archivist just forced me to speak."

He'd be blushing if he could.

"Gerard--" Jon starts, and at least he has the decency to look ashamed.

"No! No. Shut up. Don't do that again." It's all growled out. "It-- look. Have you heard of-- No, I'm not using that metaphor again. Fuck. Your boyfriend gave me a ghost handie in the woods. Okay? Ask him."

Jon just very slowly filters his gaze from Gerard to Martin.

\---

Fwip. That’s the sound control makes when it ends up in Martin’s hands. He turns to face them both head-on, wiping an arm across his nose to get rid of the distractions. 

He points one finger at Jon. “Don’t compel Gerry. He won’t lie, you can just ask like normal.” 

Then he has to stifle a laugh, because this whole situation is a bit ridiculous. He won’t indulge it. He refuses. “It’s like Heroin detox, apparently.” 

Okay, just a tiny bit. 

“I had a nightmare in the motel about you, and I woke up and couldn’t move. I called his name and that’s never summoned him before, and he ended up phasing in on the bed. With weight. Later, on our walk, I said, I said it was humiliating running around like a dog. And he said it was just as bad getting ghost-boners over touching anything, it’s not like he’s been able to feel as - as a ghost. Wow, am I giving a statement?”

He giggles again, like Jon’s eyes did all the work his Questions do. “Shit, might as well, right? Okay. I told him we could play sex tag. I thought it was funny! I wanted to chase something. And I told him I missed sex, because, well— You know. I do. I like... I get it. We didn’t play sex tag. We— I pretty much told him it was fine, it was normal, we’re not normal, he had command words for me not to go crazy before I found you. So it— I told him it was okay, we could see what it was like if he tried touching someone, just to see, and he tried to make himself... physical? I-I wanted him to get the chance, that’s sort of a really big development if - if he wants to stay here. I held his hand. It was nice. He’s sweet. I thought it was cute. Apparently it blew his mind. Like it was too much. But I think it helped him?”

The question is paired with a look at Gerry, this time. And then he tilts his head. Tries to make it something Gerry doesn’t have to answer, if that’s even possible. He’s not even sure what his tone is. Hopeful, uncertain, shy, embarrassed, attempting neutral. “You like me like that?”

\---

Throughout the entirety of Martin's speech, Gerard has his head in his hands. How mortifying. How utterly and ridiculously mortifying, in a way that cuts through the fine sheen of ghostly numbness like butter. He's pretty sure the only way to avoid feeling the full extent of how embarrassed, scared, and wanting he is would be by going to bed right here and now. And wouldn't that just answer Martin's question in the worst way possible. 

"You-- I. You thought it was cute?! I. Martin, I've never liked someone before. Okay? You sound like a teenage boy. Like. I don't even know what that means." He grimaces as he says it, like it's distasteful; it's true, he doesn't know the full extent of what it means to like someone, but it's almost, nearly a lie, because he's pretty sure he's learning, right now. 

He does not dare look at Jon and his terrifyingly intense eyes right now. The man is quiet, still, and Gerard can feel almost imperceptible static rising from his body. "Gerard likes you," He says, after a long, long beat of silence. "What are your feelings on the matter, Martin?"

\---

Martin's entire being has raised at least several degrees in temperature by the time Jon's focus turns back on him. This isn't his area of expertise by any means, romance as a concept is so foreign even he isn't entirely sure what he meant by the question. But Gerry likes him. Okay. It's a start.

He shifts awkwardly beneath the weight of Jon's words, both hands at the straps of his backpack. The buzzing in his head is harder to parse out, especially after the rest of his coherence the night before being used in its presence. It was natural to flow along with it, and it feels simple now. He has no reason to lie regardless, but it is satisfying to say it with an organization actively prodded from him. 

"I trust him with my life. He's doing things none of us ever heard of a ghost doing, and I think he can be more than that, and I want to be here for him to see that and - and give him a chance to test that. He's not obligated, and - and he still helps. Helps me. Us. I think he's a good person and he screws with me in a way I'm not used to but I like it, and I'm... sad... we didn't play sex tag." 

The front of his boot digs into the dirt while he looks down, shifting pebbles around aimlessly. He really is a teenager. So what. He'd never been allowed to be, the normal way.

\---

Jon is silent the entire time, because the flipside of compelling someone is that he's compelled to listen. He drinks it in, no matter the cost, no matter the subject, because it must be Known. 

The second Martin stops talking, he spits out, "Fuck," and the spell is broken and he's left with the realization that he compelled Martin as easy as breathing. Gone are the days of having to actually work at it. It takes more effort, now, to not compel, than it does to. He sits on the ground with a sullen huff, and it's not about the fact that Martin evidently isn't getting enough sex to the point that he wants to have sex with an incorporeal ghost that he met... Well, Jon isn't sure how long it's been, considering his last However Long has been a timeline of pain and fear.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Gerard throw his hands up at Jon, even as he looks to Martin with a shocked, surprised, confused expression. Jon ignores them and tries to quell the static in his ears. 

"I didn't know you actually wanted to fuck, Martin," Gerard is saying, and it's impossible to ignore. "Christ, being dead sucks."

\---

“Of course I did!” Martin starts, raising his voice in the commotion of it. “I always do! If I didn’t learn how to put it away, Jon would want me neutered! The Hunt didn’t even have to touch that whole mess, it already knew I was bad enough—“ 

His eyes find Jon, on the ground, and he’s here in a heartbeat. He’s still amped up. “Jon, it’s fine. I let it. I let you.” He’s not sure what that means, exactly, but he means it.

\---

"I don't want you Neutered, Martin-- I. Martin." Not only does he compel, but he's restricting his person and all at once everything is so, so, so very overwhelming and he's suddenly fed the image of Martin on the sand below him, and his own grin hungry and wild and possessive in a way Jon has never, ever felt before, and in a second, he's quivering where he sits in the grass, wanting that, hating himself, not knowing who he is. 

It's not the sex. It isn't. He wants Martin happy. He wants Martin in ways he just doesn't know how to process sometimes. It's the-- The memory, and the ease at which his powers are, and wow, his eyes, and the way he can see everything swirling around Martin and Gerry like a second skin, and now that he's thinking about Seeing he can see everything, everything around them. The dirt and the rot and the carcasses and the way the the wind brings pathogen and the way the sun looks down at them like a father and the trees whisper of disease and rot and impermanence and the animals live in fear of being hunted, and he Sees it all, and it is His for having Seen it, and--

"Oh my God." 

He curls over himself and vomits his meager breakfast into the thin August grass, planting his palms deep enough to feel where the coolness of the Earth meets the heat. His throat hates him for this, and the stiffness of the scabbing across a convulsing throat makes fresh blood prickle through the clots, and once again his senses are filled with blood, blood, blood, it's always blood.

\---

Jon lights up in the worst way possible, and Martin has to shield his eyes against it. Where he touches him in an act of comfort sends electric shocks down to his wrist, their wrist, whatever it is now, and Martin hisses behind his eyes at the fear bursting from him like—

Like blood. There’s blood. Jon’s just thrown up and there’s blood. Jon’s on the ground and he’s bleeding. 

Jon’s hands are in the dirt and his throat is open and he’s bleeding. “No— Wait— I’m sorry— Please don’t die. Are you— Are you okay? Gerry, the, the kit, in the bag, in my bag.”

\---

"Uh." Gerard is, for the first time in quite a while, struck dumb. Wow, he didn't realize what an outrageous mess Jonathan Sims was. Or, well, he could have guessed, based on everything Martin's said, but this is so, so, so much more than that. Jon is a trainwreck in the most addicting way possible. 

He wastes no time, and does not think twice about expending the energy to do what Martin says; even dead himself, a ghostly memory, the memory of Jon's mutilated throat pulsing blood down his front is not a very good one, and he'd very much like to clean this up and stop the bleeding. 

The static is so very loud right now, and the image of the moon visible in midday-- so uncanny, so eerie, and yet utterly natural-- brings itself to Gerard's mind. He shakes it away, and tears his eyes from Jon even though they want to stay plastered, and unzips the bag, faster than usual, getting the kit from where it's still on Martin's back out and reaching around to hand it off to him. 

"Has it even been cleaned properly, Martin?" His voice is hoarse, frantic. Is that one of Jon's superpowers? Emotional hurricanes that one can't avoid but be swept up into? And where would the Eye of that lie?

\---

“It healed over last night, when you came back, i-it healed over, I didn’t know it could still happen.” Martin’s hands rip from Jon’s body and it feels like ripping skin off, but then he’s frantic in his own quest to keep Jon alive like this is worse than a few beads of blood. What could it be on the inside? How does it look from there? Is it worse? 

He grips the antiseptic and the cotton, what’s left of it, with no reaction to the past. Just now. “Jon, don’t talk. Don’t say anything. Just hold still. Please.” 

As gentle as he can be, Martin bends down so he’s looking up at Jon’s throat despite the sheer brightness of it, however much it hurts his eyes his nose his everything to be so close. And he dabs at the flecks of blood gathering there with one hand, the other resting under Jon’s chin. This is a terrifying place to be.

\---

At least there wasn't enough water or food in his stomach to cause his spell to last long; he dry-heaves a couple time once there's nothing more to come up, and then all at once, Martin is there pressing cloth to his skin and he flinches from the pain of the alcohol, hissing thin between his teeth. He almost tries to scramble back, but his brain catches on quick that this is Martin, this is Martin, and something deep and instinctual that almost pushed itself from his eyes quells back down, and he focuses. 

Focuses on the dirt beneath his hands, focuses on the hand on his chin, lifting it just enough to gain access to his throat, and he bares it for Martin, to let him inflict this pain on him. He knows, logically, that he's cleaning the wound; it's hard, in this primal fear, not to think of it as something else. 

Jon's muscles tremble with the control it takes to stay still, but he does, and inch by inch the hot, burning sensation of his skin falls away, and he closes his eyes as tight as he dares, and lets Martin do this.

\---

It’s not so bad once he’s used to it. Once the panic gives way to care on both ends of the healing. “Thank you,” Martin whispers, refusing to unravel as he pulls back and does just that with the gauze. 

A ribbon of white across his throat, Martin loops it into place as comfortable as he can imagine it being. He’s not sure of a better way to go about this, he’s not trained in it, but he’s doing it with intent. 

After a brief pause, hand away from Jon’s throat, Martin huffs. Crisis temporarily averted, maybe, but it’s not the dignity he deserves. Jon, Jon, Jon. He pulls the scarf away from his own neck and rests either end over Jon’s neck, the back of his shoulders, but he doesn’t cover it. It’s an invitation freely given, not an obligation. “Can you - Can you maybe tap me, if you think you’re not about to die?”

\---

Even in the lull of a post-panic, the care Martin's given him exhausting him away from the swirl of a mind with too much to think about, Jon knows he's not going to die. Truth be told, he's not certain he's able to, from a mere wound, anymore. He doesn't think so. 

He reaches out, and it's not necessarily a tap, but more of a press, right in the center of Martin's chest, and he holds it there. The palm of his other hand still sits firm in the dirt, and there's a comfort in both of these things. The touch is a thank-you, as much as it's an acknowledgement that he's going to be alright. The ribbons strung around his neck is a strange sensation, but not an unwelcome one.

\---

The touch presses away Martin’s worry as two planks of food press the moisture out of a flattened daisy. 

Ugh. No more metaphors for you. He doesn’t dare pull away yet, but now he’s in a mood, one that’s always existed now amplified. He starts to pack up the kit, focused wholly on how to get them somewhere safe, now. “I’m carrying you,” he growls with finality, like this is deathly serious. “I wish I could call Michael. That’s a terrible idea.” 

He’s musing it out loud, as if searching for confirmation from anyone in the room with more sense than he does.

\---

"It's a horrible idea," Gerry confirms, still sounding a little mute-shocked at how quickly everything changes with these two. Once again, standing to the side, watching inwards. And how intense it feels, when he's been in the middle of this. How overwhelming. Michael would wreak havoc on them if he was here. 

Jon's eyes track the sound, and Gerry finds himself in a staring contest with Jon Sims, the Archivist, once more, but it's Jon who looks away first, his shoulders sagging in what can only be exhaustion. He glares at Martin, near bristling, but evidently gets the better idea, because his hand just clenches tighter against Martin, grabbing hold of his shirt and crumpling it.

\---

"Okay. Right. Terrible idea. A ride right to our own bed, cost of our sanity, sure." Martin packs up the bag around Jon's grip until everything is nicely zipped back into place. 

He's about to look so, so very stupid. And that's fine. He tightens the straps of the bag to their limit before lifting both his hands to Jon's at his chest, easing up his grip with careful nudges. "I'll put it on first on the front, and then I'll pick you up. Sound good?"

\---

Jon narrows his eyes, and he doesn't know how to communicate without talking, but he tries, wrapping a hand around one of the straps of the backpack. But then, sometimes Martin is willfully obtuse, so he rasps, "On my back." If he's not holding himself up, there's no reason for Martin to wear the backpack on his front. The words end on a cough; bad idea to talk.

\---

The softness of his eyes narrows to a glare as Jon talks, and immediately faces the consequences of it. "I heard you the first time, you awful-- Terrible--" 

Martin stands to grip the bag with the restless energy flowing through him now, and positions it at Jon's back. "If you can stand up with it, I'll pick you up from there. If you can't-- Hit me, or whatever you feel like doing. Just-- no talking. You're banned from talking."

\---

An argument would ensue if he wasn't so tired. If Martin wasn't right. He may have healed quite a lot, but evidently it's not enough. He has no idea how he managed to talk so much last night, how he managed to carry conversations this morning. It doesn't bear thinking about right now, though. 

Jon focuses on standing up, planting his hands in the dirt again and grunting with the effort to pull his feet under him. His knees protest, and he sways, but he's eventually standing. He's just a little woozy, is all. There's officially nothing in his stomach, not even water, and he's pretty sure he's hit his limits. 

"Not to sound like a broken tape recorder, but this is literally insane," Gerard says. Jon gives him a flat look.

\---

The second he sees Jon stable, Martin bends in front of him to give him the leverage he needs. "Arms around my neck, I can take care of the rest."

As he kneels low to the ground, Martin's eyes find Gerry. His voice is brand-hot with blatant refusal to work on changing his tone from the one he's been throwing at Jon. "Oh, but you're a part of it, Gerry. Looks like you're my unicorn after all."

\---

Gerard stares at him for a long beat, his expression flat. "I should go to bed for that comment and leave you here for that." His voice betrays him; instead of apathetic and and as flat as his expression, there's a stuttering quality to it, something nervous and flighty and not at all dismissive of the statement. 

For the comment, Jon thumps the back of Martin's head before looping his arms around his shoulders. He's being good; no talking. But god, does he fucking want to after that. What the hell is happening with his f-- He closes the thought before it starts.

\---

"Mm-- Ow, Jon!" The smack takes him out of what was about to be a nice banter aimed at Gerry, but Martin has work to do anyway. He hooks his arms under Jon's legs and hoists him up, finding him near-weightless beyond the bag's familiarity. That's not good, but Jon is safe, just injured. There is no catastrophe here. He can calm down. In fact, he has ample excuse to. 

Maybe he'd also like to distract them all from the pain and horror of the world around them. He's emboldened in his knightly take-charge position. "So, is that you telling me we don't have your blessing?"

\---

"Oh my God," Gerry mutters, his hands pulling on either side of his hair in exasperation. "Is this what you're like when you're not stalking prey? Jon? Is this what he's like when he's actually in a decent mood?" 

Jon slowly leans forward, just enough that his face is partially visible beyond Martin's profile, and he nods sullenly. Wow, he should have listened to Georgie in Uni and taken that sign language module. He thinks Martin might be evil now that Jon can't say shit back to him now. Taking advantage of a dead man's wound. Positively satanic.

He leans back then, just enough that he can rest his bony chin on Martin's shoulder, slumping in the hold to get as comfortable as he's going to get. In all seriousness, it helps; he didn't realize how bad he was hurting until he stopped moving. His feet are certainly not coping well with the past few days, and the prospect of walking does, now that it's an option not to, sound like torture round two.

It's almost nice not to have to talk, either. Some kind of social pressure lifted from him, even as Martin teases. He's so strangely compelled to talk and rant and stutter and excuse himself, that having it all fall away into a can't, not allowed is rather freeing. He can just rest. 

Awkwardly, but what does he do that doesn't qualify that adverb, he lifts one of the hands around Martin's neck upwards to rest momentarily into the curls of Martin's scalp, and pats him, allowing the grace of the amusement of the situation to be acknowledged and appreciated.

\---

Martin lets them have their fun at his expense now while they start their walk anew. It sends something fluttering up into his chest, warm and light and paid attention to in a way he's only ever learned to accept from Jon recently in his life. He never wants it to go away. The comfort of it all has a soft, continuous sound of contentment starting in his throat the second Jon's fingers touch his head. "Oh. I... I missed that." 

There's no heat to it, sappy plain and simple, and he forgets what he'd planned to throw back at Gerry. Rest assured it was good. Lost to the ether.

\---

Gerard watches them openly as they walk, unabashed in the way he watches them comfort each other, even when the comfort is full of soft jokes and light mocking. He'd seen it from Martin, but that was a ferocious, violent thing, the desperate act of a man who's lost his love. A love that Gerard had only seen once prior, when the air of the hotel room had been filled with a distracting tension, a strange heat, and his own surprise at being woken up had distracted him from what is evident in the display before him. 

He doesn't think he's really felt envy before, not in this way. And it's not even a poisonous, noxious thing, because his dead heart is still pushing through the fog at the way Martin evidently likes him. He has no hope for the clear, bone-deep display of love here; but he'd like it. Or perhaps he's just realizing it was a possibility. 

Regardless, it's nice. And he does like Martin, whatever that means. He does like Jon, too, but it's not quite the capital Like that his affections for Martin is becoming. Ugh. This is all so complicated. 

Jon's fingers tighten in Martin's hair, a response as much as he's going to be given, and Gerard smiles despite himself. This is what he has been helping Martin to reclaim. This is what had Martin in such a whirlwind. Maybe it was worth it, if it means they have this. If Gerard has this. A strange vein of gold running through the thickened and ancient fears that threaten to suffocate them; but that's enough talk of mud and stone and dirt. America has overstayed its welcome.


	35. The Art Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some art pieces to catch up on the America arc! All were done by rpgnc.tumblr.com unless stated otherwise. More to come for future arcs! <3

  
  
  



	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Home.

Other than the small confines of their quarters, the fact that it’s in their place of employment, the fact that they once bored worms out of each other’s flesh in this room, etc, etc, etc, the worst part of their bedroom is that there is no natural morning light to wake up to. Jon is  _ not  _ naturally a man to sleep in until eleven in the morning; but when there is no sunlight to remind him that the day is starting, it seems his body loses all track of time. 

And, of course, this morning is different. It’d been a long week. 

He’d tried to hide his eyes into Martin’s shoulder when they spoke to the park ranger he managed to sniff down, pretending to be asleep, or utterly shut down, or some other excuse the ranger would make non-verbally. Probably helped that Jon refused to speak.

And what an itinerary they had to deal with, the moment they returned to civilization. Tourists had milled about the guest center. It had been hard. Sunglasses were bought from the tourist trap in Yellowstone’s main office, and Jon had quite literally  _ actually _ shut down the moment he couldn’t hide in Martin’s back; his Sight was too much. So much noise, so many colors, so much stimulus, and he knows not all of it is the Eye’s gift-- Jon is no stranger to sensory overload, thank you-- but this was on a whole other level. Even if he  _ could  _ physically talk, he’s not sure he’d… really have been able to manage it.

Martin and Gerard, bless their souls, clearly managed to get them onboard  _ somewhere,  _ considering Jon had blinked and his cheek was pressed to the window of an air conditioned range rover, Martin’s fingers pressing against his scalp and idly stringing them through his matted, knotted hair. No longer full of blood, but lake-washed, and stinking, and  _ not _ clean. 

Gerard left at the airport, the moment the confused but genuinely kind soul of the park ranger had bid them a solid adieu and wished them luck. Luck in what, Jon had no idea; he didn’t particularly care to know about whatever lie Martin had weaved to get them here. He had just wanted to get home. 

Martin had touched Gerard’s cheek-- not physically, but just on the edge of where the memory of his face would start-- and thanked him. Gerard had brushed fingertips-- physically-- against the back of Martin’s hand and shivered, and then smiled at Jon, and had gone to sleep.

By then, he’d been calmer. No less on edge, but not the utterly shut down thing that belonged to the Eye in the back of some American car. The dark glasses seemed to help, at least  _ some _ form of barrier between reality and the truth and the chaos and the messiness and the overwhelming nature of the world as a whole. Human brains weren’t meant to carry all this stimuli. And even if Jon wasn’t human, his skull capacity was still rather limited.

Martin, too, had been on edge. On edge in a predatory and fearful way that Jon was still adjusting to. To him, aimed at him, this aspect of Martin was now a comfort; he felt safe with him. But it still hurt to see Martin jerk at the unexpected, track the movements of someone acting in a way that not even Jon knew would attract Hunting instincts. The doting was nice, but it was a catch-22; the flattering nature of being so loved juxtaposed with the knowledge that Jon was causing Martin duress by existing publically. How strange to process that. 

The plane was smooth, as far as Jon was aware. He slept through the majority of it, falling asleep on Martin’s shoulder as they flew over Nevada and waking up tilted on his side and laying his head in Martin’s lap when he woke up flying over Reading, close to landing. Martin had spent the trip with his headphones on, and Jon had been, as he always was, so content and comfortable with the silence the two of them shared during the periods they were awake together. 

It was all a whirlwind. Landing, taxi ride, home. Home, home, home. Without consulting Martin, he’d ensured they had water and food and blankets the moment Martin had dropped the bag in the office with the biggest of sighs, and locked the door behind them. It had been around 9 that night. Gerard’s Book had been laid upon the desk in the office space.

They’d shucked their clothes and thrown on clean ones and wordlessly climbed in bed together, and they had shaken, clutched to each other beneath golden sheets that smell like them, tears of relief and fear and pain and anguish and knowing, and understanding and a myriad of other emotions that neither of them knew the names for and probably never will, and they’d fallen asleep wrapped up in each other’s limbs.

It’s not even 11 when he wakes up; it must be nearly 1 in the afternoon. Jon doesn’t care, though. He keeps his eyes shut, and his hand splays across Martin’s chest to feel his heartbeat, and he just breathes. Breathes because he can, not because he must. He basks in this.

\---

Martin wakes into a world that is no longer upside-down, one where each morning is not a harsh jump into reality forced by suffocating nightmares. The day before is as much a blur as the ones before it, if only because he’s _ just woken,  _ his head cottony with the most basic of bliss he’d forgotten about as though feral. 

Maybe he had been, for a minute. 

Just a minute. 

He’s facing the door in body but not eyes, still holding himself in blessed darkness with Jon pressed up against his back and shielded between Martin and the walls of the room. Despite the warmth present and obvious, Martin still stretches his arms along the empty portion of the bed like he’s  _ looking  _ for him on the bed sheets. Not awake enough to have intelligence about him, he huffs his disdain for not finding Jon there to pull closer. Making him turn around and everything. 

He starts to do just that but Jon’s hand is on his chest, and Martin’s not about to deny him that, so he stays where he is. His voice is hoarse with sleep. “I’m incapacitated.”

\---

Jon's hand slides up Martin's chest the moment he speaks, eyes still closed, until he finds his cheek clumsily and pats it sleepily. "Woe is you," he mumbles, and his voice is sleep-thick and still scratchy from all that's happened. 

It's worst when he first wakes up in the mornings, evening out throughout the day, but now? After _ absolutely _ nearly twelve hours of sleep straight, his throat hurts mildly. Not enough to do anything about it, but enough to thicken up his voice.

He slowly pulls his hand back, so Martin can turn and face him.

\---

Martin takes the invitation and flips, nudging Jon backwards enough with a hand so he can get an arm around him and a leg between both of Jon’s. He’s partly on top of him, all for the simple satisfaction of nuzzling under the side of Jon’s face. 

Muffled against him, he finally sighs dramatically. “How are you so warm?”

\---

"Mm," Jon hums, and slowly opens his eyes, opened to half-slits. He rubs his face against Martin's breathing in his presence. The colors wrapped around him right now are soft, muted, downy and almost watercolor, and Jon wants nothing more than to sink his fingers into them, to feel Martin's very essence. "Just am. Always have been. Even as a kid."

\---

Martin hums, returning the gesture with his own admittedly more pushy one. “You should keep it like this,” he says with his cheek against Jon’s jaw where his stubble has grown out into something far more satisfying to press against. “I like it.” 

His eyes open just a smidge, but it’s enough to have him suddenly very conscious of their surroundings. All at once he sits up, thighs on either side of Jon’s knee and hands dipping into the mattress at his sides. His hair is a mess, eyes wide and awake. “We’re home.”

\---

"We are," Jon says around a yawn; he is not awake all at once, and is going to coast this blissful sleepiness as long as he can. He reaches up idly, having to brace himself a little higher on his lower arm and elbow to reach, pawing at the mess of Martin's curls with a smile.

"You're not as red today. In your--" He lowers his hand to make a fruitless gesture at his whole body, the surroundings. "You know. At least right now."

\---

Nearly lulled back into bed by his touch, Martin has to keep himself from chasing after it once he starts making hand signals. 

He blinks like Jon’s spoken another language. “What does that mean, again?”

\---

Jon snorts. "Think it's different for everyone. For you.... Calmer. Not on the _ Hunt.  _ A lull." Demon that he is, he lets his hand drop and rest on Martin's thigh, idly rubbing it, the very picture of contentment.

\---

“I already caught you,” Martin grins for effect, absolutely living it up with this sharp new development. It’s all very Fantasy-Movie. He’s still not looked in a mirror. He wonders if that’s the only thing different. 

Well, on the outside, maybe.

He lowers his gaze to where Jon’s hand is, eyes drooping with his own Jon’s-Presence-Fueled calm. “And you’re making me not want to get  _ up.” _

\---

_ "I _ don't want you to get up," Jon whines, and he presses his forward into Martin's body from where he's still laying on his side. "'M comfy." Petulant? Jon? No, never.

\---

“That’s not fair. You know  _ I  _ don’t want to.” Martin stays where he is, refusing to budge. Guess he’ll have to be the voice of reason here. It’s an impossibly tough job, getting them both out of bed. “Be honest. Do I need a haircut?”

\---

Jon shifts to look up at him, and he says, "A trim. Or a style, maybe. Unless you want to grow it out. But you still need to even it out." He reaches up again, bracing himself on his arm again, to tug at the hair at the back of his head. "Mullet." 

Like he's one to talk with the unwashed bed head he's sporting right now; stray strands fly everywhere on his head, and the days upon days of no washing have finally caught up to the appearance of it.

\---

“Ah— Don’t pull.”  _ Mullet. _ It’s not a  _ mullet _ . Martin scoffs, shifting better on his knees so he can wind both hands gently into Jon’s hair. “It’s the longest I’ve ever had it. And I wish we had a tub.”

\---

Jon sighs in longing. "Me too. I hate the showers here." He feels a soft peal of giggles pull up. "Damn. We were in America and didn't even go to a bathhouse."

\---

“There are bathhouses in America? What, like the Romans?”

\---

Jon blinks, and pulls in a breath, and  _ almost _ starts ranting, but it's way too early, and so he just says, "...Yeah, Martin. It's where you go when you're gay." He pulls himself back down to nuzzle against Martin's body again, and says around a sleepy laugh, "Know your herstory."

\---

Well, someone’s off to a weird start. Martin falls back to the bed at Jon’s side and sighs, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “I’m not gay.”

\---

Jon gives him a flat look. "Bisexual men count, Martin. God. You don't know  _ anything." _

\---

Martin’s eyes narrow into a harsh squint. “I know more than you about a few things.”

\---

"Mmhm. Yeah. The nasty stuff." He laughs into him again. "Except historical cruising culture, I guess."

\---

“It’s not  _ nasty,  _ Jon.” Martin hides his face at Jon’s neck. Somehow he always has makes him into some blushing virgin for the most basic of insinuations about sex. “It’s just bonding.”

\---

"I  _ know _ what it is, Martin. Oh my God. I'm just joking." He raises his head to blink at Martin. "It's funny, is all."

\---

“It’s only not funny because I’m - I’m pent up and moody, and it’s not  _ gross  _ for me. Nothing you do is gross.” Wow, he’s not trying to sound grumpy. Yet here he is.

\---

"I'm sure there's  _ some _ things I do that are gross." Jon squints at him. "I'm not  _ perfect." _ He's hardly even decent.

\---

“Not to me.” Martin’s hand wraps around him again, and damn it, they’re stuck in bed. He loves it. “Don’t make me use my new growl at you.”

\---

"Oh, make you, huh? Now I might have to." He snorts, Which undermines the slight flirtatious tone to his voice. "I'm  _ not  _ perfect," He continues, a little more seriously.

\---

We’ll have to be strict about invoking these things. Right. Martin scrunches up his nose at Jon’s neck and growls from deep in his throat, hoarse from both lack of water and the strain on his vocal cords to put genuine force behind it.

\---

Jon laughs against him, but it's not mocking. It's light, and flutter, and wow. Alright. He wiggles back enough to give Martin a full on look, and then laughs again. "Alright. That should  _ not  _ be as attractive as it is."

\---

The noise starts to fade but it’s not an immediate stop, like it’s hard to bring it back down once he’s started. “It makes me seem intimidating. I kind of like it.”

\---

"Mm. It makes you sound strong. Protective." He presses against him tighter. "Think I like it." Even if he's upset about it.

\---

“I like that you like it, your majesty,” Martin says with a short laugh, words drawn up that he’s not sure he’s ever said. There it is again. Connection without connection. Understanding without understanding. Why does that keep happening? “I think sleeping in our own bed again made us delirious.”

\---

_ "You,  _ maybe." Jon says, and he's squinting a little, the pet name giving him the slightest of pauses, due the sheer strangeness of it happening when he's not even being bitchy. "I feel less delirious than I've been in a week."

\---

“That’s good,” Martin huffs through a smile, trying to sit up again. “We have so much to figure out today. No one knows we came back, right?”

\---

"No. Elias, maybe." Jon grunts and starts to sit up himself, and he stretches his arms high over his head to get the pops and cracks out of it. "We weren't supposed to be back for another week."

\---

“Well, just a chance to get our story together. Same page and everything.” He has to pull his eyes away from Jon, or else he’ll start focusing on all the little details he never noticed before. “And... make a cushion for the inevitable fallout of all these new morally ambiguous  _ developments.” _

Gerry has made him more confident, hasn’t he? What a strange world to live in.

\---

"I need to get nicer glasses. At least  _ your  _ developments are subtle." He pauses. "I'm not going to  _ lie.  _ Elias'll find out, and I promised Tim. Sasha..." He purses his lips. "Well, I imagine she knows by now. And it'll be good if everyone knows about the hunters; you left Julia alive."

\---

“I’m not talking about lying. I don’t... I don’t think I  _ can  _ anymore. Um.” 

Martin scratches the back of his neck through his nerves. “It’s not that subtle. I think it’s just because... because I’m here with you. It’s... someone laughed in an IHOP and Gerry had to auditory slap me so I didn’t slip into a blind rage, I think. So. Not really _ convenient.” _

\---

Jon hums, thinking. "I never saw Daisy that bad. Not really. This is more Hunt than I've seen. I mean... We're usually  _ here _ so at least we're not... Out there? With other people, that often?" He doesn't know.

\---

“We’ll see. Gerry might... um, be helpful with that. If it does come up. I don’t want him to think he’s just here to be  _ used,  _ though, I think—“

Martin reluctantly stands, searching for something comfortable to put on. “We should get in the habit of asking if he wants to come out, just— Not for any reason, just to exist. If you’re okay with that.”

\---

"I think that's fair. Make him feel as human as possible. And he-- he's got  _ words  _ for you? You mentioned it." He doesn't understand it all the way. Maybe he could push and Know, but there's no need.

He stays sitting for the moment, his hair a bird's nest and his eyes still blinking the last of his sleep away. "I'm not doing anything until I get clean. I smell like a lake, still."

\---

“If you can figure out how to shower without anyone noticing you’re here,” Martin mumbles almost to himself as he works a belt buckle over pants that  _ should _ fit right around his own waist. 

And then he thinks, and thinks, about the best way to word this. “I wanted to be prepared for when we came across people again. Gerry’s voice has this - this ghost-static to it, so it’s easier to pick up on in the  _ noise. _ And I figured i-if I was moving over to instinct, I needed... grounding, maybe? Words I already had, um, associations with. Conditioned. You have no idea how hard it is for me to not sound like I’m some terrible dog-human Frankenstein creature.”

\---

"Well, it's all kind of... Werewolfy, right? I had a friend, who was a Hunter. She reminded me of that." He sits, and thinks, and watches Martin get dressed, his expression lost in thought. "The Hunt already plays with instincts, and conditioned responses. It makes sense you could...  _ induce _ it."

Jon slides over the edge of the bed, landing softly on his feet and stretching again, stretched high enough to show ribs still slightly bruised and skinny. He looks through the dresser for a hoodie; he doesn't mind being seen, so long as he can hide his eyes from prying faces outside the Archives. Something deep inside labels that a lie, and declares it despicable that no one Knows what he's become, that he shouldn't be ashamed of this ascension. He ignores that. It's still easy to.

\---

_ “Werewolfy. _ Guess they are real.” 

He shouldn’t ruin this. Their morning. But that’s not fair, it shouldn’t be up to his lie of omission. Martin reaches over Jon to the dresser and pulls out one of Jon’s baggier ones, just to place it over his own head. It fits fine, but it’s more about the smell. Warm blanket of comfort. Then he pulls back, to sit on the edge of the bed and speak up. “Do you remember anything about that night, on the lake?”

\---

All at once, Jon stiffens where he stands, the fabric of a hoodie held clenched in his hand. He doesn't know why, it's just there's something  _ there  _ and it sends something akin to thick panic clawing up his throat, and he has to push it down like unpressed clay.

"... Some."

The milky way had stretched above them, swirling in eyes that had died. The feeling of something grand entering him, becoming him, becoming something new and old and endless, squashed deep, deep inside him with his permission. Water lapping around weak legs made strong again. Hand pressed to hand. And that's just what comes when he tries with what remains of his human brain.

"Impressions. I..." He swallows. "I don't know if I want to."

\---

“I do. I’m...” What was that, Michael said, about his waffling? He’d likely be lost to the Spiral right now, dreaming he was a vicious animal in the hallways of a broken mansion that never ends. Maybe he’d even be happy about it, sometimes. Never have to commit to a decision outside the most basic of hysteric impulses. Even now, it’s still very tempting. 

Probably because he’s branded by it, now. “I want you to remember it the way I do. Jon, I-I didn’t mean to bring it up so soon, but it  _ matters  _ to me, um, more than the rest of our trip, a-apart and together. I don’t think either of us can really bury things anymore.”

\---

Jon is quiet, and still. Slowly, agonizingly slow, he pulls the hoodie over his head, keeping the hood wrapped securely around his scalp. He pulls wayward strands of hair inside it.

"I want to remember you," He says at length, and turns to look at Martin, and his eyes are wide, pupils jumping to take in everything, all the stimuli they can in this new field of vision. "I don't know if I-- if I  _ can _ remember myself." He shakes his head slightly. "I don't know if it was me."

\---

The corners of Martin’s mouth twitch upwards, like he’s trying not to smile. “Of course it was you, Jon. You laughed at my horribly timed jokes. Anyone else would have vaporized me on the spot.”

Oh, he really doesn’t know how to handle this. It hurts Jon enough to get him throwing up snack bars and re-opening throat wounds. If anything, Martin’s the one who got off easy. “I’m not afraid of you.”

\---

"It was--" Jon twitches, and cuts himself off. Martin's probably right. He's just repressing. It just hurts because of the gravity of it all. Of course it was him. 

"Okay. Okay." He drops it. He wants to drop it. Thinking about it too long makes him panic again. Emotions begin to leak in that seem foreign and it hurts, in a strange over-capacity way, like there's too much, too much, and he doesn't want to let the too much turn to  _ flooding. _

\---

“Jon. One step at a time. You’re lighting up.” Martin quells his own panic, because his panic won’t solve this, his panic can’t fix whatever parts of Jon are hurting so bad he can’t look back on his own lived experience. In a funny sort of way, Martin  _ understands. _ He’s spent a good portion of his life sleepwalking. He doesn’t want to anymore. 

But Jon’s panic makes his own senses spiral into something he can’t control too well, right now. Martin can’t sink his teeth into _ this, _ it’s not substance. 

“Just— Don’t go back there _ looking _ for whatever you’re afraid of being, obviously that’s just going to make you feel  _ guilty _ without even knowing what you’re upset about. Can I show you?” Martin slowly waves a hand in front of him, the one that’s now technically theirs.

\---

"Show me? Show me... What?" Jon asks, but he immediately takes Martin's hand, his eyes still wide.

\---

“What we did. Um, if I can.” 

Magic, magic, stupid  _ magic.  _ Martin doesn’t know how to act like a Satanist, but this is a different thing, and he’s already been playing around with it, maybe he just has to try. 

They just have to try. They’re already too far gone, too many ‘yes’s in, to do anything else but try. Shape things the way that feels best, stick to the principles that glue them together. The good ones, anyway. Martin never had ‘kill a man’ on his list of never-Evers to begin with. 

Martin slides his hand further down so his palm is over Jon’s wrist, and he shuts his eyes. One thing. Pick one thing. Where to start? 

He tries to imagine how it felt, standing in the water before Jon’s open palms, to be told from Jon’s mouth that  _ you _ have _ the most beautiful person. _ How warm the water was, how Jon’s conviction in that moment, that acceptance of who he was in Martin’s eyes did profound things to Martin’s heart.

\---

Jon shivers at the touch. It's warm and electric, and before he knows, he Knows what's going to happen. What he knows of Elias' gifts, he knows this isn't how his work. This isn't Memory, fed deep into his mind without his consent. This isn't image, after image, after image of pain. 

It's just a reminder. A small electric impulse that runs down his arm. Impressions, Jon had said, and it'd been a partial lie, but it's not anymore. It's a strange emotional context, and he remembers, albeit through a strange haze, like it's him but not, two people at once, on person giving in to something else. 

_ You're _ my _ person,  _ Martin had said, and some of it trickles in, more and more as he opens himself to it. 

There is something seriously, massively wrong with these memories, but with Martin's gentle guidance, a gentle palm upon his recollections, it's easy to ignore. It's just him. Him and Martin, sacraments to the sky. Him and Martin, bathing one another in the waters as Jon's throat mended together, and Martin's gut wound didn't. 

Jon pulls back, and immediately moves to sit on the bed next to Martin, never taking his hand away. It grounds him in a way. It's  _ Jon.  _ Martin tells him so. Beauty above them, beauty below the waves, and beauty in front of him in the form of Martin, as his life came back to him in moonlit acceptance.  _ Yes _ he'd said, but he'd also said yes to Martin. And that is significant. 

_ "Oh," _ is all he manages to say.

\---

"It was... really nice," Martin says through a nervous laugh, "but, um, I-I mean, to be _ fair,  _ I was also very Hunter-y, and I'm pretty sure I got all weird about the moon. But we were both weird about the moon."

My Lord, does he suck at expressing romantic attachment. "More happened, but I think that's sort of... sort of the  _ vibe, _ there. I don't think it was bad. You even said it felt better than before, you know, the first time. The first time you died."

\---

"Probably because I feel closer to the Eye, this time. I don't know why." He pulls in a heavy, loaded breath. "I remember feeling good. Really good. Loving you. Loving being back. I don't know-- I don't know why it's all  _ hazy." _

\---

“Mm. Maybe it’s because you’re a Virgo. Or the fact that you just  _ died,  _ Jon. It might be, you know, you asked the Eye for help and you were channeling it? Like I couldn’t talk, I wasn’t _ able  _ to, in the cave. Then it came back. The, um, the parts before you died are hazy for me. So it’s not just you. Just... different.”

\---

Jon squints. "The cave? Virgo? Martin, you just  _ say _ things sometimes." Wait. "Oh, God. This is retribution for me constantly spoiling the future for you, in the beginning, isn't it."

\---

“Gerry taught me about astrology.”

No, that’s not right. “Gerry weaponized astrology against me and it was a significant part of my descent into madness. I’m not  _ punishing _ you, Jon, I’m just trying to... to explain. We were in a cave, when you died? In the woods.”

\---

He pulls back and his eyes are nearly slits with how narrowed they are now. "It was a basement." He blinks. "You're not supposed to use astrology like that."

\---

“Don’t look at me like that. It was a  _ cave.  _ I picked up your trail near the Institute and then I went into the woods, and I found a cave. That’s where they had you. There was mud, lots of rocks everywhere.” 

Martin tilts his head. “I’m not using it. He was making a big deal out of me being a Cancer.”

\---

"Woods in the middle of the Institute? Martin, it-- is this a Hunt thing? We were in artifact storage. It was--" He blinks. Blood on the concrete, knife against his throat. Blank statue eyes staring at him as he fell away, pain clogging even the clarity of a few more looks at Martin.

His voice is strained. "It wasn't the woods."

\---

“Jon, I—“ Well, shit. “I walked for  _ hours. _ Through the dirt. With Gerry. I  _ picked up  _ a rock and threw it at that - that lady. It was real. I... I think it was. I was covered in dirt. Wasn’t I?”

\---

"It was a  _ bust.  _ I saw that part.  _ My  _ eyes don't lie." He purses his lips, and slowly pulls himself off the bed; now that it's not all about  _ him,  _ it's so, so much easier to feel stable. "I mean-- werewolves and all. I suppose, you know. Something... Something primal about the woods. Blood in the dirt, etc. What a peculiar symptom."

\---

Martin stays where he is, running a thumb over where Jon had kissed his wrist. “It felt real. You didn’t answer, about the dirt. I know I washed it off. Well,  _ you _ did, you wouldn’t let me.”

\---

Jon doesn't look at him. He goes back to the dresser to find a pair of sweats, since he'd stripped them off as they went to bed, not wanting to deal with the mid-night hassle of waking up sweating and hot. Once they're pulled up over his waist, he pushes the drawer back in with his foot, but doesn't look at Martin. 

_ "You _ weren't. I--" He inhales sharply. "Technically neither was I. It was... Ah. Memories, of mine. I suppose I sent them to you, on accident. Was it dreams? It... That happens."

\---

“I had... I had nightmares. Not because of you. I was already stressed. When I talked to Michael, he said— That’s a bit of a blur, too. Your trail, Michael’s trail, they’re different. Yours was all rust, mud,  _ blood. _ It’s what I smelled for days, but... But it felt real. At the end.” 

Martin’s breath catches. “Why aren’t you looking at me?”

\---

"Because it wasn't real. it was just-- Just memories. It--" His voice is still. "I didn't want you to feel that. I'm sorry. The mud-- The. I'm sorry." Even now, he has to keep his mind under control, not to wander into the deep depths of the earth and languish there, fall away into a dissociative stupor as dirt fills his lungs. He and Daisy got out, had to, managed to; on the road, with Julia and Trevor, it was different. He wasn't trying to. It made things easier, in a way. A familiar horror, but muted, only terrifying and panicked when he thought about it. So he didn't. 

Jon finally turns, and does look at Martin, and his expression is firm. He's trying not to think too much about it. But it's hard, when it's brought  _ up.  _ "They would... Step on m-my throat, to keep me from talking, and I would... Would go to the Coffin."

\---

Martin stretches out both hands, trying to beckon Jon near him again. It hurts, being so far away. Not wanting to breach his space. Martin was controlled in a different way. His voice is hoarse again, as if stepping down a layer into where he’s gone before. “I saw. That’s why I went for his throat, don’t be sorry. Come here?”

\---

Jon watches him for a long moment, and then blinks. "I need to shower." He'll think too much, if he stays in the room right now. Martin wants to talk about this. Martin wants to think about this. And there's things he Knows but should and things he wants to Know but doesn't, and it's all swirling, swirling, and he wants to watch the smell of grease and lake and hiking from his skin before he does  _ any  _ of it.

\---

Okay. Martin doesn’t say that, but he tries to present that into the space between them. When he closes his hands in on himself it’s not a motion of spurned rejection, but an acceptance. “Do you want company?”

\---

Jon slowly, by increments, lets go of the tension, the seriousness of this conversation. He thinks of the feeling of touching Michael's brand upon Martin's flesh, the strange lightness that he felt, and he tries to use some of it. His voice is marginally lighter. "No more mud talk. I can do astrology, though." That's as much of a 'yes' as he's managing now.

\---

"Okay. Is it the weekend? Are-- Are people in the office? We can talk about astrology, not that I know much, but... I can make it up. If it helps." Just a little bit of clownery. Might lighten up everybody's spirits.

\---

"You know, I don't k--" Jon pauses. "It's Saturday. No one in our department is here. Ah-- Katie, the, uh, one of the librarians, she's taken her vacation this week, too." He blinks somewhat, twitching slightly. "Anyways, I'm an Aries moon."

\---

"Oh, you and Gerry," Martin sighs, deciding not to push that one. He's learned his lesson the hard way, with a kick to the shin and a face full of snot and road dirt. "We can walk out without being seen, so that's good. Lead the way, and-- How do I, erm, figure that out?  _ Moon  _ sign?"

\---

Jon opens the door to the office, pulling on-- oh blessed fucking day-- his favorite pair of open-backed slippers. He takes a moment to relish in the feeling of his feet actually  _ protected, _ after a week of walking on hard gravel, concrete, thrown in cars, and feeling so very, very vulnerable. It's fine. It's fine. 

He glances back at Martin, and without the usual squint in his eyes, it's clear that his pupils dilate a little, almost birdlike in the way they bounce wide and then jump back to normal, for the lighting. "I usually use websites to find out. But you're a Pisces Moon."

\---

Martin very much enjoys the view of Jon finding comfort in the simplest of places. Not like he's in any position to judge, considering he's now wearing one of Jon's pullovers and it's snug in the best way possible. When they hit the office, Martin trailing behind him, he spares a glance over to the desk where Gerry's book sits quietly. Politely, almost. 

"And... what does  _ that _ mean? Gerry spent-- I'm only telling you this under the condition that you never call me this-- Gerry spent a decent amount of time calling me a _ crybaby  _ for being a Cancer, s-so, please say something nice."

\---

Jon snorts, despite himself. "That's like-- Martin, I have to imagine he was joking. It's like a-- a joke. A meme? Cancers cry a lot? Is the joke. But I mean, it's not like it's real. It's supposed to be fun." He opens the main office door for Martin once he unlocks it. 

"Uh... oh, it's been a looong time since I've thought about these. Uh-- Protective? Moody. Guided by their emotions. Caring, resistant to change. Hm. There's loads more, but it all depends on what source you're looking at. And, I mean, according to a lot of people, my readings might be a bit  _ sterile,  _ considering the whole Virgo thing." He looks back to flash a smile at Martin; this kind of mindless fun magic is easier than the real stuff.

\---

"I know it's not real. I was in a  _ very  _ bad mood, and we weren't really friends yet. I almost tried to kill him for it. Now it makes my mouth taste bad just to say it." 

He's seething from the back as he says it, but it whips around to a smile in a flash once Jon turns. Light of his life. "What, you?  _ Sterile? _ Hard to believe, Jon." He's not giving Jon a chance to come up with some other ghastly nickname. No one's calling him  _ Moody _ next.

\---

"Don't be rude when you've  _ just  _ complained about being called a crybaby, Martin," Jon says loftily, and slides his gaze away in a pointed smile. "Which you aren't, for the record I've  _ definitely _ cried more than you since I came back."

\---

"It's different, you don't-- I don't know if-- I haven't thought about much else than you, recently, so I don't have much of a reason to cry." Oh, Martin, don't foreshadow yourself into a mess. It's unbecoming. "Maybe you should have Gerry tell you what it was like. B-being around me. I wasn't all that... pleasant."

\---

"A Hunter? Unpleasant? Color me surprised." It  _ is _ hard to imagine Martin that way, but-- No, actually, it isn't. He saw him, in the basement of the institute. He saw him and the blood in his eyes and the swirling fog around his being, and the fierce determination and bloodlust that was embedded into his pores. But he doesn't want to talk about that. "I told you; I had a friend, who was one. She wasn't exactly  _ pleasant." _

\---

“You seem to think all  _ my _ new Hunter parts are pleasant.” Martin tries to keep it light-hearted, away from the implications he’s drawing from that which he knows he  _ shouldn’t  _ be. That he’s no longer pleasant. Obviously, that’s not true. He feels decently lovable. At least by Jon and... well, Gerry. And Michael. 

Okay, so he is. “Must’ve been, a-at least a little, if Gerry decided somewhere along the way that he _ liked _ me.”

\---

"Of course you're  _ pleasant,  _ Martin, I don't think you could... Not be, at least.... partially? It was a joke. You just growl now. It's--" He dredges up the word. "I like the juxtaposition."

\---

Jonathan Sims is a dark temptress encouraging his new little violent pleasure in what he’s doing right now, growling low and faux-threatening in the empty halls of the Institute. He’s barely managed to pull it back down by the time he speaks, giving a nice little live example. “I’ll make us some  _ genuine _ tea after our shower, if you’d like that.”

\---

Sure, Jon shivers, and right in front of Martin too, so there's no way to hide it. Bastard Martin. Maybe he should have said no to allowing him in the shower with Jon. He manages to make it to the elevators before saying anything. "Tea sounds good." He stabs the button for down. "It's not fair that you get to growl, now, and  _ I _ probably lost a full third of my singing range."

\---

Martin is content with the satisfaction, for now. “I did also have to... No, I’m not getting into a debate over who has it worse. I’m sure the teeth will end up causing more harm than good, considering I’m not really  _ aware _ of them. I’ve pricked my tongue at least twice this morning alone. And I’m sure your voice is still lovely, Jon.”

\---

"They're  _ that _ sharp? And it's not like it matters. I don't exactly  _ sing." _ He snorts.

\---

Martin hums, both hands held behind his back. Like that somehow makes him polite, here. “Guess you’ll have to find out.”

\---

"Oh, will I?" Jon's not blushing. He isn't. He really isn't. The doors to the lift open. Alright. He is. He missed this, though. Missed Martin in every profound and every domestic way.

\---

“Mhm.” Martin laces the end of his hum with a near-purr, not a whole growl, from what he’s learning is some new kind of muscle— Not literally, it’s still his body, just one he’s never known he could flex, sort of, because he couldn’t. “Anytime, Jon. Say the word and I’ll be happy to show you. I’m pleasant like that, right?” 

He brushes his shoulder up against Jon’s, content with the contact. So, so good, all-around. Worth it.

\---

"Mm. So pleasant." The elevator begins its descent downwards. "Nothing until I shower and feel like a person again. I can't believe I thought a  _ lake  _ was an acceptable bathing solution. In a place with volcanoes, no less."

\---

“You seemed pretty confident about it, and I walked in with an open knife wound. Turned out fine, we made it  _ magic  _ water.” Martin splays one hand over the center of Jon’s back, shaking slightly like he’s gone _ far  _ too long without touching him despite being roughly an inch apart.

\---

"Oh, yes, irresponsibly frying our brains on spiral thought patterns. Totally fine," Jon snorts. He straightens slightly, clearly happy that Martin is touching him again.

\---

“I’ll fry  _ your  _ brain,” Martin says thickly, like that makes any reasonable amount of sense. “You’re the one who keeps touching it.” 

His hand dips lower to slide back up Jon’s shirt, content with his palm flat against his lower back. Has he always been this touchy? Has Jon always been this  _ warm? _

\---

Jon forgets about the bubbling irritation, because Martin is touching him, and his hand is cool, and it just about short circuits any thoughts he had before.

The elevator comes to a stop and Jon steps out and  _ doesn't _ bitchily say that if they fail in the ritual, Martin's absolutely going to wander the hallways forever he's pretty sure Martin must know already. He  _ does _ bitchily say, "Well I'd like to not avoid one of your  _ hands,  _ Martin."

\---

“You just don’t touch it trying to loop off the Spiral, Jon.” Martin rolls his eyes to himself as he walks briskly out with him, following along in his shadow on a lead. “We’ll just be careful about it. All of them.”

\---

"Right." Of course, Martin's right. Jon won't deny that. And it's not Martin's fault that once again, Jon has missed nearly a week of context to bridge him into this new normal, a new normal where Gerard and Michael exist in their lives far more entwined than he imagined, a new normal where Martin feeds from the Hunt and feeds it in kind. 

(A new normal where he knows the solution to the Hunt but dares not speak it aloud.)

He feels a new hatred run deep in him towards Trevor and Julia, who did this on  _ purpose. _ Just to laugh. Just to have fun. They'd wanted Martin mindless, erratic,  _ changed,  _ confident in their abilities to overtake him in the end and still get a kick out of the valiant efforts of an infantile Hunter.

He feels lost and wavery, and it's like when he woke up from his coma all over again. It's the opposite of going back in time. No context, just a new reality that he has to adapt to. No context, just small prickles of fear that tell him that he, too, is changed and he hardly has the context for it. 

Jon's fingers drift to brush across his throat as he walks towards the employee gym. He almost wants to  _ squeeze,  _ to feel that charged pain and be grounded. But he doesn't; Martin wouldn't like it.

\---

Martin watches Jon’s back, something gently unpleasant buzzing at the edges of his silhouette. Somehow, he imagines the static as a swarm of tiny, microscopic eyes. It puts Martin on edge, the soft glow of Jon’s being forced away by  _ something _ to gnaw at him. 

He almost thinks to shoo it away with a hand, but it’s not really there. Just prickling sensation.

“You’re thinking loudly. What is it?”

\---

Jon wants to brush him off; it's hard, sometimes, to figure out if Martin's going to make a big  _ thing  _ out of what he says or not, and he generally errs on the side of caution. But it wouldn't be fair to him. So he shrugs as mildly as possible, and says, "Just how often everything changes when I'm removed from the picture."

\---

“Removed?”

The word pins up in the air to be examined, and after a brief moment of quiet, Martin sucks in a breath. 

“You change plenty when you’re  _ in _ the picture. But— You never left mine. I can catch you up and I-I think you’ll understand.”

\---

"I'll  _ understand, _ but it doesn't make it-- It becomes  _ uncanny. _ And it keeps happening." He purses his lips, and now that he's talking, it's hard to stop, because he's thought of it and his words are loose, and it hurts his throat to keep it all  _ in.  _

"I mean-- The first time I died, and I woke up, and it was six months later, and entities had attacked the institute in that time, and everyone had been sleeping in the  _ tunnels, _ and I mean, you and yo-- And I just felt like a stranger, in my own life. Unwelcome. Nuisance, even as I was necessary. It's different, now. But i-it's hard not to think about it?”

\---

“You’re welcome, you’re the opposite of a nuisance, and this time we’re working together. Trusting each other, right? Jon, you’re not just  _ necessary,  _ I— I love you.”

At least that part is getting easier. Not the loving, just expressing it. “You don’t deserve to feel like that. But I can see why you would. Is— Does that help?”

\---

"I  _ know, _ Martin." It's almost a growl. He softens his tone up and says quickly. "I love you, too." It doesn't help, but it's not Martin's job to make him feel better. He knows all this. Logically. But it doesn't stop the nightmares. It's something he'll just have to tackle. He doesn't know. There's still so much inside him, and more keeps happening. He can hardly keep up.

\---

“Okay, don’t growl at  _ me.”  _ There’s a smile in his voice, but it’s all laced with frustration. “I don’t know what I can do, but if you do, then you— I want to help you through it. All of it. No conditions. Except conditioner.” 

He elbows Jon a little, like that was a good one. It was not.

\---

Jon shrugs and waves him off. He just wants to take a shower, not examine the reasons he doesn't feel connected to the earth anymore. He's quiet until they reach the doors to the gym, and he slips in, pushing it open all the way from the outside to let Martin in. He flashes a look at Martin. "I'm fine."

\---

"Mm." That's a hum that signifies they're not done, but they are for  _ now,  _ since Martin would absolutely rather help Jon reach some sort of comfort as soon as possible. He takes the time to grab two towels as they head over to the showers, more than pleased at the privacy provided by the weekend. "Could-- Could I wash your hair?"

\---

Jon's sigh of a relief is obvious, his shoulders falling from their tense position.  _ "Yes, _ of course." He wants that. He wants them to have a relaxed morning, not a morning that cycles back and back and back and back again. And Martin pampering him will definitely relax him.

\---

Martin sidesteps to let Jon lead the way. It occurs to him now that they've never really showered together, usually at different times, to meet up somewhere, not-- Well. Intimacy seems so suddenly normalized, what with all their Moonside developments. He likes it very much. "Maybe I  _ am _ lucky."

\---

"Oh, yes, so lucky. My hair hasn't been washed in more than a week and still has dried flecks of  _ things _ in it. So lucky. I envy you wholeheartedly." He takes them to one of the stalls and starts stripping with no fanfare. It's not like anyone's going to be using the gym this weekend, anyways.

\---

Martin takes Jon's clothes from him as he strips, folding them up haphazardly so he can add his own to the pile. Shirtless, he starts to work over the gauze at his side, pulling it away to reveal dried blood over a fresh scar. It's certainly not an  _ old _ scar, by healing standards, but it's not about to start gushing blood. "I'm no better. Doesn't matter to me. Very lucky."

\---

"If you say so," Jon murmurs, and leans in close so he can brush careful fingers against his side, his brow lowered in thought. "You're healing fast, too. Does it still hurt?"

\---

"It's sore, hard to stretch on that side," Martin returns just as low, wracked with a shiver that leaves goosebumps along his skin as Jon touches. "I didn't really feel it that night. I think I might've been a _ little _ busy."

\---

"Adrenaline," Jon says, because even liberated into magic at this point as he is, there's still the skeptic lingering. Easier, than to just let the world be all of  _ this. _ "I didn't feel my throat or the bruising until the morning."

He pulls back to turn the showerhead on in one of the stalls. It takes a while to warm up, these showers, so he steps back out, shivering lightly when the cold flash of the spray cools the stall down significantly.

\---

Martin fumbles with his own belt as he steps out with Jon, vaguely freezing but not willing to subject Jon to the torture by pressing up against him for warmth. "You're not... It won't open up again, right? From talking, or, or anything like that?"

\---

Jon shrugs. "I don't think so. It's tight, and there's damage there, but I don't think--I think it's healed more." Indeed, it's not as viciously jaggedly scabbed, starting to sink back into a newly fresh scar. There's still some areas that are of concern for opening up, but he's not exactly planning on dry heaving or clawing at it anytime soon.

\---

"Right.  _ Good." _ It comes with a genuine, relieved sigh, juxtaposed by the strangely shy apprehension written on his face with his thumbs dipped into his pants. He pushes them down and stands momentarily content in his boxers, but one briefly-naked moment on the beach hadn't turned him into someone who's comfortable taking all his clothes off in the middle of a brightly-lit shower room. 

He's such a strange person. Trying to worry about this more than knife wounds and broken dams of blood rushing from the thresholds of throats.

\---

All of it makes Jon snort; here he is, nakedness a comfortable thing, and yet Martin, the one person he'd think  _ would _ be okay with this, hesitating with obvious nervousness. "Are you going to shower  _ clothed,  _ Martin?"

\---

"No,  _ Jon, _ I'm not-- I'm waiting for the shower to heat up so I don't die of hypothermia." His face scrunches up a tad, just a twitch. "I also don't have much experience showering  _ with _ someone, or - or getting to that part. Caring about that part. But I live with you now, technically, so, you know."

\---

"I've  _ seen _ it all before, you know." Jon lobbies back. His expression gets this devious, mischievous glint to it. "It's just soft now."

\---

"That's... not..." Thank you, Jon, for your striking ability to get Martin flushing. Definitely warms up the room. "It's just open. Institute showers aren't like a lake in the middle of nowhere. I'm not  _ shy _ about  _ that." _

\---

"I Know when someone's coming,  _ Martin." _ Despite himself, he laughs. "Everyone used to get so mad."

\---

Martin scowls down at Jon. "Not what I mean. It's a feeling. Exposed. It doesn't-- " He clicks his tongue once against the roof of his mouth before maneuvering out of his boxers. "Happy?"

\---

Just to be a mild shit, Jon rakes his eyes down Martin's body for a long, half-lidded, long moment, before giving an appreciative hum and nodding. "Better."

\---

Martin's own gaze locks on Jon's pupils as they travel downward, as much as he'd like to turn anywhere else. Stupid mesmerizing moon eyes. He hates them. He absolutely does not hate them. "I shouldn't like that nearly as much as I do. Um--" He can finally tilt to the shower. "--Warm enough for you?"

\---

He hums and pulls back with a smile, stepping backwards over the lip of the shower. Any mischief is far gone the moment he steps backwards into the warm spray, his hair plastering to his face. He smooths it back away with his hands, his eyes lidded shut and a deep-set look of absolute hedonistic pleasure on his face.

\---

“That’s a yes, then.” With luck they’ll fog up the place, he’s always hated the cold whiteness here. Martin is content with letting Jon soak up the water and the comfort before he gets his turn, if only for how ridiculously fantastic he looks in contentment. 

He brushes away any strands Jon’s missed as he watches, and soon he’s methodically separating what he can reach of his hair just short of pressing flush to his chest, careful not to let his fingers catch in the knots.

\---

Jon lets Martin's fingers press through his hair eagerly, and for this moment, condensation in the air thick as fog, the heat blasting through his senses and loosening his sinuses, there's nothing wrong. Nothing. Couldn't be, in this momentary bliss. He leans into every touch, and the hums come without his permission, just soft little noises of contentment. His eyes stay closed; this safe, this protected, he doesn't need to see.

\---

“You don’t have to talk about it, you can just listen,” Martin murmurs in reverence as his hands work with their own tactile wants apart from his conscious decisions, eyes drooping but never straying. 

He reaches for the nearest bottle and knows it’s shampoo - he’s familiar enough after living here to know the difference - and gets what he thinks is enough between his hands before working back into Jon’s hair. By now there’s less friction, enough give for his fingers to press against his scalp. “You’re always in the picture. The one I care about, at least, even when I can’t see you. I do like it better when I can, though.”

\---

Jon's eyes fly open when Martin begins to speak, and stay that way while he continues. He stays where he is, though, letting Martin's fingers work their way through his scalp. "Okay." He says, because he has nothing more to give.

\---

"That's all I had to say about it, really." Distracted properly and without much else to say that wouldn't just drown Jon in praise, Martin reaches for the conditioner. His happy exhale once his fingers are back in Jon's hair is louder than he thought it might be. Very quiet, the showers. "You should keep it like this. I mean, if you-- Obviously only if you want to."

\---

"Mm. I was going to just let it grow out, I think." Until when, he's not sure. He feels he'll know. "Hasn't been this long since I started uni." Jon slowly closes his eyes again.

\---

"Oh, I hate you. There better be a photo album somewhere." Martin pulls back, enough for Jon to have some moving room. He's essentially done. "We never got to try any weird American drugs, did we?"

\---

Jon feels a laugh bubbling up. "No, I-- I suppose we didn't. Though I don't think drugs are what we exactly needed, considering. Already have some hallucinatory memories. Not to mention  _ qualities, _ now."

\---

"You're my drug," Martin breathes out with a sickeningly sweet faux-romantic tone. "Planning on hoarding all the hot water?"

\---

"That's cliche, for your poetry, Martin," Jon levels back, but it's layered in a sweetness all its own, a sort of chin-jutted smile of absolute adoration. Reluctantly, he pulls away from the spray of the shower, feeling the loss of heat as acutely as a chopped off limb. He busies himself in grabbing the bar of soap and washing the rest of his body, leaning his head solidly against Martin's stomach-- not on the wound side-- when he has to bend down.

\---

Martin does his best to keep himself stable enough for Jon to press against, mouth dropping open once his own hair hits the downpour. "I'll make it up to you with all the things I'll write once I can sit  _ down.  _ I have a million ideas, just have to put them together-- After all this, maybe I'll be the world's next great written-prose chaos magician."

\---

That has Jon laughing again, pulling away from his stomach to level him with a look of such utter amusement, such utter love, that it makes even himself take a step backwards in the small stall. "Actually successful, too." He sets the soap down. _ "Your  _ rituals, work. Maybe let's not bring the Moonchild into this world, though."

\---

"Remember back when -- God, that was ages ago -- we were walking back from the pub and I asked if I could compel something positive from you, and you said something about how it didn't feed the Eye, and I said I'd feed off it if the Eye wouldn't?" Martin washes his hair as he speaks, shutting his eyes as he moves like he's forgotten he's not just talking out loud to thin air. "That's... Well, that's how I've tried to make sense of them all. I don't know if that means anything. About rituals."

\---

"Maybe." Jon says, and cocks his head. "What feeds you, should feed it, though. Or whatever Entity you're using. Maybe you're just-- I don't know. Has it been working? Do you think?"

\---

"Maybe I'm  _ it."  _ Martin flicks Jon's shoulder playfully, despite the gnawing at the base of his brain that keeps  _ prodding _ at him without giving him a spare second to catch whatever it is. It's infuriating. "Has what been working? I try not to just  _ use _ them, it's more like a conversation. Except when I growl. I think that's on me. I'm sure the Hunt thinks it's funny? Can it think that?"

\---

"Who knows. It certainly  _ feels _ like the Eye is laughing at me all the time." He grimaces. "This whole time travel thing certainly _ feels _ like a big practical joke." He keeps his voice light, even though there's fear, deep in him. "I-- I mean. No harm to my eyes the first time, and then I come back because I tried to gouge mine out and-- Whoa! Lo and behold, this time when I die, they're different." He gives a hollow laugh. "Feels like a joke."

\---

"I think..." Oh, there's an epiphany. It's not the one he wants, but it's still an epiphany. "I'm less worried about how different this time around is, and more about whether I can shape what's in front of me here. I think it's best when they're... communicated with, somehow. It's been bad when they're done  _ to _ us, not - not with us. Then it's just fear. I don't feel... Jon, I don't think I'm afraid, anymore. Not the way I was before."

\---

"You're not afraid?" He barks out a surprised laugh. "I mean-- What are you going off of?  _ Michael? _ He's hardly a successful, you know, Avatar. I-I mean I don't  _ want  _ you to be afraid, but I--  _ How?" _

\---

“I don’t know. My whole life I was so scared of one thing, like she— Like she was the scariest thing that ever existed. My whole world revolved around it.” Martin scrubs his hair, like this is normal shower conversation. “She was there with the worms. With the Hunt. With you. Just the idea of her has been controlling me for decades, every— Everything I do is a response to  _ her. _ And the only thing that made me stop being afraid was love. I just think there’s something there in that.”

\---

Jon's gaze softens. He doesn't know how to take that. It's just-- It's a lot. Even without all the detail, all the Knowing, even just the knowing, he knows that's a lot. "I'm glad. I am. I don't-- I don't want her hanging over your head. You don't deserve that." 

In the steam, it's easy to speak without falling apart. He sidles close to Martin, so he can start to wash the soap off of his body, running his hands with the water he's able to get to him down and over every inch of flesh. He wants to be clean. If the lake was a baptism, this is, hopefully, an emotional river styx. 

"I never wanted to talk about her before. It wasn't my place. We weren't together. I always wanted to, though."

\---

“I just realized how silly it was to be afraid. But it’s like this slow, crawling kind of danger. This feels  _ easy  _ by comparison. I thought— I mean, a lot of the time I thought I was already dead. Stuck in some world  _ she _ made.” Martin takes a break just to put his head under the water, to think nothing at all. 

By the time he comes back, he’s ready to speak. “Being able to do all this, it makes me feel  _ brave. _ Like I matter. I wasn’t afraid of bugs, or spiders, or snakes, or the dark, or things being  _ weird,  _ it was all bad all the time all at once forever. Sometimes I used to walk around with my headphones on hoping something might get me because that felt _ better.”  _ He laughs, this childish, free way. “She’s just an old lady.”

\---

Jon nods, his eyes wide as though drinking every detail in. It's partially his desire to know  _ Martin. _ It's partially his instincts to know and archive and hold everything in him, like a library in his heart. It's a strange impulse.

"Just an old lady," He repeats, and it's an affirmation, but he looks away as he says it. What is a lie, if not an omission? "You are brave," He follows up with.

\---

“I feel brave! There’s my  _ epiphany.  _ Martin Blackwood, brave. But— I wouldn’t be, I think, without you. Not like this.” 

Martin grins down at him, wide and toothy and real, before planting a wet kiss to his forehead. “It’s like I have something to be brave for. This all... it just makes me want to be brave. So, thank you, I think? For... helping me make it here? With you?”

\---

Jonathan Sims has never been this person for someone. His expression crumples into sheer emotional love, and he reaches up to pat at Martin's cheek, then just lays it there, fond and needy and happy and proud. He doesn't know what to say, but "I love you, Martin," is probably a good start. Every time he says it, it becomes more real. He wants to say it a thousand, and million times.

\---

Martin hums, tilting his head down against a palm he's intimately familiar with. "Okay." Nothing else matters right now, besides that, does it? "We should wait until tomorrow to get anything done, I think. We both need... I just need you, I think, and I'm content, so. Spa day for Jonathan Sims, courtesy of me. At your beck and call." 

He opens one eye, since he's moved his head in a way that has the other in the darkness of Jon's hand. "I won't even shake my head in your face now that my hair's wet. I'm very tempted, though."

\---

"Oh,  _ yes, _ like you haven't done that before." Jon rolls his eyes, and steps back from the spray a bit. "A spa day. I don't need that. Would it-- would it be juvenile to say I just want to lay around all day? With you? It sounds so _ lazy." _

\---

"That's what I mean by spa day, Jon. It's not literal. It's just a comfort day. A real, actual vacation day." Martin scoffs, like that's somehow the most offensive thing he's heard in his life. "It's not lazy. You _ died." _

\---

Jon, feeling a bit put on, gripes back, "One could argue that death is the ultimate laziness,  _ Martin.  _ But I'm still not opposed. Do you know how long it's been since I've napped? I used to nap all the time before I got this god-forsaken job."

\---

Martin blinks. "We... just woke up?"

\---

"Not  _ now, _ Martin. I'm-- I'm penning it into the schedule." He laughs a little. Even on a day off, he's scheduling.  _ "You _ don't have to, I'll just curl around you."

\---

"Oh, do I not get a copy of the schedule? I didn't even know there was one, Jon."

\---

Jon's grin is insatiable. "It's a work in progress, Martin. Open to negotiation. A-A soft schedule. So far-- Eating, and sleeping are on the docket. So busy."

\---

"You really are booked, aren't you?" Martin places both palms up with a dramatic shrug. "If you're so busy, maybe I should come back for my meeting later."

\---

Jon blinks, and against his wishes-- he could stay under the hot steam of the shower all day, really-- he steps over the lip of the shower to find where they placed their towels, not waiting for Martin to turn the shower off.  _ "What _ meeting?"

\---

“We’re at work. I was pretending time with me wasn’t actually put in your schedule. I-I’m joking.” Martin hesitates under the spray — it’s warm, Jon, how could you force him to choose like this — but it’s not long before he’s given in.

... And now he’s just shivering miserably from his own towel and Jon might as well be a whole country away.

\---

Jon dries his body and then grabs another towel to press to his hair, and he gives Martin a flat look while he's trying to figure this out and--  _ Oh, _ that thing. The thing he doesn't get, but amuses him nonetheless.

"Yes, well-- nonetheless, I'm certain I can find some room for you somewhere. There's a-- a vetting process, you see. To see if you're, ah, qualified." He's terrible at this.

\---

Martin’s own hurried drying leaves his hair a clean but wild wreck, sticking out at every angle and obscuring his vision. He reaches half-blindly to their pile of clothes as he listens, and Jon’s barely finished by the time Martin erupts into laughter.

“Oh, I missed you,” He says for the thousandth time, “I am  _ not  _ making you do that. We’re having tea, ordering food, and I’ll hold out hope that there’s ‘making out’  _ somewhere  _ on the schedule. No bad office roleplay.”

\---

A blush blooms to his face and leaves relief pouring through him. "Good. You'll have to catch me on a... A good day for that." has it only been a week since Martin told him about this? It feels like a lifetime ago. In a relative way.

"I can do that," Jon says, and starts to finger-brush through the strands of his hair. He left a brush upstairs, but it'll still be wet enough to properly part by the time they get up there. "Statement, too, or I'll feel sick by the evening."

\---

“I’m good at catching you,” Martin says with... well, somehow it’s an air of ominous excitement, as it seems Hunting jokes are not in limited supply here.

Comfortable in layers again, he hums low in his throat to move right along. “One statement for the Archivist, coming right up. I only read one that whole time, I kept forgetting. It had Gerry in it. Only ate once, too, I think. I have no idea how I’m alive.”

\---

"You were on the Hunt, I guess." He says it breezily, but it fills him with unease. He wants Martin to be human. He doesn't want some cosmic strings to pull and kill him and return him, too.

"So... Lot of takeaway, statements. Fresh loungewear, no real work." He pulls the clothes he came down here with back on.

\---

“Mhm. Maybe some online shopping for a nice pair of sunglasses?” Martin drive-by kisses Jon’s cheek as he passes to speed up the end of their journey out of the den they’ve made, used towels in hand. “And you’ll have to tell me what you want for brunch. Lunch. Whatever it is.”

\---

Jon grimaces after the kiss, and mutters, "I'm going to look like such a douchebag, wearing sunglasses indoors." He follows behind Martin, still stringing his fingers through his hair. "And anything. I don't care. Food's food."

\---

“Just say you went to the doctor and found out you had light sensitivity, and that’s why you were such an emotionally distant boss.” Martin shoots a conspiratorial grin over his shoulder. “I’ll think of something.”

\---

"I'm the pursuit of honesty, I'm not hiding it in the Archives. Just outside them." He blinks and then scowls at Martin. "How would light sensitivity make me emotionally distant?"

\---

“Headaches. No trips to the break room, lights too bright in there, and you get endless migraines from anything but low light statement reading in your dark, dark office.” Martin shrugs, picking up his pace to the extent he thinks he’s allowed to without complaint.

\---

"Ah, yes, much more plausible than-- than 'your boss has become a monster watch out!' That could work." He snorts.

\---

“Watch out for what? Your captivating eyes? It’s not like they’re lasers, Jon.” Martin leaves the towels down on this floor and continues on his merry way. “Maybe I’m biased.”

\---

"Maybe you are. I really doubt most people would appreciate them." He pauses. "I look like a literal demon. Just missing the horns and forked tail, you know."

\---

“I think Gerry liked them. You’re two for two.”

\---

"Oh yes, a servant to the Eye and my person, what a very broad and accurate study sample." He rolls his eyes. "Also, Gerry probably likes demons."

\---

“I’m sure he likes you  _ and _ demons, but you’re not a demon, Jon. Stop it.” He slows down enough that Jon can catch up, just so he can flick his shoulder. “I have no idea how he fell for  _ me.  _ We should... probably talk about that.”

\---

"... Probably." What a sobering conversation. He flicks the hair in his fingers at Martin, and a few droplets splatter in his face. "I feel a little out of my depth here."

\---

“You think being asked by a ghost if spiritual polyamory is an option is in  _ my  _ depth? I just want you both to hang out. I feel like...” He takes the sleeve of his shirt and dramatically wipes away the water. “...I really want to watch that. Free entertainment.”

\---

Despite trying his hardest not to react this way, he can't help it. There's a schoolboy blush landing across the bridge of his nose and cheeks at the prospect. "I wouldn't  _ mind _ it," He says tentatively.

\---

Well, that’s got him slowing down to absorb the details of Jon’s face. “Jon, why are you blushing? Wait. What do you think I meant by  _ hang out?” _

\---

Jon immediately blanches, pulling his face back, and shaking his head. "I-- Oh my god. Martin, I didn't think  _ that!  _ I meant--  _ hanging out.  _ That's it. Just hanging out." Nevermind that just hanging out itself makes him way more giddy than he has the right to.

\---

“What’s ’that’? I’m not implying anything. You’re  _ thinking _ about something.” Martin tries to cover his smile, but he is loving this development.

\---

"Okay. Okay." Jon stops walking and holds his hands up. Less of an 'I'm guilty' gesture and more of a 'yes, I am thinking, thank you very much.' "The order of events, in my eyes, go: We rescue the one person in all of my years of research who knows what he's doing and is suave while he does it, and  _ you _ have a pseudo sexual... ahem. Experience. With him, and now you want me to  _ cha _ t with the one man who used to outstrip me in knowledge of..." He makes a wavy gesture, "All of this. That's what I'm thinking." And he's still blushing.

\---

“You’re missing all the parts in between where we screamed at each other like two teenage boys on a camping trip, he’s not  _ that _ suave.” Martin can’t wait until Jon’s been filled in on the details. He almost wants him to know everything.

Maybe not all the hormonal whining about Jon. Everything else is fine, though. “I like both your voices. I just want to see you talk about anything and get to know each other, maybe work together. That’s all. Anything else after that is— Well, erm, natural... progression?”

\---

"Hm." Jon replies, and thinks. By the time they reach the lifts again, he says, "We can always invite him for lunch. I-If you wanted. Unless he needs to sleep more. How often was he _ around  _ when I was-- You know, gone?"

\---

“If you want him here on your vacation day, I’d like that. He’s— He’s comforting. Oh, I’ll have to explain that to you, too.”

Martin’s eyebrows pull together as he thinks. He does not explain that. “The first few days, not much. By the end he’d be out for at least a few hours, I think? We’d have him rest if we knew, um, we had to get something done. Like the day we got into Chicago.”

\---

"From Indiana to Chicago on foot, to meet up with Michael," Jon recounts, and his eyes are wide. It's insane, and he Knows the basics now, even if he's being careful not to pry for the rest. He's quiet a moment as he steps into the lift. "I'm... I'm really glad you had someone with you."

\---

“No, no, I found Michael by accident. I didn’t know I was tracking him. Total accident on both sides.”

Though it’s painfully obvious in retrospect that Michael is what had him so delirious. He can address the sobering comment later, no use dwelling on feeling like a danger to himself and to others.

\---

"An accident on  _ your _ side, maybe. It's not like he was just being a  _ tourist.  _ I doubt it." Jon snorts. "Even when he's confused, he seems to always have... some kind of vendetta."

\---

“Jon, I think he  _ was.  _ He was just as surprised. We almost fought at some big... mirror art sculpture, when I found him. I think I tried to use Gerry as bait to sneak up on him. I was... a little out of it.” Now it’s his turn to be embarrassed. He really did think he had to kill Michael for a minute, there. Biological imperative.

\---

"Well I'm glad you didn't." Jon jerks back, a little surprised. "He'd probably have killed you."

\---

“I think I did almost kill him later.”

The lift opens as he says it, and Martin steps free from the confines of their metal box. “I have an idea. I’ll stop by the kitchen and make some tea, order lunch. You... Do you want to ask Gerry to come, in the meantime?”

\---

Jon wants to ask, so, so bad, but then they'll be here all day. And he really doesn't want to take a statement in the hallway. "Yeah, sure. Meet you in the office?"

\---

Martin turns to cup Jon’s cheeks with both hands, kissing the center of his forehead. Something about the gesture is a promise of knowledge, of willingness to give it up when they make it to that point of the explanation. “Good luck. Not that you’ll need it.”


	37. Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon, Martin, and Gerry get their stories straight.

Jon finds himself arguing with a ghost. He stands in front of his own desk, shoulders hiked up as he laboriously explains his organization process, while Gerard Keay holds his feet up on the table and spins idly in Jon's chair. His booted feet wave with the motion, while Gerard looks all around and makes comments about the state of the office.

It's hard to get a word in edgewise, when Gerard's voice is so damn  _ listenable. _

"That filing cabinet is ugly, by the way. I'm going to find gaudy band stickers and put them in there. Give them some _ life,” _ He's saying, and Jon sits in the chair opposite the desk with a giant huff, reaching for a pack of cigarettes. It's amusing, in a very... Hm. In the strange parts of Jon that like to be baited into conflict.

"I'm not defending my decor choices, Gerry. Besides. The bedroom is much more coordinated." Jon says it like it's a winning trump card, but the mocking grimace on Gerard's face makes the victory feel hollow. 

\---

What seems like nearly a century later, Martin reaches the end of his own personal journey with a large paper bag between his teeth and a steaming mug in either hand. Little prizes of sustenance from a hunting trip to drop at Jon's feet in the comfort of their den.

Okay, don't be  _ weird  _ about it. 

Picking up the order he placed at the front door of the Institute was simple enough, though the delivery man gave him an unintentional, vaguely threatening look that had him twitching through the ordeal. He'd tipped the man handsomely for his troubles and hurried back into the safety of silent, secret-keeping walls, grateful for the sheer comfort they brought. Now, a few steps outside the office, Martin tilts his head and slows his gait. 

Gerry's voice has him perking up, not with surprise but  _ happiness, _ and if he could smile around the bag he would be doing just that. Then Jon joins in with the sound, and that means they're having a conversation, and isn't that just what he'd hoped for? Martin taps the edge of the door with one boot and finds it cracked open, breathing out a sigh of relief that he doesn't have to rearrange anything in his hands. For good measure, before he allows himself the privilege of soaking in every detail before him he kicks the door back so it clicks shut.

\---

Both men jump when the door is pushed open, turning to face Martin. Jon gives a tired, exasperated smile, and Gerard beams at him, his own smile sharp and energetic.

"Martin! Was just telling Jon, here that--"

"Yes, yes, that my decorating skills are shit and sanitary and hardly better than Gertrude's old lady sensibilities." Jon takes a long drag and reaches his hand out across the room, all but beckoning Martin to bring him his tea and food.

\---

Bordering the elation of receptive love, love, love pulsing along the walls of the room is something that twists and warps and molds. To not only be noticed upon entering a room, but to have the people inside express joy, it's almost terribly wrong.

He knows it isn't, as he looks between them, and quells the thought. Martin has always tended toward the spiraling madness of anxiety set to puncture an evidenced truth with holes, but he's not letting that ruin his mood. He made his choice, his own enthusiastic yes at the beach. And though his life has been full of complicated yes's as of late, they each settle differently. Spiraling in moderation, a constant test at the back of his brain where it's simultaneously easier than ever before to let his mind get the best of him, and also warded off by a new purpose. Rock and a hard place, that.

Martin lets the bag fall from his mouth onto the desk, setting Jon's mug a few inches from where he sits. Without a seat of his own, here, he elects to hop up on the desk. Like he's possessed, he sits criss-cross on it to face them both. Since they're making a mockery of Jon's décor. Oh, the energy here makes him want to be very, very bad. "Did you tell Gerry  _ why _ the furniture we have might not all match? He might ease up on you if you did."

\---

The next look Martin receives from Jon is full of flustered fury. "Martin," He hisses, and he's so very tense.  _ "Don't." _

"Don't what? Oh,  _ now _ I need to know," Gerard says, and his laugh is all but a cackle.

\---

Martin brings his mug of tea up to his face with both hands, fogging up the sudden wave of nervous surprise washing over him. This is a new dynamic he's yet to figure out how to wrangle and all the casual nature of his talks with Gerry about it have him bold. Please don't kill him, Jon. "That slipped out. Shit. I-I'm sorry. Private. My fault."

\---

Jon brings down his face to rest in the palm of his hand. By now, his hair has been brushed and pulled back into a tight bun, dried enough that a few graying strands have fallen down over his face. "Way to bury the suspense." 

He's spoken casually with Gerard for a total sum of perhaps an hour, in this life, and it's already abundantly clear you don't give him leverage, unless you want to be embarrassed forever. 

He isn't expecting Martin to hand over that leverage like it's fetch. Gerard didn't even have to try. 

"Private. Should I move to another seat? Wouldn't want to get  _ dirty."  _

"You're a ghost!" Jon's voice screeches out, and the other hand joins the first, cradling his face.

\---

Well, Jon, maybe Martin has a tendency to give Gerry leverage and insights into his brain as his keeper should have and now that lack of filter might be a bit of a problem. 

"D-dirty? I didn't-- " Martin glances to the new Archivist's chair, the one they haven't done anything terribly inappropriate on, and grimaces. "Since when could you read minds, Gerry?"

\---

Gerry snorts, and then barks out a laugh immediately afterwards when he catches the look on Martin's face. "Oh, so I guessed right? I mean, it's not hard to imagine what all--" He gestures between Martin and Jon-- "That. What with Blushing Beauty over there and the way you said it. Please.”

\---

“I know that didn’t give you nearly enough to guess details, so I’m...” His eyes fall to Jon’s own mortified deep dive into darkness behind his hands. Better to be honest, here. “...I’m moving on to lunch. I brought sandwiches. Fruit. And... soup. I figured that might - might help your throat, maybe? Jon?”

\---

"I'll take whatever," Jon says, and slowly pulls his hands back down. Almost pulls them back up when he catches Gerard's triumphant, amused look-- like a cat what caught a mouse-- but he restrains, and just pouts at Martin. "My throat doesn't even hurt that bad." 

Gerard rolls his eyes. "He's such a liar."

\---

Martin takes an awkward sip of tea and slides the paper bag wordlessly over to Jon's end of the desk. Let him take whatever he wants. 

"I don't have to be a walking lie detector to know that, Gerry." He lifts his mug. "Look, no more rancid boiling American tea. Drinking it. Like a normal person. Told you I could."

\---

"Wow. Do you want an award? You can drink tea the right way. So proud, Guard-dog." Gerry snorts. It's strange, to see them in this domestic space. To see the both of them clean, and not covered in blood, and in thick, clogging energy. 

Jon pulls out a container of soup and some fruit and nods to himself. "I'll be fine. Nothing I haven't felt before." He says the last bit loftily, and then pointedly spoons broth into his mouth.

\---

"I'm covering my bases so you can't bring it up later and act like one bad trip to IHOP is representative." Now that he's graduated to controlling it as a reflex, Martin takes the time to send a low growl in Gerry's direction from behind his mug. As if that proves any point at all. He's just liking this new development way too much. Might as well own up to it if no one's letting go of the dog metaphors.

\---

Gerard leans back in the chair, all but howling out laughter. Now that they're not spiraling into utterly horrible mindspace in the pursuit of Jon, it's so much easier to take the quirks of their very existences in stride. And it does take energy, but he even lets the chair tip backwards to punctuate his laughter. "'One Bad Trip to IHOP' is a  _ killer _ album name." 

"Is this what you dealt with the entire time?" Jon asks.

\---

Martin exhales through his nose like an angry bull. Jon's reaction to his noises are much more pleasant. But Jon doesn't infuriate him the way Gerry's able to set him off with nothing more than a joke that by all rights should be worth laughing at. 

Maybe he is a masochist after all. "Sometimes he's worse."

\---

"Hey," Gerard says and leans over the desk, clasping his hands together like a particularly stern principal. “Head Archivist Keay, checking in. "I'm right here. And I'm not bad, I just have to air my grievances if I'm to lead a Hunter 'round the city."

\---

"...Speaking of," Martin clears his throat after a potent silence of watching Gerry settle into his new position. "Jon's only heard everything out of order. I thought it might be helpful if we, um, put it all together, so we're on the... same page. That's not a pun."

\---

"Ah. From the moment dear Jon here didn't come back with breakfast to you ripping a man's throat out," Gerry's eyes are comically wide, and they only narrow slightly when he sees Jon twitch-- a near flinch-- in his peripheral vision. "All of it?" 

"I can only get pictures when you... Talk about it, right now. Otherwise it's a strain to just... know these memories," Jon says, quietly, and he shoves a grape in his mouth the moment he's done speaking. He certainly looks ravenous, and it's a strange look on him. 

Gerard's seen him three times now, and each one is a far different picture. The nervous researcher, blustering through explaining what Gerard is, cut to him dead on the floor and then spontaneously something... Something more. Something Gerard can't quite wrap his head around. Something that spoke to something deep inside Gerard with an almost rapturous pull. Something that he doesn't have for Jon currently, who just looks rather small and frail and unsure.

\---

“I don’t know, stick to what’s relevant? I’m guessing it’s not often we get a-a real-time look at Hunter things.” 

Martin bends forward to take one of the grapes from Jon’s bowl. “I don’t really know how it all looked from your perspective.”

\---

Gerard hums, and thinks, and then nods. "You're probably right. I mean, I knew the Hunt was upon you the moment I met you. Even before Jon was taken. I can't tell if you were already..." He cocks his head and spares a look to Jon and then back again, "...Protective, and just waiting for the right trigger, or if it was... The mark of what could Be that was tipping me off. It seems to do that, sometimes. What could happen, I sometimes see. It just has this smell about it.

"And then you summoned me in that car, and I knew you were fucked. I mean..." And here he loses some of the bravado, a small twinge of embarrassment in his voice, "I mean I wasn't really paying too much attention by that point. Hardly knew you, and by all rights, from what I've seen in the past, you were fucked. And I couldn't do anything, because I was a Book; so I was rather clouded in my assessments because you were just some ugly brute-to-be holding my hollow soul in your hands." 

"You summoned him to have company?" Jon's eyes are wide as he asks Martin, drinking in everything, and wow, Gerard still can't get over the eerie, almost commanding quality of them when they're lobbied at someone. There's no way he can know just how uncanny they are. How Moon-shot they are.

\---

“Yeah. I didn’t really think it was a good idea. Me. Being alone.” There’s no particular tone to his voice as he swishes liquid around in his cup, no accusations, but there is a subtle sting to it. Aimed at himself, mostly. 

Martin grimaces down at Gerry from the top of the desk. “You thought I was ugly?”

\---

"...Yes," Jon mumbles, and there's a peculiar look about his face. Gerard hasn't gotten as good at reading him as he's gotten with Martin, but, well. Ah. He's clever. Martin told him about the Lonely. It would make sense that's what this is about. He files it away for later. 

Turning to Martin, he says, "No. Not physically. I mean, I wasn't paying attention. You were just some-- some guy who I met for an hour. More like your  _ stench.  _ I'm used to it now, but it's a-- foul stench to get used to, you know. You smell like targeted death. Inescapable. Violent."

\---

Something clicks behind Martin’s eyes, and he lifts a hand away from the mug to laugh behind his palm. 

“Sorry, I just— I just realized that’s why you told me I smelled bad while I was climbing the car. You meant my  _ trail.  _ Wait, that’s too far ahead. Back.”

He waves his hand to signify that he’s thinking, and tries to remember. It’s certainly clearer, near the beginning. “I kept getting frustrated I couldn’t stick my head out the window to get Jon’s trail. That first day, you were pushing buttons and fogging up the windows, that’s all you could do.”

\---

"Mm. It took all my energy just to feel connected to anything. It's foggy, my default; like none of you mean much and I'm hardly anything. Not really there. It's hard to cut through it, especially in the first couple of days." He pauses. "You pissing me off constantly helped, honestly. It made me want to be here."

\---

Martin beams at him, now, openly fond and simply proud. “It’s nice to have someone to yell with outside of my head. When I was reading your page you were far away, but it makes sense, I mean, it’s not like your death was peaceful, you didn’t ask for it. Just showed up. Poof.” 

He balls his hand up and then splays his fingers for emphasis. “The  _ tree _ came next, didn’t it?”

\---

"The tree," Gerard confirms. He turns to Jon, who is still watching them with intensity. "The next time he summoned me, I was in the field, and the car was parked and he-- Oh,  _ Jon, _ he thought the tree was evil. I mean, sure, it turned out to be, but it wasn't the tree, it was the mark."

He pauses. "The Hunters must have smeared your blood into the bark with a knife. It had him--" He hikes a thumb to Martin-- "Act like a rabid fucking animal. He looked feverish."

Jon shivers at that and nods. "They learned quick that I was healing faster than I should be. I wasn't really... I wasn't really awake, but I remember the tree. That blood."

\---

“That was the day I started seeing really, really well. All the leaves, the colors, Gerry’s split ends. It made me sick.”

The knuckles of his free hand brush over Jon’s shoulder. Soothing himself, trying to extend that to Jon. “I had my first vision, saw them torture you, when I touched it. Sounds were louder than sights so I buried it, tried to focus on something else. There was a bug moving around in the grass and I think finding her kept me sane.”

\---

"Oh yes, the ladybird made him sane." Gerard snorts and rolls his eyes. "Then, in a remarkable moment of sanity, he got pissed and threw my book at a tree he thought was evil. Don't believe his accounts of sanity."

\---

Martin’s hand pauses over Jon’s shoulder, barely-there but still touching. “You missed the part where you shattered my eardrums with a car horn for asking you to try driving. None of you can drive. It’s  _ hard.  _ Not like I was in any state to be doing it, obviously. I wanted to be courteous of other people on the road. And— And stick my head out.”

\---

"Are we sure there were nails on the ground? Or did you crash because you were panting out the window?" It's pressing a little lightly on Martin's buttons, and it's probably not giving Jon a very charitable picture of him, but they're the ones that wanted to bring his Book back.

\---

There’s a low vibrating sound at the back of Martin’s throat, though he’s too focused on Gerry to notice it. Too busy defending himself. “Yeah, there were. Why else would the tires be flat,  _ Gerry?  _ I told you they had him in the road. Seeing it was different than visions, or - or nightmares. That’s what made it real.”

\---

Gerard turns to Jon. "Well, I wasn't awake, so I can't confirm or deny whether he was just being a dog at the window and wanted to sound cooler, but I think he saw you."

Jon, who has been going back and forth between the two with the eagerness of the Wimbley cup, slowly nods, and a look of fear flashes across his eyes, pain, anger. "They let me see him too. They knew he was there. They--" No. They don't need to hear what was done to him. It would just upset Martin and make his grasp on reality a little too loose.

\---

Martin’s hand moves with its own will, up to rest at the back of Jon’s neck. There’s no weight behind it, no stifling pressure. The sound continues, just barely there, but it’s not aimed at anything except the idea. As if he could scare off the fear with his own warding. “If— Jon, we’re all sharing. Your side matters too. If it helps?”

\---

Jon shivers at a combination of emotions. He shakes his head. "Trust me, Martin, you don't want to know. You don't-- it's hard to separate, anyways." He leans into Martin's touch. Just so he can feel his weight better.

\---

“It doesn’t matter if I want to, it’s not like remembering half of running around in forests losing my mind about houses and spooky trees is pleasant.” Lost in the gesture, his immediate surroundings get a bit hazy, and Martin has to pull back and glue his hand to his knee before he gets too embarrassing with it. Much as he wants to.

\---

Jon looks at him for too long, and then he pulls a hand down his face. "Fine." It's hard, to put it into words. No one's ever asked for details of what happened to him, before. Not this kind of thing. Petty kidnappings.

"They let me see him," He directs it to Gerry. His record-keeper, in this moment. "So it would get him on our trail. They spoke about it. I tried to compel more from them, and Trevor choked me long enough that I passed out for a few seconds. I-- I think that's when the Buried got worse, after that. I wasn't really there, except in... Moments. It's-- it's hard to separate the real from the... From it."

\---

“I guess we both have a talent for infuriating people we’re stuck with,” Martin snorts, but it’s a gentle sound. “I think I’m glad I got to kill him, even though I still wish we could’ve just... talked.”

He blinks at himself, because that’s a bit much, but he reins himself back in. His voice is more controlled. “That’s about when I started losing touch more. I threw Gerry’s book out of the car and my nose broke on the wheel. I was still summoning you then, right? I memorized it.”

\---

"But you weren't reading it." Gerard shrugs, and angles his attention between the two of them. "Had to mend Martin up. He says he could have done it himself, but..." He rolls his eyes. Half mad. Threw my Book again. Threw your rocks? I think they were yours. They were in your bag. Hey, how many statements of mine have you read? Martin read one of mine."

"Uh--" Jon says dumbly. "Quite a lot. I-- I mean, you show up a lot. Couple Leitners. Oh, I mean, Leitner said he met you."

"...Has he now." Gerard squints.

\---

“They weren’t your rocks,” Martin chimes in quickly before Jon can get another word in. “Just to clarify. Your rocks weren’t big enough to break the windows on the car and I just needed some violence. I read the one from Italy.”

_ Before I threw them he said I had all of them,  _ Martin’s mouth doesn’t finish. It dies in his throat. Rather, it’s killed and drained by the unfed animal hunched there politely reminding him of its needs.

\---

"They're just rocks, anyways, Martin," Jon snorts. And then he turns to give Gerard a look. "Your holiday. I was always curious about--"

"Yeah, yeah, the shirt. I've already gotten an earful from Martin about it."

\---

Martin’s halfway through a laugh when he strings more of the back-and-forth memories together enough to remember pieces, the conversations they had, before he threw the rocks. After the statement. Before the statement.

“I... I told you I couldn’t wait for my mother to die.” His eyes widen considerably. “Wait! Wait, we missed the—“ He uncrosses his legs and moves to the ground, searching for the bag he’s still not cleaned out from their trip. It’s still in the office, and he gets to the floor to unzip it and rummage around near the bottom.

\---

"Oh, yes, the power of friendship through a mutual hatred of our mothers. It was charming," Gerard says dryly. He leans over the desk to track Martin's motions.

Jon, for his efforts just watches and continues to eat a soup that must be quickly cooling.

\---

“I don’t hate her anymore,” Martin says distantly as he comes back to the desk, climbing up again. He places his corkscrew center between them without another word.

\---

Gerard's form wavers in a shiver when he sees it. "Well don't hold out any cooling of emotions on my end," He mutters, but he's hardly listening. "Ugh. This thing. It's covered in blood."

"What about it?" Jon asks. His eyes are narrowed down at the weapon, and he sets down the chunk of fruit he was about to eat.

\---

“That,” Martin offers breathlessly, pointing in Gerry’s direction. “Touching it made him light up. Does it— Jon, does it look different, now? With your eyes?”

\---

"I saw him on the beach--" He cuts himself off, because Gerard grabs the corkscrew with a shitty grimace, and oh. Now that he has the time to look, really look, it really is quite something, huh.

It's not just the visible tattoos peeking out from beneath clothing; they all cut through the Visage of him, creating the rough approximation of the shape of a man. If you squint. Green, and runic, and something deep, deep in Jon says  _ mine, _ and it's a startling enough thought that he pulls his head back some, owlishly blinking at the display.

Gerard watches back, and through the bright glowing color, the look he levels Jon with is one of confusion. Jon thinks he could reach out and touch and connect and he would know everything about this soul, if he so wanted. He doesn't. He shoves a piece of pineapple into his mouth and mumbles, "... It's interesting."

\---

“I just thought it was nice,” Martin murmurs between the display and the oppressive weight of their eye contact. “We made that together, and now it’s an artifact, and I thought you might like to know.”

He’s not in-tune enough to know what he’s feeling, and it’s not quite jealousy, but it’s confusing nonetheless. “Next morning, then, Gerry?”

\---

Jon pulls his gaze away from Gerard to look at Martin, and his smile is small, but genuine and curious. "An artifact. I suppose.... I suppose that makes sense. I used to think these things had to be... I guess there was a ritualized nature to... That. Huh."

"Right. You made a gay screw. Anyways, then I destroyed all your tapes while Martin tried not to cry."

Jon squashes the strange, knee-jerk anger that wants to build up and explode outwards. He just gives a stiff nod instead.

\---

Martin holds out a hand for Gerry to give it back. “I woke up with your scarf on and cuddling a tape recorder. I... had a dream we were spooning in our own bed, and then I smelled antiseptic on you, so I woke up. Turns out it was just the cotton in my nose that healed crooked overnight.”

\---

"... And then you destroyed all the tapes?" Jon grimaces, and hides it behind another bite of fruit, another pineapple chunk. "I thought your nose was different."

Gerard snorts, tapping the corkscrew on the edge of the desk. It makes his eyes light up and fade, light up and fade. Some fucked up game of Operation. "The tapes were kind of therapeutic. Smashing them. He kept one, though."

\---

“I couldn’t,” Martin admits, like it’s painful to say. “I didn’t want anyone to find them, or - or listen to them, but I asked him not to do it in front of me. He did. At the time it felt like... like they were alive. The black wiring inside, it’s like seeing guts, it hurt so bad I had to leave and walk back up to the road.”

Cutting through his own subdued tone, Martin glares down at the corkscrew and reaches forward to snatch it.

\---

Gerard pulls back like a whip to hold it above his head, sticking his tongue out for a second. "Then we walked. And I distracted him from moping by making fun of his gender. I like, wasn't expecting him to get all defensive. It was hilarious. But also kept him from thinking about blood for two damn minutes."

Jon watches them again, and after a moment, he reaches across the desk, having to stand to do so, and grabs Gerard's wrist, giving him a solid Look. Huh. Guess he really can touch Gerard, if he wants. He plucks the corkscrew from his hand, shivers at the contact of Ghost and Ritual weapon alike, and hands it back to Martin as he sits down. "Don't make fun of Martin for his-- what?!"

\---

The words from Gerry’s mouth are silent while Martin’s eyes track the screw, shoulders tense as his body works humiliatingly against him in preparation to go after it.

Jon makes everything go away.

The sick warmth of the corkscrew is eclipsed by what he’s just done, and Martin’s jaw is slack with pure shock. Without time to process the complex implications of this, he looks to Gerry first. Thinks to ask him if he’s okay, but he figures he’ll know.

\---

Gerard is mute with shock, his form wavering a few times while the abject touch washes over him. It wasn't just an illusion; he could feel it acutely. The warmth in Jon's hand, the solid mess to his grip. His eyes are wide as he stares and pulls his wrist close, holding it as though to somehow shield that warmth, keep it locked within him forever. It doesn't, of course. The moment Jon leans back, he's numb and cold once more. "... Fucking hell," He mumbles, and ignores for a moment how breathy it's made him.

"Don't tease him, Gerard," Jon says, with this air of a primary teacher. But Gerard's not stupid. He's clearly shocked as well. Not as good at hiding it as he thinks.

\---

Martin shivers on top of the desk, placing the screw on the wood as quietly as possible.

This is so far out of his depth. He wants to tease back, but there’s far too much to unpack with this development and they’re not even close to done with the story. His voice is quiet, like he’s afraid of interrupting. “I kept a tape in my bag to record a statement if I had to. At some point I guess the bag got jostled and it started recording, so Gerry broke that one, too.”

\---

"Yes! And then Martin tried to bite me because he was being a prick. He couldn't, of course, but he went right for the throat." He pauses. "Guess we know what that outcome looks like now."

\---

“I think I remember not wanting to make it lethal even as I reached for you, but that might’ve been worse with...” Martin does try not to smile. “What we know now. When I got violent, for a while I started biting my own hand. That helped.”

\---

Gerard levels Jon with a look. "Dipshit here got patched up by yours truly and then immediately made his hand bleed with his own teeth. How does it feel to date an idiot?"

"I-I mean if it  _ helps..." _ Jon says. Who is he to judge for coping mechanisms. Still, he holds out one of his hands, pleading with Martin. He wants to hold that hand. To retroactively pour comfort into it.

\---

“Yeah, Gerry. It helped. I’m not an idiot. You kicked me and my brain thought I was in danger and you kept calling me names and instead of reaching out for you again I made myself get on the floor.” Martin’s not sure what Jon’s planning on doing with it, but he offers his palm out to him regardless. “What was this for, again? Asking you for some animal facts?”

\---

"Asking is a stretch of the term." Gerard glowers at Martin. "You knew I couldn't not speak it. Do you know what that's like? It's not even just your-- your dumb compelling. Close, but different. It's for everything. Worst Knowing ever. I told you to knock it off. You deserved it and the names."

Jon ignores Gerry for the moment, and just takes Martin's hand in his. Even if he can't see the marks from his biting, he can See Impressions of it, in this strange almost-real haze. "You two make me glad I wasn't a man when I was fourteen, if this is how fourteen year old boys act."

\---

“None of us were men when we were fourteen, Jon,” Martin sighs, pulling his hair away from his face with his free hand and letting Jon See whatever there is to See. “Sure. I deserved it. That’s around when I got the idea for commands, after I figured things like ‘crybaby’ and ‘growly’ set me off so bad. I was j-just building associations fast. And I couldn’t run around a city exploding at everything. Anchors.”

\---

"...Verbal anchors. It makes sense," Jon says, and slowly lets go of Martin's hand after running his thumb across the inner skin of the thumb, satisfied that he's alright. That the teeth don't linger.

"Even if they're ridiculous," Gerard says, "They work. Though, I think snapping in his face does the job well enough, too."

\---

“We never used some of them, but I think that’s a good thing. They were just ideas, and they weren’t ridiculous.” When he takes his hand back, Martin rubs his own thumb over where Jon’s touch had lingered as if he could draw more warmth from it. “I’ll snap in your face. You know, you’re really bad at trying to rile me up on purpose. It wasn’t even you that had me upset when we tried testing them out, it was that house.”

\---

Gerard shrugs. "Just because you knew I was fucking with you doesn't mean it wasn't true stuff I was saying. And it's doubly not my fault you have the attention span of a beagle."

\---

_ “‘Getting a ghost to be your goddamned keeper. I keep forgetting what a moronic idiot you are’,” _ Martin mocks with the tone of Gerry’s voice, ”At least I can walk down hills.”

\---

"... Guys," Jon pipes up, because they are  _ bad _ at staying on track. It's almost incredible. He's never seen or thought either of them could be so immature. It's rather... Well, it's very funny, is the thing.

Gerard jabs an angry finger in Martin's face, his expression stern, but he leans back after a few moments, running his hands down his clothes as though that means anything and as though there's anything to brush off.

"I made him get a hotel. He would have slept on the side of the road if I didn't," Gerard continues.

\---

Martin sticks his tongue out in Gerry’s direction, one last snuck-in teenage rebellion before he moves on. “I never found out what fake name you used for that. Gerry walked in by himself and handled the whole thing, I was too freaked out over all the lights and people to do it. I remember being really proud of him for it. That was— That was sort of huge, at the time.”

\---

"I used the name Michael Shelley." Gerard shrugs. "Since you didn't want your own name used." He pauses, and then says quieter, softer. "It was, ah, terrifying. Interacting with a normal person."

\---

“Martin Blackwood, man with a track record of stealing cars and crashing them, potentially missing, signing into a motel. Smart idea,” Martin rolls his eyes, but he’s back on track now. “Touching my bed sheets made up for the social anxiety, though, didn’t it?” Sort of.

\---

Gerard squints at him, and then gives a world weary sigh and looks to Jon. "Your boyfriend is obsessed with me, I think. I'm flattered, I am."

Jon just stares at him flatly.

\---

“What, me? I’m just explaining what happened.” Martin waves him off, content that he’s embarrassed Gerry enough. “We left the motel and had a heart-to-heart, and I held his hand on a log. Then we had one bad trip to an IHOP.”

\---

"It wasn't great, no. He was all paranoid. All the living looked ugly. Ugh. I went to bed after we hit the road. Told him where to go. Living fucking GPS. Half expected to wake up in Kentucky, but... His nose led him through my route. I think I woke up when you got a whiff of Michael."

\---

“It makes sense what it was now, but it was almost on top of your trail so I thought it was important. Way louder, I felt like I had to get there right then and do whatever I had to do.”

Martin giggles through some remnants of a memory. “Turns out it was the Hunt wanting me to kill the Spiral for existing. We called a cab. I did get to stick my head out. There’s— Gerry, you know there’s a reason I like that, right? Nothing to do with the Hunt. I did it once as a kid and it’s been stuck in my head ever since. Makes it a bit less weird.”

\---

"I've done plenty as a kid that I don't do now," Gerry says. But he's not going to get on him about that, as ridiculous as it is. "Mm. How about the other thing you did? Remember that one? That pesky little detail?"

\---

Martin tilts his head, quirking up an eyebrow. He has no clue what Gerry’s referring to. “What?”

\---

Gerry slides his gaze slowly over to Jon. "He did something to the cabbie. Well, no, it's not 'something'. He compelled her. It was chilling." He pauses. "I've never been able to--"

"Martin," Jon says, interrupting Gerard. "You compelled a cabbie?"

\---

Oh, fuck.

Martin flinches. “I— I just talked to her, I made up a joke about the Queen of England and she got upset, I think she told me about a vampire she saw? I wasn’t exactly— Focusing— She seemed nice!”

\---

"Yes, yes, just like the man at the hotel seemed nice, Martin, that doesn't mean you didn't-- you have to pay attention to this!" Jon isn't yelling, but his voice is snappy, unamused, his mouth a thin line.

\---

Martin wrings both his hands together, frustrated at the berating but unsure how to handle the stress. He goes for anger, actually, but he refrains from growling. Not at Jon. 

“Right. Right, sure, I was barely conscious at this point and less than an hour away from leaving Michael to come kill for you and my head was full of perfume, I’ll make sure I’m paying more attention to the small talk I make at a taxi driver next time that happens.”

\---

"Good! You should!" Maybe he's just testy. After all, it's so hard not to compel, not to lead the questions, dig the story out like worms. It's hard. "Don't-- don't make you killing someone my fault."

\---

“It’s not your fault, Jon, I’m saying— I’m saying the nuances of normal conversation were a little out of my level of control at the time considering how insane it all was, and I don’t think I should get yelled at for it!”

\---

".... Fine. Fine, you're right. It's just frustrating. All of it." But he refuses to stew, when there's still more to this horribly disjointed story. He waves a hand. "Continue."

\---

“I know it’s frustrating, I lived it.” Martin sighs out the tension. The last thing he wants is to fight with Jon. “Michael’s trail ended at an art sculpture. I think I forgot how to talk, I— I thought I had to kill him? Gerry helped.”

\---

"He was all but rabid, really." Gerry picks up for him. "I mean-- I still don't know how you two befriended the Distortion, but he wasn't exactly happy to see Martin. Seemed pissed. I mean, everything about him seemed pissed, which was-- I mean that outfit." He whistles, low, and the sound seems to vibrate against the jittery echoing quality of his voice. "Wonder what his deal was before he got taken in by the Spiral."

\---

Martin’s head lowers, shutting his eyes at the whistle. “...He thought we didn’t care about his ritual anymore. I had to fill him in. Oh, Christ, I remember— I wanted to play in his hallways.”

Embarrassed, he shakes his head. “Jon, you still have the tape I made with his statement? We’ll show him some time.”

\---

"Is that why you wanted to go in his hallway? Martin,  _ what?" _ Gerard flashes him a surprised and confused smile, and leans back in the chair, knitting his hands behind his head so his elbows poke out on either side.

"Uh-- yes, of course I have it. It's put away somewhere." He looks between the two, though. "Martin, you shouldn't go in his Hallway."

\---

“I was freaked out and rabid, I thought it might help to run around and rip paintings off the walls. I didn’t, though. I had him take us... take me... somewhere nearby, somewhere without people. We...”

The face he makes is warped with complicated emotion beyond his own depth. “We talked, at first.”

\---

"Michael slammed his door on me and it-- Discombobulated? Me? I don't know. I went to sleep. I have no idea what happened; I just know Martin was... gone, by the time I came back." Gerard gives a small shrug.

"Talked about... The ritual?" Jon asks.

\---

Put on the spot, Martin struggles to think. “Talked about the Hunt... about trails? He said he... he said he didn’t like to feed. Something about bones. About... about how you reminded him of, of someone with clay? And I... I remembered you were close, so I started biting my hand, s-s-something about leashes?”

As if caught in a phantom memory, Martin’s hand starts to lift to his mouth, between his teeth. The details between then and Jon’s revival are clouded with dirt and blood and pain.

\---

Jon leans forward slowly, and holds his hands out to Martin. "Don't. Let me hold it? Do you-- do you want." He swallows thickly. "Do you want me to help you remember?"

\---

The twisted thing embedded beneath Martin’s skin has a good laugh inside of him over that.

_ Do _ you need someone to unclip you?

_ Do _ you want me to help you remember?

And still, just as before, the answer is the same. A hand outstretched and a short “Please”, this time to someone he loves in an entirely different way. There is no shame in a confession freely given, one he can’t hold back, the knowledge just Is.

\---

Jon nods solemnly and takes Martin's hand in his own, clasping them like a prayer. He levels Martin with a look, and his pupils are wide in excited preparation, despite himself. Hate it he may, but-- well. It's a desire a hunger and a love to compel, to know, to feast.

The office feels still. He Asks, "What happened during your meeting with Michael?"

\---

“I said yes the day they took you,” Martin echoes the familiar truth of his own words, preparing for the struggle ahead of him. A reminder, to Jon, of the reality he can’t misconstrue. “But I wouldn’t let myself commit, you know? Stuck somewhere I couldn’t break through to be what I needed to bring you home. I was tied to a tree that I planted with - with decades of lying to myself, to other people, stifling it all, and Michael asked if I needed a push.”

He laughs, breathy and wide-eyed and somewhere else. “Michael took my hand and showed me all the things I knew were true, blood and dirt and torture and death creeping up on you, and I offered up what I’m good at, to help him-- Poetry is just putting the lies and the truth together until they spiral into the same thing, right? I thought it was funny, how easy it was to offer up my own ideas and bring myself down into the ground, how much I wanted that, and I let go of what I was so afraid of-- Of being a monster, of proving her right, of hurting for it, I felt like I knew for the first time what I was supposed to do with all this. The powers, the lies, just owning the things I’m good at. It almost felt like home. If I didn’t have you, I might’ve stayed.”

His laughter dies out when he tastes his own tears on his lips as he speaks. 

“I came back and knew what I had to do to save you, and Michael-- He was beautiful, all bright colors and perfect in every way, and he looked down at me with love I never thought I could feel, a-and I had nothing left to thank him with except my teeth, there was-- There was nothing left. I was gone, replaced with something basic, pure and alive and willing and ready. I tried to show him what I could do now that I was free. I tried to thank him for his gift with restraint I wouldn’t have when I left the roof, show him what he helped me find, so I bit down on his wrist as hard as I could.” He runs out of breath, hand tightly bound to Jon’s own. “Tell me to keep going.”

\---

Jon's eyes are wide, fullmooned, his mouth open just slightly, enraptured. There's an urge to dig his nails into the hand he holds, the urge to lean forward and be the story that Martin presents him. As it is, he restrains, because this is his job. It isn't, it's personal, but sometimes it can all twist up so tightly together, can't it? Is and shoulds and aren't.

"Continue." There's no room to think about what Martin is saying yet; he can merely feel, and drink it in. The night needs light, to tell a story.

\---

Martin grins, wide and full of teeth and not Jon’s. He pulls his hand away, because it’s not the right thing, not the writhing mess beneath his mouth that he’s grown so deeply comfortable with. 

“I tried to put all the love he showed me into it, like pain and love are the same thing when it’s something you asked for, and at first I didn’t let the blood get anywhere except into me. It washed out the rest of me, everything that held me back. My mother always wanted a girl, did I ever tell you that? I thought she made my middle name  _ Kelsie _ to grieve some thing I ate by being born, like I was a gravestone she could carve into and hate for taking something away she never got to have. The more Michael gave me, the more I saw how much of my life was built on lies, lies people put on me and told me to accept, to make real, and I did. Michael Shelley died for those lies, that-- That fake love that left you alone, and I won’t. I’d kill for love.”

As he moves on, Martin’s hands are alive with movement in mock puppeteering of feeling, criss-crossed childishly on the desk where his audience sits in waiting silence. 

“Michael held me there, he didn’t push me away, he let me be this thing I made and he didn’t-- He didn’t shy away, he didn’t try to hide, or run, it didn’t scare him, he understood. He let me see that, and for the first time in my life I didn’t try to fight against being loved, being-- Being cared for, like he made me something new in our image, one I got to choose, one I got to make, there was love I-I think I should’ve been given to both of us from the start. She couldn’t make me into what she wanted, but Michael wanted what I wanted, and I stopped being afraid. The roof was filling with dirt, like you were there waiting, you’d been patient, and I had to show Michael his trail, to show him what I loved about him, and I pulled back and coughed up clay and blood and stained glass.”

He rubs at his own throat, feeling the sharp wet glass beneath his skin. “I did that. He didn’t put that there, it was me. And it ruined my throat, made it so I couldn’t talk, it took away the one thing I knew how to use and gave me something much better. I think, for a second-- For a second Michael owned me, but he let me go, and he knew I’d own him once our ritual was done. I tried to show him I needed my Skin-Spirit, I needed him to see when I finished, to see what I was like when I had nothing to be afraid of. Show him what he helped me find, like-- Like the Eye deserved to see, and Michael knew what I meant. I think he liked the glass. He-- He asked me, Shelley asked me, if I was sure, and I’d never been more sure of anything before. Michael and Shelley, they’re different, but they’re both hurting and I think they hurt so much they don’t know who started what, it’s just one big circle.

“By then I was covered in dirt that kept rising over my hands, our blood, and I thought--” The laughter that’s been bubbling in and out of his words returns, but now it’s shy, wholly Martin embarrassment. “Oh, I had this idea that I could mark my ghost up with the Hunt, next to the Eyes, keep him safe that way. When Michael called him, he stayed. I was-- I was happy. And all I had to do was the one thing I was made for, through all this. I had to save you. And I knew I would. I think Gerry knows the rest.”

\---

Throughout it, Jon's eyes go unfocused, embodying what Martin tells him like an open, fluid vessel. His mind dips deep, deep into itself, and he finds himself holding the hand that Michael marked; it isn't as profound as Martin's, not by a long-shot, but there's residue there. Something hisses traitor at him, but he ignores it, and feels, and feels, and oh he can picture it.

Wind blowing the scent of trails across a roof, Michael’s hair blond and blowing in it, fluttering, alive like snakes themselves in their tendrils. The sun dipping low before the horizon, glittering upon the lake that has signified their destination; it feels like a death. The sun falls wayside to the water, soon to greet the moon in its rising, midnight glory. The blood that digs deeply between two entities, and oh how the mixture is anachronistic. O, how the spiral digs deep.

Jon had been in a prison of mud and earth and blood and rust; Martin much the same, but his was imposed, and given, and O how he can feel that love. He pulls it inside him, taking it within his core, as he should. As he should.

It would be so easy to pry Martin open like a clam. To unlock his door and Know him. Know him the way something tells him he deserves. Know him the way that Jon wants to, naturally, without this gift. He doesn’t. But the temptation is there, and he can brush against that door, fingertips ruminating upon the doorknob. Maybe Michael would like that.

Jon takes a deep breath, and without hesitation, he turns to Gerard, his gaze whiplike and commanding. “Continue.”

Gerard’s expression goes lax, and his mouth opens unbidden, the words flowing like a fountain. Jon can feel him, can feel his presence easily. The eyes upon his body light up, and his arms fall to his lap as he sits up in the Archivist’s chair, and his smile is vague.

“He said my name when he was ready. I came. Of course I did. I-- I’ve never done the bidding of anyone but my mother. I always come back. I didn’t want to with her. I didn’t. Martin’s eyes were singularly focused, and he knew the way, and I wanted to help. I wanted to protect Martin. I want to protect Martin. That isn’t compelled. It isn’t forced. He produced it, but it’s something I want.”

And so it goes.

“His focus was narrowed, and mindless, and powerful. A primal sort of beauty. And I knew it was my job to protect, sure, but it was more my job to watch. To record. To bear witness to the our lonesome events. I was a Horatio, and Martin was a Hamlet, and like Horatio, my narration is colored, and the Eye may be displeased but that is fine. Emotions are as true as events, maybe. Possible. I…

“The stench of the Spiral was upon him, and the Hunt was dangerous. Is dangerous. What a commanding presence. The one creature that could things like us. The one creature that could kill you, Jon, if he made the effort. Even though your bones strengthen with each Mark, each bolster to you, the Hunt could find you. It’s a strange Entity, isn’t it? To wield such power? But then, you see its victims and you know the balance of it all. An animal is no match for something crowned higher, in the long run. A death blow is lucky. That’s the balance. Luck.

“Martin needed no guidance. He knew where you were. And so I did my duty. But I don’t understand the cave; some things are blind to me, some things are…” His words dry somewhat, and under the gaze of moonspun eyes, he feels guilty that he can’t perform a duty deep in his essence, that he can’t recite, perform, be the statement something like Jon needs. “We were in the institute, by then. It was only a couple blocks.”

\---

“Emotions  _ are _ events for yearling wolves too young to know exactly why they howl at the moon,” Martin titters between them, falling back on the desk. He avoids the corkscrew, the food, the mugs, to stare upwards at the light in the ceiling. He scoffs. “It’s not something you can teach.”

He turns to Jon, one leg bent at the knee and the other kicked sideways over it. He cups the side of his mouth to stage-whisper, “I’m not the only one who likes your throne,” and then opens his voice back to the room. “There’s two things crawling around in the Archives, but I can’t tell you what they are just yet. I’m busy playing games. I make a good metal Scottish terrier.”

\---

There's a smile on Jon's face, but he can't place where it's come from. His voice is not smiling; "My what?" It's enough to almost push him from the Statement, to be just Jon, once more. Almost. Not quite, but-- "Martin?"

\---

"The chair," Martin clarifies with a little half-shrug. "Weren't you in the middle of something?"

\---

He was. Wasn't he? Jon clears his throat. "The caves. Elaborate on them. Gerard afterwards."

\---

"Me? I already did, before." Martin quirks an eyebrow at Jon, who's already gotten all the details. "It was one cave, where they had you, not multiple. I'm sure it was just the Art Institute with a twist. The Hunt mostly catches animals, and the closest thing we have to that fear is when we're in the woods. More high-stakes that way. Maybe I just have a vivid imagination.  _ Your _ eyes don't lie, though, remember?"

\---

Jon nods, and it's the truth. He remembers. He turns to Gerard, and Gerard speaks for the both of them.

"It wasn't human, the way you and Trevor Herbert fought. And you enjoyed it, Martin." Gerard pauses, and glances at Jon. "And so did you. I knew you'd win; it was a forgone conclusion. It was just a matter of time, and how." Another pause. "Your blood was brighter than anything in the room. I felt envious."

"It's just blood," Jon says, but he knows better.

Gerard shrugs. "Regardless, your blood was everywhere. And in the aftermath, it was my job to push Martin back on track. We called Michael. He called Michael."

\---

Martin waves. They're talking about him now, but he's not feeling particularly helpful. "We rolled around in it."

\---

"In my blood?" Jon asks.

\---

"Mhm. Well. You were dead, so by we I think I mean me. Michael didn't like your body one bit."

\---

"...Why?" Everything's gone a little tilted, hasn't it? Jon's hanging on the best he can.

\---

"My best guess is you might've come back differently if you started part two in his Hallways," Martin sighs, like it's somehow completely obvious. His head lolls off to Gerry's side. "Can I have my chair back, please?"

\---

"I don't think I would have," Jon starts, and cocks his head slightly. Martin's a lot right now, to say the least, but Jon's enough himself to not call it out. It's the atmosphere. It's the something. God, it's hard not to pry. "Come back, that is. It wouldn't want that."

Gerard says to Martin, "I really don't think you need the ego boost, Marto."

\---

“I don’t blame you. There’s a smell to them. Old couches and antique perfume, more grandmother stuff than your taste.”

Martin says it without looking at Jon, because now he’s squinting narrowly at Gerry. “It’s an earned chair, Gerry. You’ve got to subjugate me out of ownership first. Get up.”

\---

Gerard very slowly raises his brows. "Oh, it's earned, hm? I was here before you, asshole. Assistant before you."

\---

“It’s not first-come-first-serve, Gerry Keay. You don’t earn by seniority. Right, Jon?”

\---

Jon breathes in deeply like he's waking up, coming to, and he shakes his head violently, trying to be here with them. "It's-- It's not even your chair, Martin. Is that important right now?" His voice is weak, faraway, processing.

\---

“Oh! I’m sorry. You were somewhere else, I didn’t mean to interrupt.” Maybe not. Maybe he’s just possessive. He’ll deal with that later. “We can get back to it. Our honeymoon is next, right? And I’m the only one who remembers it all?”

\---

Gerard leans across the desk. Whatever the fuck Martin's doing, he feels a pathological need to finish his part of the story. "Michael spat us out in Yellowstone."

"Yes, yes, I surmised the location, Gerard," Jon says, though he's still looking at Martin.

"And you started to glow. Like-- Gold. Like backwards rain."

\---

"I said 'Jon', you said 'Martin', I said 'I found you', you called me  _ home,  _ then you saw how I looked and got upset, then I went belly-up so you couldn't be mad, you said you loved me, I said I loved you, and you and Gerry Eye-fucked. Then you quoted Crowley, the same one I said back when you first showed up, and you wanted us to go in the water, then we went 'Jon', 'Martin' again." Martin babbles on, hurriedly lining it all up in the right order.

\---

"A-and you're  _ spiralling,  _ Martin. Does this feel alright to you? Are you okay?" He's out of the statements now. Now he just feels light and jittery and shaky and empty, because to be full would be to remember... all of that. And something tells him he shouldn't. Something tells him it would be a bad decision. Something tells him he should.

\---

"I'm just trying to get to the good parts." He groans, because now Jon's thrown him off. "Right. We got out of the water and you said, you said it like this." Martin makes an effort to lower his voice, that same low, purposeful cadence."'I have to show you how much I love you now'. Then there's a whole part in the middle that doesn't matter, I sort of checked out for a bit anyway for that one, then you mentioned you could smell Michael's love, and I said I needed yours, and you did that thing again-- 'Patience'. You should do that more often."

\---

"... I don't remember it." Jon says simply, though there's open curiosity, open fear on his face because of it. "I just remember the feelings."

\---

"I think I might be cursed with life-changing romance that opens my mind to all sorts of ideas and I can't even share them with anyone. I can't make out with Gerry, he's a ghost, and the sexiest man alive can't even remember all the things he says that make me go 'Oh! Right! Yes, sir!'" Martin sighs dramatically, stealing another grape as he does. "It really is a tragedy."

\---

Jon's confliction wins out the need to finish the statement properly. He lets out a slow, exhausted breath, and leans across the desk to press his forehead against Martin's thigh. "We're here now. There's no tragedy."

\---

"I know where we are, Jon." He leans into the contact, but continues nonetheless. "I'm sprawled out on your desk, Gerry's in the Archivist chair, I told you all my sad stuff, there's a tape recorder running on top of the bookshelf and no one's kissing me. It's awful."

\---

Both men turn instinctively to the top of the bookshelf. Maybe you would have scored a kiss if not for that, Martin.

"I didn't turn that on," Gerard says, at the same exact time as Jon says, "Fuck."

\---

"I told you it's a tragedy," Martin huffs, and he makes no effort to move so he can pout instead. "We don't have to freak out, it's our no-work day."

\---

"We don't have work, anymore, Martin," Jon says, and he stands, his back cracking from sitting for so long in one position. He immediately realizes this Sucks, capital S, because when he reaches the bookshelf, he knows he's too short to reach to the top of it and pull the tape recorder down. He shoots Gerard a fiery look, and the ghost sighs but pulls himself forward from the chair. It's easy work for him, even if the actual grabbing is the hardest part.

"Statement ends," Jon murmurs into the beast, when he's handed it, and clicks it off. The preternatural spell that he didn't even know had him wrapped in spooling film eases somewhat. "It's just our lives now."

\---

Score for Martin, the chair is free and now he can roll off the desk to sit in it. Too bad it's not warm, though. For half a second he expects it to be. He watches the spectacle with his own quiet, passionate delight, they're running around after a mouse like they're in a cartoon. He kicks off the edge of the desk with one foot so the chair starts to spin with him in it. "Can we do something fun now that we're done with statements?"

\---

"Like what, you mad bird?" Gerard asks, and he rolls his eyes at Martin stealing his seat, and just ends up leaning over the desk, instead. This is certainly a different Martin. The air is strange in the office. Gerard isn't necessarily against it. It's better than the depressing horror that is their usual emotional state.

Jon sets the recorder down on the desk and slumps back into the chair opposite the desk.

\---

"I did buy Twister a while back, never opened it, but I'm open to suggestions," Martin says as he grins up at Gerry, kicking off again once he's slowed to a crawl. "Jon, cheer up or I'll throw fruit at you. You'll hurt your back if you sit that way."

\---

"So how many tabs do you think he slipped into his own tea?" Gerard asks.

Jon snorts, despite himself, and sits up just enough to comfortably run his fingers through the top of his hair, pulling it taut through the bun. His voice is dry; despite the odds, Gerard is grounding him. "Oh, a ten-strip, for sure." But he's leaning into it, slowly. It's just taking him a while. His mind is still clogged with memory, half his and half others, and it all feels so heavy upon him. Even the joke feels like wading through thick fog.

\---

Martin kicks off one last time, the force of it wobbling everything on it just enough to make noise. "I'm making  _ chaos." _

They're joking together. He likes that very much. They should make more. "The only thing I slipped into my tea was love. I did put honey in Jon's for his throat, but that's all."

\---

"Sap." Gerard rolls his eyes. He leans forward and concentrates enough to press his hand hard against the backing of the chair, stuttering it to a heavy stop. His grin is triumphant. Jon's a blushing old bitty over there, but Gerard forgives him for actually knowing anything about intoxicants whatsoever.

\---

Whiplash forces a strained 'hrk' from Martin's throat, and wow, he's dizzy. When did that happen? "I'm bringing you back from the dead a second time so I get to flay your skin off. You're not a nice ghost, you're a poltergeist."

\---

"What happened to all the  _ looooove _ in your cup of tea? Cunt." He sticks his tongue out.

\---

"My Satanic poltergeist just called me a  _ cunt."  _ Martin sends Jon a lopsided, pleading look. "Jon, you should exorcise him. Maybe punch his mouth while you're at it."

\---

"Martin," Jon equally pleads, because this is so much already, and he wanted to nap and lay around, but Martin's strange, spiralling mood is slowly starting to infect him. "I'm not going to punch him. You wanted him here."

\---

"Those two statements aren't contradictory!" It's true. Maybe Jon could take him, since he's dead and has no muscles and gets weird about Eye stuff. "I think I should get pampered now. I gave you all a werewolf show and turned Gerry into a real boy and a million other things I won't bore you with and you won't even let me spin in circles."

\---

"Oh, I'm a real boy with  _ your _ permission now, am I?" Gerard snorts. "This is Looney Tunes. Utter Looney Tunes. I can't believe you have me feeling emotions."

\---

"Yeah, Gerry, you are. Unless you're not a boy today, then you're a real 'whichever'. You should feel any emotions that make you sweet to Martin."

\---

Gerard has a decision to make. Not a capital D decision, but he can either continue to stare at Martin in mute shock, or he can match him where he's at. "Touch me, Martin." There. That's his decision. Maybe they all need to relax.

\---

Oh, Martin’s not expecting that. He thinks about sparing a look in Jon’s direction, but that’d complicate things, now, wouldn’t it?

He ends up trying his luck at Gerry’s neck where he leans over the desk, wholeheartedly focused on getting a hand around his throat. It’s not violent by any means, there’s no force to it, just excited curiosity and anticipation.

\---

Gerard takes a steadying breath as he tries to make himself physical. It's hard; not only is it a lot of energy output, but there's a fluttering nervousness that keeps shooting his attention. Martin's angle to touch him is perfect; there's enough blatant shock at what he's trying to touch that any nervousness is pushed away, and a moment later, Martin's hand connects, and Gerard says, "Oh," and leans into it, half of his body crudely leaned over the entire of the desk.

He can't even focus enough to ask Jon with his eyes if this is okay, but he can certainly feel Jon staring. Not important right now. What's important is Martin.

\---

“Oh?” Martin echoes, softly questioning around an airy laugh.

This is kind of hot.

He tightens his grip, adding pressure at the pads of his fingers, and finally looks to his person. Possessed by mischief, Martin winks.

\---

Gerard's expression breaks, a low hum in the back of his throat. He tries not to shake and fails; he's trembling beneath Martin's touch, wrapped in Martin's touch, controlled by it. And he likes it.

With effort, he looks up, and oh the way Jon is looking at them. He gets it now. This is not just a touch. Jon watches them openly, his eyes wide, but he's not saying no, now is he? So he focuses back on Martin, and let's out an airy breath, and tries to say it without saying it that this is good.

\---

“You’re sweet,” Martin says, playful as his thumb catches along Gerry’s jaw and he moves his fingers so the backs of his knuckles brush over the underside of his chin. Easy as petting a cat.

As Gerry’s focus comes back to him, Martin shifts his own away, down to Jon again, several different questions layered beneath the one he actually says. Is this okay, are you here, do you want to have fun, do you think I’m  _ handsome?  _ “Do you think he still thinks I’m a cunt?”

\---

Jon is quiet for a moment, deliberating. There's a lot of decisions lately, and this one is just another in a series. And like the rest, the answer is easy, even if it feels like it really, really shouldn't be.

He sits up in the chair and leans forward, so he's near to where Gerard leans over the desk. They're on either side of him now, and Jon must admit; it's a sight to behold.

"Probably," He says, slowly, low in his throat. "I wouldn't let it bother you; it's clearly not bothering him."

\---

Martin shivers under the weight of Jon’s voice, delighted at the choice he’s made to really spiral down deep into this with them. With Martin. Now they’re just experimenting, and you can always count on Jon’s professional, academic curiosity.

He’s trying not to laugh, even as he goes back down at Gerry’s throat to squeeze. “Remember to breathe, Gerry. It’s real.”

\---

Gerard does just that, taking in a shaky breath as his form wavers like an old television, static across Martin's fingers. This has crossed from a touch to something else entirely. Something he didn't know until he'd babbled under the influence of Jon's spell. He wants to protect Martin, in the service of Martin, but it works the other way around, too.

Martin is the Keeper of his Book.

"Is it?" His voice is so strained, throat bobbing against Martin's hands.

\---

White noise coats Martin’s point of contact. He wishes it was more than that. “Of course it is. There’s air in your lungs and— Oh, wow, this is a lot, you weren’t kidding. What are we doing?”

Martin may be his Keeper, but Jon is also his. Spiraling, spiraling, both good and bad amplified. That’s why the question is aimed at him.

\---

"I don't know," Jon breathes, and his eyes are wide, wide, wide. "What do you want to do?" He has to get there. Whatever it is Martin wants, or needs, or can't define. Permission is being passed like a torch, but Martin's demeanor upon the whole room is wholeheartedly, definitively running the show.

\---

“I want you both to still like me after this.” His voice is struck soft as he holds steady at Gerry’s throat, unsure if the static in the air is coming solely from his ghost. “I don’t think I’ll ever be normal again, after— After everything. It was only a week but it felt like forever, and I miss being touched, at all, I want you to take care of me as much as I want to take care of you and I want you to want that.”

\---

"Of course," Jon says, and raises an arm to ride over the top of Gerard's back, fingers splayed and wanting Martin's free hand from the other side of the desk. Gerry shivers at the touch, but considering what Jon knows of... This..., he's holding it together quite well. "It was never a question. I love you. I can touch you."

\---

Martin refuses to hesitate, locking their fingers together and lowering his other hand from Gerry’s throat to his upper arm. “I don’t know how to keep it a good Spiral. I can’t tell if all of this is real or if it’s something I want so bad I’m making it all up.” He doesn’t want to fall. He doesn’t want to crash. “Please help.”

\---

"It's real. Of course it is," Jon says, and maybe that's his role in this. Keeping them steady. Keeping Martin from keeling over, Gerard from getting too overwhelmed. "I'll make sure it's real." He's careful not to lose his bravado, to stutter or sound unsure; that's just an in for whatever Martin's feeling to infect him. And it has, a little, already. He's not against it happening. But not yet.

"Just tell me what you need." His pause is milliseconds long. "Both of you."

Gerry is breathing slowly, heavily, and Jon clasps a hand to his other arm. This is what Martin wants; all of them. Who is he to refuse that?

\---

Slowly, surely, the scales of hysteria teetering in Martin’s head start to balance. He understands, now, why Jon had warned him so much about this, but what’s done is done and he was willing to sacrifice stable coherency for his people. He has to remember that. He was willing.

Jon won’t let anything happen that isn’t real. Not here. Not their Archives. Martin’s fantasies run wild won’t consume them all, won’t lead Martin to a place of overwhelming guilt in stringing them along. He has faith in that.

He squeezes Jon’s hand and Gerry’s arm. “I think I need to get back in bed and feel you there,” he sighs out with a puff of air that’s barely a laugh, “Maybe we should watch a movie. Gerry seems like he has good taste.”

\---

Jon lets out a breath, and nods. That's easy. That's simple. Martin just needs their presence, and something simple. Just reminders. "Okay. Gerry?"

Gerard's voice is still slightly shaky, but he looks a bit more stable, like he's getting used to their touches. "Alright. Have to give me a-a genre."

\---

“Low-budget? Campy? Bit off-the-wall but not  _ too _ off-the-wall?” He’s not trying to make it difficult on Gerry, but Martin’s forgotten the intricacies of their predicament and leans to press his forehead against his shoulder for comfort.

\---

"Hm." Gerry shakes Jon's hand off of him; he can't think if both of them are on him. He starts to ease up off the desk, and the movement makes him shiver as Martin's fingers shift on his arm, but it doesn't shatter his focus. "You have a ridiculous infatuation with ghosts. How about Beetlejuice?"

\---

Martin grasps Jon’s hand above where Gerry’s moving back, wanting to keep contact with at least one of them as Gerry starts to slip away. “I have a regular infatuation for  _ one _ ghost, thank you, but sure. Jon?”

\---

Jon shrugs. "I'm amicable to, you know, anything." He doesn't watch movies often. He'll likely be napping on Martin's shoulder through it. Martin's insistent on keeping their hands clasped, so he stands, moving behind Gerry as the ghost stands to his full height, too.

\---

Well, they’re all getting up now. Might as well join the party. Martin stands and takes a few cautious steps to the bedroom. There’s a question burning on his lips, and it’s not the kind that begs compelling. It’s a different kind of nervous. “Jon, are you— Are you okay?”

\---

"With-- Um. With what?" Because that's the important question. There are many, many things that are not okay. But this isn't one of those things.

\---

“I just grabbed Gerry’s throat on your desk like that was normal. That’s— A bit, well, much, maybe. I’m just... checking in? Thoughts?” He’s not sure what the right questions are. He’ll work his way around them.

\---

Jon purses his lips. "It-- I think? I'm okay. I didn't-- I'm not objecting. Just. Processing? I think I'm--" He shakes his head a little, to clear the cloudiness. "I think I like it."

\---

“Okay. We’ll save that for later, then. Maybe I can convince him he actually needs to breathe next time.” He shrugs, because Jon’s straightening him out now. He does take silent joy in talking about Gerry like he’s not there, though, it’s very funny.

He moves with more purpose to their den, the one Gerry hasn’t seen properly yet.


	38. Chapter 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter;  
> \- Explicit sexual content  
> \- Embarrassing Victorian roleplay  
> \- No, sadly, Gerard Keay's dick will never work again

Now that his senses aren't being barraged with feeling, Gerry comes down from a very specific high that still leaves him nonetheless a bit floaty, trailing after both of them near-mindlessly.

What a strange fucking afternoon they've gifted him.

The only reason he doesn't bitch out Martin is that he's deep, deep in his own head; this is territory he has never even hoped to broach. This is terrifying. To care? To actually care for someone? That's leverage. He's seen it play out. Hell, Jon was the leverage for that exact dynamic. But for once it's not something he wants to shy away from.

"I don't think he needs to breathe, Martin," Jon is saying, and Gerard blinks, coming to in the middle of their journey to the bedroom.

"Yeah, well, neither do you Jon," He replies. "And I see you doing it just fine, Hm?"

\---

It might be leverage, but at least they’re honest about it. At least there’s love. At least... best not to think about it right now. Like Jon apparently not needing to breathe. Is it possible to be tired of and in desperate need of secrets to fuel the fire?

He finds their bed and separates from Jon momentarily, kicking off his shoes and dramatically rolling into the middle with his head face-down on a pillow.

“So I’m the only one who needs to breathe here, and neither of you could choke me out. Figures.” His voice is plain, muffled, like it brings him no joy, flat affect despite thinking it’s actually very, very funny.

\---

"Like I _should!"_ Jon exclaims, at the same moment Gerard says flatly, "It really is a pity."

Jon is slow to get into bed, but he eventually sits up against the headboard on Martin's left.

Gerard watches them for a moment and sighs. "I feel overdressed, even though I'm not dressed at all. Funny how these things work."

\---

“I’m glad Gerry’s here. Maybe he can corrupt you.” Martin lifts from the pillow and curls so he’s using Jon’s lap to rest his head instead. Then he lifts a hand and rapidly opens and closes a fist at Gerry, trying to get him to come closer. “Get in bed. Not like your ugly boots will make it dirty.”

\---

That earns him a sigh, before he's coming where Martin wants him. The bed doesn't dip below his weight, and he's not touching Martin, sitting up stiffly in the bed. "I'll corrupt both of you. And my boots aren't ugly."

\---

“I’m incorruptible.” Martin wiggles his fingers up in the air. “Why don’t you finger the bed sheets so you loosen up a little? Jon— Is your laptop still on the nightstand?”

\---

Jon blinks at Martin with a flat look. "These are all jokes you've been not saying around me. Chriiiiist, Martin." There's amusement in his voice, though, a small smile as he leans over to fumble for the laptop. He hands it over to Martin, and presses a hand to his hair.

Gerard just squints and manifests solidly enough to flick Martin on the cheek, harshly.

\---

Oh. So much stimuli. Martin’s just started to hum at the hand in his hair when a cold laptop reaches his hands, and before he can process that Gerry flicks him, all of it combining into something that leaves him mindless. He doesn’t even snap at him for that one.

He blinks, and then rolls over onto his back between them. Trying to focus, he starts working to set this up. “Making sex jokes around you is hard sometimes. I get too flustered about it before I can explain.”

\---

"But he can make _aaalll_ the handie jokes in the world to me," Gerard snorts, and leans back against the pillows, some of his hair splaying out.

Jon looks over to the both of them. "Is it-- I mean, do  _ I _ cause that in you?"

\---

Martin’s hands pause on the built-in keyboard. “Cause— Cause what? You just get flustered and then I get flustered, or— Sometimes the other way around.”

\---

"Oh." And as if to prove the point, he does look rather flustered. "Sorry."

\---

“Don’t do that,” Martin whines, “It’s not— It’s not inherently  _ bad, _ it’s just harder when I’m more worried about screwing up with you. About that stuff. Gerry’s low-risk, he likes me despite spending half our first interactions snapping at each other.”

By the end he sticks his tongue out at Gerry, one small act of rebellion.

\---

"I don't want you worrying about screwing up. If-- if I get nervous we'll just. Just try again later? Or-- or just move on?" Jon squints at them.

Gerard snorts. "Martin just likes that he can bully a poor unfortunate goth."

\---

“I do try again later,” Martin says, sagging down into the bed so his shoulders hike up. “Here’s a game. I’ll just act like I’m talking to Gerry about what I want and then it’ll come out of my mouth with human speech.”

\---

Both men immediately laugh at the sheer preposterous concept. Not against it, per say, just-- amused.

"Ach. But you're probably all lovey dovey with Jon. Disgusting, Martin." Gerard sticks his tongue out.

"I think the point is that he... He holds back." And yep, there's the blush.

\---

“A little.”

The sudden change in volume is enough to prove he means a lot. His own face is burning up, because Jon is, but Martin ignores it. He forces his tone into something more flippant.

“Gerry, you should call me into a meeting under false pretenses, order me around, maybe even test me on something so when I get it right you tell me I’m good. I think it’s deliriously attractive when you take charge.”

\---

Jon cups his face with his hands, spluttering in surprise. Not that he doesn't find it attractive... But. "Oh my God, you weren't joking about--"

Gerard gives a predatory smile. "Oh, yes, Professor Sims, welcome to the shit show."

\---

“No, I wasn’t joking. That’s why I like it when you get your voice all serious. I like working for— I like helping, but I like when you get snappy about what you want. And I like that you’re academic. You can ramble about— About all sorts of things. At least you let me under your desk. That was one of the best nights of my life.”

He can’t get much lower, but he might as well have melted into the bed. Like he’s trying to disappear through it.

\---

"I liked that too," Jon says, and oh, yes, now he's aware that he gets so flustered. Ugh. "We can do that... That a-again soon?"

"Holy shit. You both suck at this," Gerard says.

Jon pulls his hands down and glares at Gerard. "You're one to talk, Gerry." It's a little less blushy, because Gerard is annoying, and to punctuate his point, he reaches across Martin to press a hand to Gerard's hair, which makes the ghost immediately waver in form and make a low, low sound in the back of his throat, and a series a nervous giggles escape him.

\---

Martin keeps his thoughts to himself so he can fully comprehend the scene playing out above him. It makes him want to sit up. But he won’t.

“I think I get so mad when you compare me to a dog because sometimes I sort of like it in a weird way,” Martin mumbles to himself, intending to get away with that while they’re distracted with each other.

\---

Gerard slaps Jon's hand away, and ignores the strange look of triumph in Jon's eyes. Wow, that shouldn't be doing things to him.

He shivers again and straightens his hair with his fingers and regains his composure enough to say, "Of course you do. I imagine I would have actually been bitten if you didn't." Bless you, Martin, for giving him a distraction to what Jon did.

\---

Martin has found the movie by now, but he’s not playing it just yet. Moving on from one embarrassing confession to another slightly-less one.

His voice is still nearly under his breath. “And I really like being in the middle.”

\---

"I like it too," Jon says. And his voice is honey-sweet and a little bolder, now that he's growing accustomed to this situation. "Love from both sides, hm? I like that for you."

"Saps. The lot of you." Which is enough of an agreement with Jon that Gerard's going to give.

\---

The look Martin shoots up to Jon is utterly blank with surprise. “Yeah. It makes me feel important. I’m emotionally turbulent right now! It - it helps.”

He ticks his gaze just slightly so he’s aimed at Gerry. “And if you want me to stop being a sap, do something about it.”

\---

"I didn't say I wanted you to stop, you instigative little shit." He looks to Jon. "See what I deal with, Jon?"

Jon rolls his eyes. "You do have restraint if you've never actually bitten him, Martin."

\---

“Restraint’s my middle name,” Martin somehow laughs through clenched teeth, “I don’t think I could bite him, we’d never get that far. You, I could. Physically. Have to work me up for the mental part.”

\---

"Oh, alas, the universe gives you a person you want to bite, but can't, and one you can, but don't want to. What an unfair world for you, Martin." Gerard focuses hard and leans down to ruffle Martin's hair.

\---

Martin wants to be angry. He does. He wants to growl and scare Gerry away, or even just have the decency to linger on how strange it is to be touched by a ghost. Instead, his breath hitches in a way that’s half a cry and half gracious want, but in the end those are both pretty much the same thing. “I didn’t say ‘don’t want to’, I said you’d have to work me up.”

\---

"Oh, what a difference. Like Sweet Jon would do that." He keeps his hand there. Effort it may take, but Gerry's eyes are wide and curious and satisfied, and a slow spread smile rises on his face.

\---

“He... he has before,” Martin exhales softly, tilting up into his hand and pointedly not getting a decent look at Gerry’s stupid, smug face.

\---

"Let's keep the biting at a minimum for now," Jon says, and when he meets Gerry's eyes, his expression grows soft and then mischievous, and his hand meets Gerry's in Martin's hair, and yes they're petting him and yes it's rather intimate, and oh, Jon thinks he likes that every time his fingers brush against Gerry's, the ghost shivers in pleasure.

\---

To his credit, Martin holds out for an admirable length of time. A scathing comment stops just short of passing his lips, but he forgets in favor of shutting his eyes, fingers going slack on the edge of the laptop. No biting. He wouldn’t dream of it.

He’s not even embarrassed about the little scattered sounds their contact starts drawing from his throat. Too content where he is.

\---

What an addicting thing, to make Martin feel this comfortable. Jon slides down until he can lay comfortably next to Martin, his hand still smoothing through his scalp. And where Gerard's touches fade in and out, clumsy in their execution, it's clearly a novel thing to him, enthusiasm unparalleled to Jon's lazy, sleepy movements.

\---

“I hate you both,” Martin lies, frustrated that he can’t lean one way or the other. His breaths come shorter, choppy and uneven as Gerry’s back-and-forth corporeality. “The last thing this stupid ghost needed was more leverage in his arsenal. Now you’re showing him my secrets. Evil, Jon.”

\---

"Oh yes, curse me for knowing how to make you feel  _ good _ now. Utterly deranged of me to have access to that information." Gerard murmurs, and he too, starts to scoot down in the bed, and when he's eye level with Martin, he reaches out to grab Jon's hand that's in Martin's hair, and presses it over his own breast.

He wonders.

When Jon touches him, it's like the energy needed to connect is less, like he's being channeled into something greater, something firm, something that has the ability to lend him strength. He holds Jon's hand to his chest, and Jon, the angel, acquiesces and doesn't move, though he cocks his head in what looks to be blatant curiosity.

Gerard's hypothesis is correct. Less clumsy, less energy, more there, it's not very hard at all to move the hand clutching Martin's hair down the landscape of his face and tilt his jaw so he's facing Gerard.

There's no blush on his face, but there might as well be, the jittery, overwhelmed expression on his face. Smooth in motion, maybe, but the emotions displayed on his face are a different story. "Give me more leverage?"

\---

Martin’s eyes crack open as Jon’s hand leaves, abandoning a question just to watch it settle on Gerry. Gears are grinding in his head, Martin gets to see it happen, revels in the chance to see him figure out how to manage all this, but that doesn’t make him any less surprised when something changes. When, all at once, he’s coaxed into moving by a hand that feels real.

“Hi,” is all he says, stupid and half-lidded and grinning. Now he wants to give up all his own secrets in Gerry’s eyes. Doesn’t matter which set. All of them, maybe. “You can pull on it, I like... r-rough— You’re not leeching Jon’s life away, right?”

\---

Jon shakes his head. "It's helping him. I can feel him, in-- in my soul, but it's not hurting. It feels right." This part isn't about him, though; he wants to settle any of Martin's worries.

"I'll pull your hair later," Gerard says, and leans his face in closer. The grip on Martin's jaw tightens, and he smiles, his eyes searching for any hesitation. He finds none, and so he ghosts-- Hah!-- his lips across Martin's, nothing pressing, nothing stern, merely testing to see if it's alright, before he goes further.

\---

He’s still smiling - all Jon’s fault - when their lips meet, and Martin pushes forward with nothing short of total enthusiasm. His lips part, at first to sound off his approval, but then he’s running his mouth instead. Just who he is today. “You’re gentle, for a poltergeist.”

He reaches blindly for whichever part of Gerry he can easily reach, and his own hand ends up splayed over his chest. Not just his clothes, it’s Gerry, they’re touching, just under Jon’s point of contact, and it startles out a giddy laugh that’s all Martin and no Michael, no Spiral, and isn’t the world just full of miracles today? Manifesting love. They’re all so talented.

\---

Gerry hums a desperate note when his hand joins Jon's, and he trembles beneath it, even as he's pushing ahead. When he was alive, perhaps the kiss could be brutal, fierce, no less than pulling blood from swollen lips with a snarl. Turns out ghosts are shit at that kind of passion, that kind of violence. Being a ghost has tamed him; in all the best ways and all the worst. The passion is there, without the whole 'burning bridges' aspect to every bit of intimacy Gerard has willingly given.

His eyes slide closed, and he feels Martin, content that Jon is here to keep watch for him, to be their guide. One hand stays firm on Martin's jaw, and the other stays wrapped around Jon's wrist, because he's pretty certain Jon is not ready for an ass-grab yet. They'll get there.

\---

Martin does some wondering on his own as his brain leaves his head, overwhelmed and underwhelmed until he’s settled somewhere close to whelmed. He tilts so he’s closer, trying not to jostle Jon’s hand away, so he can deepen the kiss and make it satisfying. He’s yet to have a chance to try out his new teeth, so that’s exactly what his next plan is, the tiniest restrained drag of a canine against Gerry’s bottom lip.

\---

Static runs along Gerard's form and through the three of them at the first hint of teeth, an exaggerated soulful shiver that causes Jon to, as well.

"Oh," Gerry breathes, and then he's pushing back, and though his teeth are nowhere near as sharp, and though he can't push too hard to lack of a proper body, he still pushes, and nips, and pulls, and when he opens his eyes a moment, they're fiery and wanting and taking and needy.

\---

Uh oh, they’re looping. His mouth isn’t nearly as warm as Jon’s, and in fact it’s not warm at all, just different in a way that Martin is challenged to adapt. Kisses different than Jon, too, as a quirk of personhood, but that’s fun. New is fun.

Any other time, he might be embarrassed by how much he’s shaking already, how his breaths turn to deep, hot exhales so quickly, but he was serious about being pent up. So, so serious.

“I’d crawl on top of you,” Martin huffs between kisses, “But Jon— Your— His hand, I’ll just end up straddling the bed. I can only stay in one spot if I’m giving where m-my hands are busy.” He can’t do much from this angle, doesn’t want to risk tangling up their limbs, making them lose their focus, and as-is his other hand has just been fidgeting with the sheets.

\---

Gerard pulls back enough to think, pursing his lips and jumping his gaze between Jon and Martin. "Jon. Get on top of Martin. Sheesh. Simple enough. Get your man hot while your lady kisses you. That work?"

Jon blinks, and then fields a questioning look to Martin.

\---

“Get your... Oh, I like  _ how _ you’re saying it, but I don’t know what you’re saying. Except— Jon. Yes. Always.” Martin snorts, dumb and full of air. “Who’s the lady?”

\---

Gerard takes hold of Jon's wrist, from the hand on his chest, and he pulls, pulls until Jon relinquishes his spot on the left side of the bed and moves to straddle Martin, a soft little, "Hello," falling from his lips. Oh, Gerard likes this very much. He keeps his grip on Jon's wrist while Jon gets comfortable, needing the strange energy boost to keep him not only here, but focused and ready and confident. His own little nicotine patch.

One Jon is settled, Gerard easily moves Jon's hand to run up his own shirt, sliding against the curve of his side. His hand is warm, and Gerard takes a moment to relish in a heat he has not felt in eons; Martin's body heat is foreign to him. It's alright. He just misses it. Jon's other hand rises to meet where Martin's shoulder meets his neck, and his smile is devoted. Fucking lovebirds.

Gerry gets back in Martin's face, and his smile is a flirtatious sneer. "Me. Duh. Can't you recognize ladylike behavior when it's snogging you in the face?"

\---

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Martin lets slip as he acclimates to Jon’s weight, like he’s gone to heaven. His own hands work on instinct, dipping under his shirt to settle over his stomach. That feeling alone has some flattering compliments about to pour out of his mouth next, but he’s not really given a fighting chance, is he?

“I don’t think I’ve met lady Gerry yet.” Martin sneers right back. He leans up to kiss him but he’s just slightly too far away, so he slumps back with a dejected huff. “Nothing ladylike about you when you’re a princess, though.”

\---

"Guess you've never met a proper lady, then." He crinkles his nose, but it's with this pinched smile that he would daresay is cute, if the word didn't make him want to shrivel up into a husk. He moves back into Martin's orbit once he's certain they all have their positions. Jon to Martin to Gerard and back again. Cyclical, circular, endless. What a thought.

Jon huffs out a laugh, and his smile is full up when he looks to Gerard. "Oh, you've given him trouble, haven't you."

\---

Of course he’s met a proper lady. He’s kissed ladies. “In Gerry’s words, you’re not very hand-wobbly, whatever that means.”

Martin tugs on the waistband of Jon’s pants, not trying to get them off but to have something to do with his hands that doesn’t involve grabbing Gerry by the face and pulling him closer. He’s pouting now, and not at Jon. “You’re too far away.”

\---

Jon's voice is quiet. "You'd be surprised."

"Maybe you could use a tease, Martin. Ladies play hard to get. Hm. Why should I?" The grin on his face is salacious.

\---

Well. He’s not proud of the way his hips twitch up against Jon’s weight. To say the least.

Regardless, he’s glaring up at his ghost like he wants nothing more than to kill him a second time even as he flushes dark. “Gerry, that’s not fair. You already want to kiss me!”

\---

"Oh, I do," Gerard grins, and then bats his eyelashes. "So make my wants come true."

"God," Jon breathes, and he can't stifle the laugh in his throat. "I got it. Oh, Martin, he's funny."

"Am I now."

And so Jon leans down over Martin, and says, "He's playing a game. 'It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a large ego must be in want of a woman to cut him down to size.' I suggest you earn her favour, Mr. Blackwood."

\---

Martin sits captivated by Jon’s voice, so far below him and eyes wide open. He moans, quiet and bashful and stuttered out in surprise.

Don’t do it, Martin. It’s a slippery slope. “Please, m-ma’am?”  _ Martin. _ “I can’t bear to live without one last taste of your mouth on mine. I’d hardly be a man at all, reduced instead to - t-to fine ash.”

\---

What a lady Gerard is, indeed. If the village witch is a lady. He takes Martin by the jaw, and his smile is predatory. "And why shouldn't I just burn you here,  _ sir? _ Hardly a man, indeed." His voice bounces more fluidly than usual, an air to it that he's never unleashed for Martin before. It's certainly a voice that has Jon interested, if his wide-eyed, hungry look is any indication. What a load of freaks. He loves it.

\---

“Your love is a slow burn in my heart, miss— I’d fuel it willingly, until you’re satisfied, a-a lady so keen on torture could bask in that heat for years,” Martin whines, going lax in Gerry’s grip. No one’s nudged him into a bit before, and Gerry’s voice is cradling his brain, blocking any thoughts that might stop him from falling in.

\---

"Mm." Gerry hums, and then swipes a sharp nailed thumb across the crest of Martin's cheekbone. "And if your lady wants more than just mere satisfaction?" Leaning close, she brushes noses with Martin, and that sharp smile still plays upon the face.

\---

Martin leans into the touch, eyes falling shut like he’s truly desperate for the barest of contact. He’s squirming, just a little, but that’s Jon’s knowledge to hold. “Anything you want, I’ll— I’ll give. Please?”

\---

Gerard makes a show of deliberating, considering, weighing the options, humming curiously. Oh she's never done this, and how it tickles her pink. But eventually, lips connect to Martin's, and Gerry's smile is all in her eyes, triumphant and expectant, and loving this. Pulling back just enough to snap at Jon, "Give affection to your man, Jonathan," she falls back in, and a moment later, is pleased to feel Jon lean over and begin to lavish Martin with kisses upon his throat where Gerard can't possibly hope to reach.

\---

Martin sighs his relief at the corner of Gerry’s mouth, but he doesn’t get to live in that satisfaction. It just warps his want into need pulled taut, and he thinks he might die like this.

There’s not much room for rebellion here, but he does his best— One hand stays fixed at Jon’s hip while the other runs higher, up to his ribs. It’s never given him anything but trouble, but it’s not like he knows how to make Gerry lose composure. Someone else needs to, otherwise his undignified needy sounds into Gerry’s mouth make the only noise filling up the room. (AN: Except Beetlejuice, which Martin did press play on and is currently running on the end of the bed. Jack will edit this later.)

(AN: Jack is deciding this is the best possible way to get this information across and has kept it.)

\---

Jon shivers beneath Martin's touches, a needy little sound falling from his lips. Where his hand meets Martin's neck, he squeezes, leaning forward some so that he's closer to the two kissing men.

Gerard pulls back enough to say, "Boo... Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair." He lets go of Jon's hand, content that Jon knows better than to let go of Gerard in this moment, in order to snap the hair tie out of Jon's bun, his hair falling and making Gerard peal in triumphant laughter.

\---

“I really do like it that way,” Martin murmurs from below, lips kiss-swollen and flushed. He’s definitely a little sappy, and a whole lot pleasantly surprised with this turn of events.

His hands start to wander, down to Jon’s thighs, nudging him to spread wide enough that he has to straddle him with all his weight. And so he has a better angle to squeeze thumbs along his inner thighs, palms rubbing slowly up and down, kneading muscles through layers of clothes.

He’ll hit himself for how whiny it is later, but he asks Gerry like he wants permission. “We should have less clothes on?”

\---

"Sure. Hard agree. I just need to figure out how to do that?" His voice lilts at the end; lots of strange parts of this situation that he has to figure out all at once.

Jon blinks slowly over to him, his eyes half-lidded, and his expression more than a little slack. "Just take them off," He mumbles. "It's all intent, right? Just don't have them anymore."

Gerard blinks. "You two first."

\---

Gerry says ‘You two first’, but the part of Martin’s brain that’s piloting right now hears ‘Definitely Jon first’. He’s not in much of a position to rip anybody’s clothes off, for sure, but he’s tugging the waistband of Jon’s sweatpants with purpose this time. That’s all he can do.

“I can’t even take his pants off from down here,” Martin whines like it’s the end of the world, wiggling to take his own hoodie off without removing the shirt underneath. He tosses it over the side of the bed and returns to his new home at Jon’s hips, waiting for him to get up enough to help.

\---

"Hopeless," Gerard says, and tugs on Jon's wrist as he pulls himself off of Martin.

"Did not expect this afternoon to go this way," Jon mumbles, and sits up straight on the end of the bed and starts to tug his sweatpants down.

"You sure? You didn't put any underwear on, freak."

Jon levels Gerard with a look and leans quickly over to slap at his shoulder. "Don't! Use your Knowing powers for that! _Pervert!"_ But Gerard is right, and he lets the pants drop and moves to pull his hoodie and the shirt beneath it with a scowl.

\---

Martin starts to fumble at his own belt with visibly, stupidly shaky hands, managing a slack that’s enough to kick his pants off before he’s too impatient to continue. For the record, his boxers are plaid. What colors? Up to God.

He spends a good, fantastically blissful chunk of time with his eyes stuck on Jon despite his impatience with him so far away. If little floating hearts could manifest around his head as thought bubbles, they certainly would. “Did you really plan sex with me on your busy schedule?”

\---

"No." Jon says flatly, which causes Gerard to laugh, endlessly amused by the way Jon's emotions seem to Peter between high maintenance and blunt in a heartbeat. "It was just comfortable. Don't listen to him." Even though they're both listening to the him in question, and that, too, has Gerard amused.

"Look at you, you little nymph. Wow!" Gerard coos at Jon's naked body, and then whistles, and bumps a momentarily incorporeal elbow to Martin, just for the visual gag of it all. Jon colors and scowls, and Gerry looks to Martin. "Nice catch." Pause. "Is it problematic to objectify people if I'm literally a book?"

\---

“Of course he’s a catch, I have good taste,” Martin scoffs, slowly regaining composure despite the way he seems to only have the capacity to drink in every part of Jon’s body his eyes can reach where nothing else exists. His mouth is somewhere else. “Not if you objectify me, too. Jon, come back. Come here. I miss you.”

He tries to sit up, at least up to his elbows, and wow, he’s really not helpful, is he? Gerry’s commandeering of the situation makes him want to be a useless brat to whip int... whoa, there. That’s certainly a thought. Calm down.

\---

"Mm. Must. You've got him and me. Excellent taste. You wouldn't be so bad yourself if you didn't run your mouth." He's not acting as desperate as Martin, but he does make a pleading face at Jon; he does miss his presence, his warmth, the way he makes Gerard present.

"I'm choosing to ignore 70% of what you two are saying," Jon says, and retakes his throne upon Martin's midriff, smile sharp.

Gerard takes hold of one of his wrists and pulls it to his own hip, shivering, and then looks to Martin. "Give your Michael-hand. Need to be a little loose in the thoughts to figure this clothes thing out."

\---

Whatever. He’s earned a chance to run his mouth without filter. Yes. He will be pulling the ‘I killed a man’ card to cope with the ethical dilemma he refuses to let rage in his mind.

“Ugh. Don’t call it that,” Martin grimaces, repulsed at the thought of naming it. Still, he holds it up, despite not being totally sure this is all that great of an idea to bring back into the mix. His other hand moves to explore one of Jon’s thighs, free from fabric and extremely distracting. “Would you ignore me if I said sometimes you look so wonderful I’m not really sure how to handle it?”

\---

"No, of course not," Jon says, and twitches from the touch. He looks to Gerard when the hand is offered, though, so Gerard sticks his tongue out and entwines his fingers in Martin's. Jon presses his free hand to Martin's cheek.

A shiver runs through him when he let's the connection fill him, green eyes a'blinking, a strange chill up the spine. His expression goes a little unfocused, and an unintended laugh escapes his lips. He leans down to peck at Martin's other cheek, and his smile is triumphantly confident. He starts pulling off his coat; it's heavy, so heavy, so very awfully heavy and he wants to be free like Jon and Martin, to be real and solid and have skin and oh. That's strange. He drops the coat to the floor and it's just gone. Guess it's not part of him, anymore.

\---

“A moment of silence,” Martin whispers unevenly between them, trying to hold back his own laughter threatening to spike up. “For Gerry Keay’s ugly coat. It won’t be missed, but neither will it be forgotten.”

\---

"Oh, fuck off. You're just jealous you can't wear it. Maybe it'd just go riiight through you. Hm?" He starts to clumsily pull the shirt he's wearing underneath up over his head, messing up his hair in the process.

\---

“I’m not jealous, I just like to grab it.” Martin sneaks a kiss to the inside of Jon’s wrist below where he cradles his cheek, getting a little rambunctious with both his words and the way he gently scratches down Jon’s thigh. “How does it feel, Gerry, needing Michael’s magic to get your clothes off? Wonder if he’s Watching.”

\---

"Don't make it weird," Gerard says. Well. Whines, really, on accident, his emotions closer to the surface as he rides the spiral and finally gets his shirt over his head, dropping it and kind of swaying as he watches it disappear.

\---

“Hope you get those back, can’t have a naked ghost in the Archives,” Martin says around his grin, voice dipping into a musical note on the Archives. “So what’s— What’s the plan, here, exactly?”

\---

"I'm pulling my clothes off, Jon's naked, and you're near to it. I rather assumed we were going to fuck." Gerard replies flatly, and pulls himself from the bed and away from Jon's hand to start unbuttoning his jeans.

Jon pulls back from Martin enough to wrinkle his nose." And how do you propose we do that?"

\---

“That’s what I was asking! Seemed like Gerry had ideas, can you even— Wait, what do you even—“ Oh, God, is that a bad question to ask? “What are we working with here? You can’t— You don’t have blood, it’s not like...” ...And he trails off. Not very helpful today, for sure.

\---

Well. Way to pull back his composure and Confidence. Gerard pauses, his thumbs through the belt loops, and he looks up, blinking. "Oh my fucking _God._ My dick won't work. I'm 35 and my fucking dick won't work."

"Ghost Viagra?" Jon offers, and then has to hide his laugh behind his hand.

\---

“That answers my question.” Martin doesn’t hide his laugh, he can’t spare a hand for that. “Mine works, I can tell you that.” He can’t stop giggling. “With confidence.”

\---

"Right. Well pardon the offense, but you're not fucking me with Jon standing to the side holding my hand like I'm a woman in labor." He pulls his pants down and looks utterly, completely crushed. "Death sucks."

"It's been treating me well," Jon says and wow isn't he full of fucking quips today.

"Cool, Jon! Awesome! Good for you! New plan, we make you stop talking!"

\---

“I still think you’re nice to look at, for what it’s worth,” Martin shoots in Gerry’s direction, giving him a solid wink as his free hand roaming about Jon’s thigh moves up and over between his legs. He idly spreads his fingers along either side of his clit, not quite touching but teasing, still appreciating what he can see of Gerry.

He swallows down his own excited, breathy exhale, too, no small task but one he accomplishes just the same. Can’t go losing his own composure so quickly with an audience.

\---

"Martin," Jon exclaims, surprise cloaking his face all at once. He leans forward, his thighs tensing and his breathing picking up. His fingers are cold, and he wasn't expecting this yet, and his eyes are wide as saucers.

Gerard comes back to the bed, his jeans staying on but unbuttoned, and Jon shivers when the ghost places a solid hand on his waist. Evidently he's over his... Ahem. Difficulties, or else is just ignoring them, because he watches Jon with a look, and oh, two men at once on him has got him in quite a state of adoration.

\---

“That worked,” Martin hums with a new sort of confidence, one he’s convinced he’s borrowing from Gerry’s direction. “Now we can brainstorm working around the second-best dick in the room.”

Okay, this is way too fun. Martin dips lower, slicking up his fingers just short of pressing in, then travels back up once he’s satisfied Jon won’t have any complaints about a lack of warmth as he rubs the slowest of circles over Jon’s clit. Much better.

\---

Jon moans, and whatever comment he wanted to say-- something akin to wanting to have seen Gerard and Martin finally cut through their tension-- is washed out instantaneously. Strange, how much easier this is when it just happens instead of deliberating, and deliberating, and talking circles around it. Speaking of circles...

He bucks up into the touch, his hand coming down to press solidly against Martin's chest.

\---

“I love him,” Martin sighs with genuine passion, grin faltering even as he pointedly doesn’t turn to Jon so he can’t stutter himself out of the rhythm he’s building up. Now that he’s putting in work, he feels much better about his vulnerability here. “Still with us, Gerry?”

\---

Gerard pouts, actually pouts. "Maybe. Just had my plans ruined, is all. Ugh." He squeezes where he's holding Jon, and Jon squirms beneath the touch. It makes Gerard bold, and he runs his hand down the slope of his hips, down to his ass. He's propped up by one elbow, hair cascading over himself.

\---

“If you shared your plans, maybe we could get creative, Gerry. Such an optimist.” Martin certainly never thought they could work up to this, not without a million half-coherent conversations and hand-waving and probably crying, so he’s loving every second of this.

He’s trying to be patient, but that’s not his strong suit when it comes to Jon’s reactions flooding his brain, and he justifies it with the knowledge that Jon’s absolutely gotten worked up enough for this. Easy enough to leave where he’s been keeping his hand’s attention and let one slick finger slip inside him, his own needy gasp brushing past his lips just as easily.

\---

"I was _going_ to fuck you, Martin," Gerard says, sternly, and all but rolls his eyes on his way to look back at Jon, and-- Oh. Interesting.

Jon arches upwards and another moan leaves his lips, his eyelids fluttering. Gerard's hand moves to the small of his back, so that he can feel each minute movement of Jon's body.

"Wow, you're beautiful, aren't you? Gorgeous," Gerard breathes, so much softer and sweeter.

\---

"Mm." Martin eases out, then back in, gently stroking until he's comfortable easing in a second finger next to the first. Now he can rock them back and forth with less awkward half-movements, breathing in and out in time with Jon's own steadily quickening pace. "I..." He makes the mistake of focusing wholly on Jon, the way his muscles tense and relax, how readily he wears his pleasure in his expression, how effortlessly honest he is. Gets him all flustered. "You-- You still can, I have... I have stuff for that, I just-- We can... we can manage."

\---

"Martin... Ugh. I know you're new at the whole sex thing, but I'm not putting a strap over my cock." He says it sharply, but his eyes are only for Jon right now, watching him move, feeling the pleasure through this strange bond, the happiness. What a state they're putting their poor archivist in.

\---

Martin's brows push together in silent anger he redirects on Jon by crooking his fingers towards himself up to the knuckle. Not that Jon will complain, but it's an outlet for his energy so he can stay calm, and neutral, and reasonable. "I've had more sex than you."

Not juvenile at all.

And now it's really setting in, that Gerry wanted to do that, and that's really, really hot, but he won't let that fluster him out of giving Jon his best. He won't. "And, I-I mean, Christ, I wish you could, but like I said," he continues as he pumps his fingers. "We can manage. It'd be the same to me, s-ooh."

\---

"Ugh. Fine." And then he blinks, and looks to Jon, and he smooths his hand up, up, up the slope of Jon's back, until he can rest his hand solidly at the back of his neck. His grin is insatiable. "Hear that, Jon? Your boyfriend with a perfectly average workable penis has a strap. Hm. Wonder who that's for?"

Oh how he delights at the blush spreading up Jon's face. Jon turns to glare at him, and oh with those eyes and that halo of messy hair and the barely held back moan between his teeth, Gerard could let himself come undone.

Gerard turns to Martin. "Nevermind. I think he'd be an evil top, Marto."

\---

“That’s why I want him to do it so bad,” Martin huffs out, “I think about it— All the time. He’d have... Sorry, j-just a second.” He can’t focus on Jon, and he deserves better than that. They’ve worked up to scissoring, but since he’s sappy and in love everything Jon’s doing is painfully infectious and he can’t help his own dissatisfying squirming against nothing beneath his weight. Jon’s too high up. “He’d have fun.”

He whines when his third finger glides easily along the previous two. “Ah. Jon.”

\---

"Oh, God," Jon breathes, and Gerard beams up at him, watching the expression journey. He continues to move his hand, smoothing over his shoulder and down his front, stopping at his nipple to tease out a few more desperate squirms.

"Well isn't your sex life dismal," He aims to Martin, and snorts.

\---

“I know,” Martin growls with his own growing sense of worked up frustration. In an effort to be civil about his possessiveness he does not sit up to snap at Gerry’s hand before claiming Jon with a different sort of bite, he’s normal and it’s fine so he stays put. God, he wishes Gerry wasn’t so hot about it. “Want to sit on my face instead? Or— Or tell me what to do.”

His eyes flit between the both of them on that last sentence. Well. That’s embarrassing and contradictory.

\---

"I'll leave that to Jon. Pretty sure if I distracted you, he might kill me a second time." Gerard snickers, actually snickers, like a schoolboy bully.

It earns him a glare, and between the panting, Jon pulls back enough that his brain isn't suffocatingly empty and floating. The look he levels Martin is curious, aroused, and worried, all at once. "You need to breathe, still, Martin."

\---

“Jon,” Martin says as his mouth cracks into a smile, “I can breathe through my nose.”

He is so very endearing. Gerry, on the other hand, is too cocky for Martin’s liking here. He shifts up on the bed so he’s not down completely flat, tilting until he can place a kiss he tries to make condescending over an eye at Gerry’s shoulder. As he does, he crooks three fingers inside Jon where he thinks is just the right spot. Educated guess.

\---

"Fuck," both men say at once, in very different tones. Jon arches into the moan, his hands flying to Martin's shoulders, and Gerard's cursed spit is matched with him grabbing Martin's offending hand. Fine, Blackwood. Let's dance.

He pulls a finger into his mouth, and makes a show of being as lewd as possible with it, eyes half-lidded. If his mouth wasn't occupied, he'd make a comment about being as much of a whore as Jon, but he's busy, so he keeps the comment to himself.

\---

Both of those sounds are equally satisfying, and isn’t that just grand? Martin has never been the type to sneer, not in a genuinely vicious way, but now he is. Maybe Gerry really has corrupted him.

Ah. His eyes meet Gerry’s mouth and the rhythm he’s built up with Jon starts to stutter with his distraction. Martin decides to handle it by pushing further. “What, you had to have some, too? You’re not jealous, right, Gerry?”

\---

Oh, he has so many things to say to that. But he opts for a different method than squabbling. He sucks on Martin's finger and moans, locking eye contact with him. He sits up and pulls his legs under him, knees pressing into the bed sheets. Jealous? Him? No way.

\---

Evil to make him take his eyes off Jon, but Martin is not immune to captivatingly charged eye contact from a ghost when he's already desperate for contact. His own 'Oh' is wobbly, like this has never happened before, and his fingers go slack in Gerry's grip as well as inside of Jon.

\---

Triumph flares in Gerry's expression, a cruel smile forming around Martin's fingers. He pulls back enough to say, "Got you."

Jon, bless him, glares at the two of them, and it pulls a gleeful laugh from Gerard. Oh, they're a ridiculous pair.

\---

"Shut up." His defensive tone tells Gerry he scored a point in their weird, childish game, but the second finger he's pushing into his mouth to press down against the bed of his tongue says otherwise. Martin pointedly turns back to Jon with a genuinely apologetic 'sorry' under his breath, back to spreading him open and adding a thumb over his clit. Might as well make up for lost time.

\---

Hah. Fine. Gerard can suck his fingers dutifully and be patient. What a talented man, Martin Blackwood, taking care of two people at once. Jon certainly seems appreciative, and if the look he levels at Gerard is any indication, he quite enjoys the scene laid out in front of him.

"You two... Are awful," Jon pants, his voice rising on the tail end of it as Martin gets back to it, and oh, he's building, and building.

\---

Martin lets out an affronted huff in Jon's direction, settling back proper into the swing of things. He won't boast, but he likes to think he's good at timing his thrusts with quick clockwise circles of pressure from his thumb, and it's adorably easy to amp Jon up. One of the best parts about this. Hard to feel inadequate with how responsive Jon is by nature. "What did I do? Blame it on him!"

\---

"I'll blame it on b-oooh-th of you, fuck Martin." Hard to sound quite so stern when he's moving in time with Martin, twitching and just on the edge.

\---

"Jon, come-- Come down here, kiss me?" All he can do is ask, stupid Gerry's commandeered his other hand so he can't very well reach up and pull him down. But Martin can tell where he's at, and he wants Jon's mouth on him, and he's too far away.

\---

Jon leans down over him, shaky and ready and wanting, pressing his hands to Martin's chest, and Gerard's hand moves back around to rest at the smell of his back again, half-lidded and enraptured by being privy to this moment. He pauses in sucking Martin's fingers just to watch

\---

Martin allows himself one small, selfish moment to take in the details of Jon's face, flushed and unfocused and Moon-eyed. In that moment, everything else seems to stop, Martin pouring a hundred unspoken praises to every part of Jon he can and can't comprehend straight into his eyes. Maybe he can see them. Maybe he can see how gorgeous he is in his reflection. Despite all the antagonism passed back and forth between him and his ghost, his heart still stops when he looks at Jon for too long.

Maybe he's the first person in all of history to have it this bad for a person. Martin lifts his head from the pillows to meet Jon's mouth with enthusiasm, shaking with his own overwhelmed need just to connect with as much of him as he can.

\---

Jon breathes heavily and unevenly through the kiss, and he keens against his mouth, his fingers tensing and clawing against him. He's almost there, so close, and he keeps his eyes locked on Martin, love and devotion and sheer pleasure dancing through them. Not what he expected for today, indeed, but he's glad it's happening. Glad he has Martin for this. Glad they can still do this ---

Martin shuts his eyes, only because as good as the torture of burning his own blind against what might as well be the surface of the sun is, he wants help Jon ride this out the best way he can manage. "I've got you," is all he breathes into Jon's open mouth, picking up his pace with devoted, singular-focused care until he knows by the breathy sounds he's drawing from Jon's own mouth that his fingers are consistently hitting right where they should be. See, Gerry, he's good at this. Fuck off.

\---

Such a simple declaration is safety, of protection, and yet it's what spills Jon over the edge, and he comes with the complete understanding that Martin will take care of him. Will love him. Will keep him safe. _ "Martin," _ He breathes into him, as his body tenses and rides itself through.

\---

Martin has no idea how he got this lucky. Maybe it's finally turning around. Or maybe it was his job to change it all along, but-- Well, he has better things to think about right now. With Jon coasting on his own bliss it's easy to let himself get pulled in, living only in moments defined by gasping breaths and shivering aftershocks that Martin gets to feel secondhand through every point of contact.

He keeps his hand still and lets Jon move at his own pace through the sensitivity, peppering kisses at the corner of his mouth and up his cheek to give him a better chance to breathe. "And that, Gerry--" He says once he's had a chance to come down a little, too, "--Is about number five hundred on the list of reasons I'd risk going rabid for him."

\---

Gerard pulls back, Martin's fingers resting on his lip for a moment before he fully ejects them, and his eyes are wide as saucers, staring at Jon rapturously. Uncharacteristically soft, he says, "I can see why," and there's a small smile dancing on his lips. This is all so very new, to actually care about someone during something like this. How novel.

"Mm. Yes. I'd also go rabid if I got the most beautiful man off while wearing the tackiest boxers on earth." There's hardly any heat behind it.

He can feel each minute shake and jitter that goes through Jon, and it's wonderful. When Jon starts to calm down, he slumps down to lay fully on top of Martin, a low, please hum in his throat, slotting his face directly into Martin's neck. "No need to go rabid."

\---

“Well, he’s never complained, and you’re one to talk.” He won’t continue into the details of eye tattoos and dramatic coats, Jon’s given him a nice little ego boost that’s satisfying enough to let it go. Gerry doesn’t have to know about the boxers tucked away in the dresser covered in puffins. Not giving up that kind of leverage.

He eases his hand out from between Jon’s legs, wiping it well enough in aforementioned boxers before rubbing comfortingly, if shaky, up between his shoulder blades. He smiles as he nuzzles up into Jon’s hair. “I’m close to rabid, though. That certainly didn’t help my, um— I’m starting to hate the phrase ‘pent up’, but, I-I mean, Christ, Jon.”

\---

Gerard lets out a sharp laugh. "See that Jon? That's a man for you. Gives you a nice time and then has to whine, oh, my poor leaking prick, please oh please help me!"

Jon fields Gerry a look, and wraps a hand around the one Gerry's got on the small of his back. He doesn't do anything, but it's blatantly a threat. He focuses back on Martin. "What do you want done?"

\---

Martin scowls, reaching up with his nearest hand to flick the eye on Gerry’s neck. It’s also blatantly a threat. “I thought Gerry had plans. You had me pretending bad Victorian roleplay, I’m clearly up for anything.”

\---

"Oh, _I_ had you pretend? You played your role with fervor, little man," Gerard snorts, but he stays still. He doesn't want Jon to brush his hand off. Not yet. He's already extended his energy quite a lot here; without that energy boost he's certain he wouldn't stay much longer.

And he so very much wants to see Martin fall apart.

"My plans are complicated now that I need... Assistive technology, and also some clever positioning since I'll need Jon there."

\---

Martin rolls his eyes with an annoyed ‘tch’. But now he has to think, and coordinate, likely to his own embarrassing downfall that he’s desperately happy to walk to.

He runs over a few ideas in his head before giving both of them a nervous exhale. “There’s always the... erm, the desk. Y-you could hold hands?”

\---

"Oho, Gertrude Robinson is rolling in her grave." Gerard grins. "Let's do it." Even if the mortifying though of fucking while holding hands has him whiplashing from how ridiculous it is.

\---

That was easy. Martin wishes he wasn’t currently staring up at Gerry with stars in his eyes, but that’s exactly where he’s at right now.

“O-kay,” he starts slowly, patting Jon’s leg so he might let him get up. “I’ll just have to get, um—“ Don’t roll over and lose the last bit of dignity you have yet, Martin. “—My things.”


	39. Chapter 39

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Archivist, Archivist, Archivist.

This little room is a strange, windowless prison. The Archivist cannot see the world outside, and though he can feel his servant rotting far below the bones of this Institute, watching, knowing, controlling, he feels no comfort in this domain. The snaking tunnels built on the foundations of a prison, wrapped and molded to suit the Institute’s needs, while clever, better fit Jonah Magnus’ understanding of the Beholding, than the Beholding’s understanding of itself.

The Archivist untangles himself from the Lover and stretches his arms high above him, and marvels at fingers, tendons, skin and bones. He marvels at the breath that catches in his throat, and he marvels at this sheer existence. Jonathan Sims has a wonderful body, and a body that is open to him, and open to Knowing, and open to nudging that door a little _ too  _ widely.

He does not need the door to be wide open. Ajar is fine. This body is merely a shell for a much, much larger thing, something that would make a leviathan tremble. This is a fleeting glimpse, the barest spirit of what could be.

But that is fine. The Beholding has never  _ been _ in this world before. Not fully. The Spiral has its fingers and hands, the Lonely its down-casted playthings, the Corruption its many wriggling worms; it is not in the Beholding’s nature to meddle.

The Archivist can see so very much here, though. Jonathan Sims’ funny little tour of the future and back just primed him all the more, it would seem. What an Avatar. What a precious thing he is. The Beholding will have to thank him, when Jonah Magnus places the Crown upon his head and he is sacrificed to be something  _ more, _ to let the Beholding truly come through his open mouth.

For now; curiosity. Play. Exploration. He did not think such a mouthpiece would be possible, even as narrowed and weak as this body limits him.

He sits up and summarily climbs onto the lap of the Lover, straddling him and leaning down over him, and presses a hand to the softness of his throat, feeling his pulse, knowing the heart that pumps it does a dutiful job. Perhaps that is what Jonathan is. A heart. A vein. Ah, yes, an artery.

Martin Blackwood is a lovely man. His skin is marred by the fears of the Beholding’s brothers and sisters, but he wears them well; they do not make his lip curl or a growl to bubble up in his throat. It is just _ him,  _ and he is the one that helped Jonathan Sims’ body be such a perfect vessel.

He adds the other hand to his throat, and just holds them there. No pressing. But he’s certain he can have this.

\---

Martin should not be afraid to wake up.

This dream is a purgatory of muted greys, of twisted, gnarled decay in the dead bark of trees that weave over his head and blot out the sky. No lush greenery, no place to hide, a shadowy badlands where every step is a dry crunch primed to alert anything that might choose to find  _ him.  _ Here, he is a thing to be chased, if he cannot find anything to chase himself. At first, he tries, tries with increasing desperation, increasing drive, but the sounds send anything with a pulse fleeing beyond his awareness.

He’s not alone. He wanders for what seems like days, his own eyes unable to make out a single living thing, but he’s not alone. Through it all, though, he can  _ feel  _ it. Eyes at his back, at the base of his neck, goosebumps crawling up his skin from a hungry gaze raking up any part of him he can’t watch with his own eyes. When he spins, nothing is there. He has to turn, every time, because he knows if he does not, it will kill him. If he lets his guard down, accepts it as a fact of life, as part of his reality, that’s when it will do far more than watch.

The apex predator to be swallowed whole the second his guard is let down, taken by something much bigger than him. Something he could never imagine in his singular purpose to survive.

A heavy weight settles over his stomach, not choking but distinctly uncomfortable pressure, pressure, pressure. Something brushes against his neck, and he can’t convince himself it’s just a leaf, just the wind, just a fly, none of those exist here. Reduced to a panicked animal, he makes a mistake.

In his dream, he trips forward into a bed of sharp thorns. In the waking world, his eyes snap open. A sheen of sweat at his forehead, pupils dark, chest heaving a few consecutive breaths, all his brain supplies is a word: _ Caught. _ For one intense, terrifying second, the thing on top of him is unfamiliar, the hands at his throat are not a death sentence but a singular point of fear that keeps him utterly still down to the barest twitch of muscle. As though stillness could make him unseeable.

\---

"I like your pulse," The Archivist says, and the smile on his face is soft, curious, triumphant and blank, all at once, a swirl of so very many different feelings at once. This is all new to him, after all. He's never been in this world.

Perhaps slightly, on that beach beneath the moon. As he fed Jonathan Sims, and Jonathan Sims fed the Beholding. He had his fingers digging deep into that post-death body. But not quite like this, not quite as in control as  _ this. _

"It is so _ fearful. _ Fearful and scared from your Hunter's dream." He presses down on Martin Blackwood's neck, just a little, just to see what the reaction will be. "It is quite beautiful."

\---

As though answering the praise, Martin's heartbeat flutters itself into a more quickened pace, even as he struggles to slip fully into his conscious surroundings. He knows, of course, that something is deeply wrong with the man on top of him. That the lukewarm wonder in a novel voice is a shift beyond Jon's own familiar moods.

The Archivist's eyes are no different than yesterday, but Martin sees them now with vision he last used at a beach so far, far away. One that worships and marvels at the Moon. He's been preyed on before, locked in safe rooms and flats and in his own childhood home, but this is an entirely different beast that caught him without violence, without making a sound.

The threat he interprets in tensing fingers over his throat suspends him in a dark place where once again his voice is lost, drowned out by instinct that leaves little room for dialogue. He twitches beneath his grip, torn in several directions-- This is the man you protect, this is the thing you destroy, this is the thing you serve, the thing that could kill you so _ movedon'tmove--  _ But the opaline glint from above beckons him to speak with words he can't pull from himself, a static buzz at the back of his tongue. "You watched?"

\---

"Not deliberately," The Archivist replies. "But your mind is so loud. Would you blame a man for walking through a room and looking at the television for a moment on his way out? You cannot cloak yourself from me."

\---

Martin moves to shake his head, but all it does is drive home to his brain that there are  _ hands _ holding him there. Regardless of how he can still breathe, can still fight, it's almost like his body  _ wants _ to be stuck. 

His own voice is hoarse with feverish dehydration from the effort it took to pull through that nightmare. He's not hiding anything. He knows he can't, even without being told. Without the hazy fog of ritual intent to cloud his brain as it did the first time, it starts to click."You're who I met at the b-beach."

\---

"Jonathan was there too." He moves one hand from the Lover's throat, pressing it lightly against his cheek. "But I have known you since my Servant had you sign your life to me."

\---

Martin squints, recovering enough to flow along with whatever this is. A dull nausea works through him, something empty and wanting and unfulfilled, but he’s still here. Pulled into an even tone, into questions. He has questions. The subtle burn of  _ that  _ need eases the other pains. “That was my choice, helping him, not his— Do you have a name?”

\---

"Many. Humanity is quite creative." He turns to look at the room, at the  _ things _ they keep to occupy themselves, comfort items to drive the fear away, safety nets to forget things such as he exist. "You may call me what you wish."

\---

With his attention back to the room, Martin indulges in a slight tilt into the hand at his cheek. Just long enough to comfort himself, long enough to imagine that it’s not a different touch than what he’s used to from the same hands. “Okay, right— You have favorites, at least?”

He can sense, with the tiniest blessing-curse of Hunt awareness, that his building need to blurt the first thing that shapes in his mind is drawn from a shift in the air, centered right before him. “I’m thinking of— Of a widow’s walk, but I can’t call you that, you don’t seem like— You’re not a widow, you’re the walk. Does that make sense?”

\---

"It does. And you are so very close. But then, Jonathan is, too." He laughs, a sharp, manufactured thing. Martin Blackwood is a clever thing, and just on the precipice of so much. How entertaining. "He is the archivist. Since we are in the realm of things that are _ close, _ you can call me the Archivist. Little white lies. Shh. Don't tell anyone."

\---

Oh. A secret. That’s tempting. Martin’s lips twitch into something that’s almost a smile, but it’s not quite there yet. Rattled and confused, unsure but interested. The poetic ritualism in symbols can turn seamlessly to words here. “Close like putting your eye to a telescope and seeing little craters on the moon, right? Is there an observatory on the roof of the Archives?”

He’s not sure what he’s asking, it tumbles out unbidden, almost playful. The Archivist is  _ playful.  _ They’re playing. That’s comfortable. That’s familiar. Making it a game turns the fear into verbal motion.

\---

"The Archives  _ are  _ the observatory, little Hunter." Slowly, by increments, he eases up on Martin's neck, watching how his throat moves and breathes and _ lives. _ He'll let this one live, in the end. He will find a role for him in the new world.

\---

Martin returns to quiet stillness, close to denying that he still _ is _ a Hunter but knowing it couldn’t possibly be finished with him yet. Stick to the easier stuff. Upbeat. Don’t get locked into fear. The Hunt is the furthest from who he really is. “I’m sorry if this is, r-rude, but— Why did I wake up with your hands around my neck, exactly?”

\---

"Because you are mine, and I wanted to feel you breathe," He says, and slides off of him, stretching this lovely body as tall as it will go. What a strange thing; it hurts, in places. How novel.

"I was thinking about killing you, and then decided not to. Your panicked breathing was too sweet."

\---

His train of thought makes several detours, and it goes a little like this: That’s... sweet? Is that sweet? It would be sweet if Jon said it, maybe, well— Not sweet, sort of possessive, which is  _ kind  _ of fun, but— Hold on.

What was that last part?

The train screeches to a halt, and Martin’s blood turns as cold as the engine. “I— Wh— What would killing me solve?!”

\---

"Nothing, I suppose. Ah... Another reason not to, then. Pointless actions are not in my nature." He breathes in, and turns to smile at Martin. "Ah. There is that fear again. Beautiful."

\---

_ Now  _ Martin’s awake, ice water bucket dumped over his head in the form of apparent potential death.

He’s suddenly very glad he went to bed clothed. And he’s not afraid. He’s just climbing out of bed to stand at the opposite side as the Archivist so there just happens to be a barrier between them, a safe distance to watch Jon’s body contort in a way that Martin knows isn’t natural. “I’m not— I’m not  _ scared _ of you, don’t be weird about— I liked you much better at the beach.”

Oh, he didn’t mean to say that. And definitely not so aggressively.

\---

"That was mostly Jon." He sneers it, and his smile is sharp. Oh, Martin is disrespectful. How interesting. "Do you know what I am, Martin Blackwood? It does not matter if you like me."

\---

“Of course it matters, you’re— “ Martin gestures wildly with both hands in his direction. “You’re body-hopping in my person, and I don’t think that’s been— Been  _ discussed, _ I—“

It’s the Eye. Obviously. He’s not daft. He can explain that. He has an idea. Well, part of him has an idea. Martin does not have all his faculties. He feels... Christ, he feels ill. Why does everything have the worst timing imaginable?

He means to say, you’re some kind of bizarre facet manifested by Jon’s  _ thing _ with the Eye, obviously, but suddenly he needs both hands on the bed to stay upright. “You’re the moon.”

\---

The Archivist blinks, cocking his head. "Poetic." He pulls on his hair, looking at the strands in fascination, looping them around his finger and then pulling back, letting the hair fall. Exploring a body he has ownership over. "In a sense, yes. The lone source of light in an atmosphere of lies."

\---

"Sure. Right. Of course." Speaking of lies, tracking the hand that travels up through Jon's hair has something deeply unsettled burrowing into his gut. Something violent, confused, contradictory. "I think this is a, um-- A bad time. You're the Archivist, right? Do you take... a... appointments?"

\---

"I am not the Archivist, I'm just allowing you to call me that," He says, and looks up from his body-exploration to look at Martin. "It's going to always be a bad time. At least you are so dutiful to me; it would be far, far worse if you weren't."

\---

“That’s... _ vague?” _ Seems ominous declarations and a general lack of helpfulness runs in the... patronage. “And not necessarily, I might be in a better... I was  _ in bed _ ! With him! There are absolutely better places to show up! You don’t have to threaten me!”

\---

"A threat is a petty power play. I am not  _ petty."  _ He frowns. "I do not need to  _ warn _ you of my presence. You should worship regardless."

\---

If he weren’t so completely dumbfounded, Martin might laugh. As-is, this game is terrible. “Right, well, when you’re borrowing someone’s body, it’s polite to ask whether you  _ need _ to or not. How am I supposed to worship you if I don’t know you're coming so I-I can prepare?”

\---

"Jonathan is mine; politeness is not a factor." His expression is fiery. "He _ chose _ this. And you chose to worship."

\---

“You’re making a great pitch,” Martin growls back, fingers gripping the bed sheets like that could make him control himself. “You really need a manager if you want people to keep _ choosing _ to worship whatever it is you are.”

\---

Well isn't that just fun. He does not rush, nor does he hurry or walk with anger. He just walks around the other side of the bed, and grips Martin by the jaw. "You cannot talk to me like that."

\---

Martin freezes in the headlights of the Archivist’s eyes, but he refuses to panic. Instead, he bares his teeth, something he’d never have done before their stupid, Godawful trip to America. “It’s the truth. Isn’t that what you want?”

\---

The Archivist sighs, a performative little gesture. His grip lessens up, and he strokes down the length of Martin's jaw. "You know that isn't how this works. Oh, Martin. I see why Jon likes you."

\---

He’s not sure he likes it, but Martin doesn’t pull back from his touch. It does feel wrong, though. Slimy. Disquieting. Better to stay where he is as a loaded spring. “No, I don’t. How _ what  _ works? Is— Are you hurting him?”

\---

"No." He pulls back, and smiles. "He is.... Sleeping? I think that would be the word. If he's awake, I certainly can't feel him. That would be unfortunate. I don't want to hurt my Archivist too much, yet."

\---

Martin paces the extent he can move to the Archivist’s other side, eyes locked on every part of him he can absorb with each angular shift. “Don’t hurt him.”

He’s not in any position to be making commands, most likely, but he’s not thinking about that right now. Half his brain is trying to hold a conversational thread. The other half is trying to find a way to rip this out of Jon. That half is the problem, for the most part. “You didn’t answer my other question.”

\---

He will be _ kind.  _ More prudent and efficient to answer questions and set Martin straight than to punish outright for something he does not know.

"I am not a person. And you treating me as one will go badly. You are  _ mine, _ and how it works is that you act like it."

\---

Martin snorts. “Right. That’s sort of how I work, though, and if we’re stuck with each other— Is there a guide book for that, maybe? Handy Servant of the Eye manual?”

\---

"Yes. You  _ obey.  _ You have already chosen to galavant around the domains of other entities, the least you could do is  _ obey." _

\---

“Obey  _ what? _ That’s what I mean by  _ manager,  _ there’s no direction. Y-you’re just being _ ominous  _ and— And  _ weird!  _ I know what those words mean, but what do you want me to _ do? _ Roll over?”

\---

"Nothing right now. Just in general. My goodness-- you have given yourself to one of the most laid back of my pantheon and yet you cannot simply _ respect." _

\---

“I  _ don’t  _ respect you. I like recording things and talking to people. I don’t— I-I don’t know you. All you’ve done is— You’ve just acted weird and were nice to me once back on a beach in America but  _ apparently _ according to you that was Jon now, despite the fact that he—  _ He _ doesn’t remember.” That doesn’t feel very good. Not knowing who knows what about something deeply personal for him isn’t  _ nice. _ “What do you do?”

\---

"I watch. I know everything about you, even the parts that  _ you _ do not. I control; a truth is control.  _ You  _ are an insolent dog."

\---

Martin smiles, hiking his shoulders up in a lazy shrug. “That’s me, I guess.”

\---

"It really is a pity you won't like the new world." He turns around and walks out of the room; certainly, something as grand as him can see them; it is a different scenario entirely when your being is squashed and pulled through the filter of a  _ brain. _ These human sensations, these human sensibilities; he is learning a lot.

\---

Martin follows after him with the distinct sensation that he finally understands how frustrating it was to be Gerry as he wandered around in a freakish haze. “Still too vague, if you’re trying to scare me. At least tell me something about me I  _ don’t  _ know— You want respect, right?”

\---

"I do not need to scare you." He turns to look at Martin, and he smiles. "I could tell you many things. It just depends on if I  _ want  _ to. Sometimes a truth needs to be given strategically."

\---

Martin scoffs, a frustrated exhale that carries along the walls of the room. “Okay. You won’t tell me what I need to respect you, or care about you, really not selling me on the obeying and worshipping thing. No wonder I’m— What was it, ‘ _ gallivanting around’?” _

He moves to stand by the door to the office, because there’s no way either of them are leaving it right now.

\---

"Move." He says, and stands before him, his expression flat. "I suppose I can't blame the situation." He sighs. "Jon is so very emotionally weak. No wonder you are disrespectful."

\---

Martin tilts his head as he blinks down at the thing sadly puppeteering his person. “I respect him just fine. Says more about you than him, right?”

\---

"I suggest you move, like I told you." His expression is flat.

\---

No, still not budging. “Bring him back, and I will.”

\---

"Alright." He smiles, and steps closer, reaching out to hold Martin by the jaw, softly. Sweetly. Lovingly. "Would you like to see something you don't know?"

\---

Martin grimaces at the tone, moving his head the slightest bit away so they’re not touching. It hurts to do that, to the side of him that wants this to be Jon. “Don’t— Don’t act like you like me. I can tell you’re putting it on.”

\---

The Archivist nods, and steps all the closer so he can press a palm to Martin's head. It brings him no pleasure to do this. Hm. No, that would be a lie. He will not lie. He just wishes he didn't have. to do this. But the fear will be so delicious. Ah, the nuance of things.

"You are so fond of not remembering. I will show you a memory."

And so he does. He closes his eyes and feels and roots around in the mind of the Lover and he finds one. He lives it himself as he feeds it to Martin, their point of connection hot and feverish. Martin does not like his mother; it is so easy to find wells and wells of memories to use. This one isn't so bad.

\---

It doesn’t start as fear, of course. It starts with an awareness that the False Jon’s palm is too warm. It starts with the edges of an office he’s grown to love going dark. With the shapeshifting of objects in the room into different things, one by one, a creeping change of scenery that comes so slowly that by the end he’s forgotten where they’d started. That there was anything but the present moment that is the only present he knows. It starts this way, and even as it does he can feel something intrusive, something moving things that couldn’t possibly be physical around in the depths of his mind. Places he didn’t know existed brushed by before they can take shape.

His eyes are open, but that second set of eyes he’s felt so very distantly present through each Statement holds him blind. Martin’s hand reaches up, touching over the fabric of Jon’s shirt with a thumb like it’s something else entirely.

It doesn’t start as fear, it starts as comfort. To remember the loss of something you loved, you have to remember the joy, too. Glazed over and lost in a series of memories, Martin remembers. Remembers the significance of a little stuffed sheep, of the weight of it in hands so much smaller than what he has now, of the safety curled up at the corner of a mattress against the wall with a woolen ward separating him and the light beneath the door to his room. Made-up voices in the abstract games of a child where every meaningful object is alive. Remembers the day she’d disappeared, the way he’d searched and searched and cried the way tears are welling up in his eyes right now. How she sat there and watched, told him to forget about it, like she didn’t know. Like she wasn’t the one who tossed her away into a trash bin no child that young would think to look. Right  _ there. _

\---

One hand pressed to his forehead, The Archivist strokes his cheek with the other through the memory. It's a delicious memory. Something so simple, so innocuous, but still so very heartbreaking. No need for violence, or rot, or dirt, or any of the squeamish, bloated, visceral things that so often plague the nightmares of his brethren.

It's just sheer knowing.

And it feeds him, feeds him as he, too, lives through it, and feeds him to watch the tears well up in Martin's eyes. It's good to remember your childhood; there's so many pesky memories that get buried deep, deep into the realm of a lie. He is glad to dredge it up.

As it fades, his smile grows sympathetic, but it's a mask. "Move now. You are blocking the door."

\---

Uprooting couch cushions, the closet, under chairs, the tables, the desk, the bed, maybe the car, maybe she’s in the—

Martin doesn’t stumble, or fall, but he does move. Halfway between now and somewhere small and powerless and worried to find what he’s looking for, he barely makes it a few steps away before the blinking of his eyes smears the house back into reality. The transition is jarring, leaves him vulnerable and simple as it did back then when it felt so important.

It takes time to catch up, to reform a complex understanding of where they’d left off. He knows they should stay here, that they shouldn’t go out there, so all he can do is try to stall as it falls back into place. “Don’t leave. Wait. Just— Wait.”

\---

The Archivist pulls the door open. "Unless you would like to relive more things that you have forgotten, you  _ will  _ stop commanding me." And oh, the smell of the main office when he steps out from the bedroom fills him with glee. So much pain here. So much suffering. So much written accounts and taped accounts of awful, truly awful happenings. It gives him energy.

He steps across the room quickly, and sits lightly down in Jonathan's chair, shuffling through the folders that have haphazardly been pushed to the very end of the desk.

\---

Martin wipes the tears away from his face, and in the most gruesomely disturbing way possible he’s grateful for the distraction from whatever instinctual restlessness is bubbling up in his chest. Gerry warmed him. Everybody warns him.

Maybe he’s addicted to hurting himself this way. Wouldn’t that just be silly.

It takes a minute to recover, but just like any memory it fades off into the back of his mind with time that’s swiftly catching up again. Everything else slotting back into the places they’re supposed to go. It was just a toy. That’s all it was. Jon wouldn’t have anything good to say if this thing left the office.

Maybe he really should just play along until this blows over. Martin walks out, mostly composed but clearly presenting in a far more humbled way, and sits without comment across from the Archivist without comment.

\---

"Hm," He hums, when Martin sits, "I chose right, then. I did not wish to incapacitate you." He's looking down at statements, his eyes raking across them hungrily. Jonathan has organized everything so very well. Jonathan is going to bloom so nicely. "I know this is hard for you, but you must understand that Jonathan said _ yes _ to this."

\---

This is very much a dire meeting with the principal, not at all in a funny way. Martin watches him touch Jon’s work, his work, their work, and knows he’s not about to blame Jon. Not for all of this. There’s no way he knew it would be like this.

He keeps his voice level, no finger-pointing, just seeking. “Lies by omission aren’t really covered by the Eye, are they?”

\---

"Humans are far messier creatures than most. Sometimes a truth must be displayed strategically." He pulls a paper from his face and looks at Martin. "I have not done that. My Servant has. I did not speak to Jonathan until very recently."

\---

“Sorry, I... I thought you meant he said yes to sharing a body with you.” Martin looks down the second a pair of eyes point at him. “It’s, um, our work, you know. If you have questions.”

\---

"He did not agree to that. But he belongs to me, and he is a door just ajar. I have never been here." He places the statement on the desk. "It's quite nice. Even if you aren't welcoming."

\---

“I just came back from a trip that ended with me using the Hunt to save him and - and I think it’s about to bite me back for it, and I just woke up with  _ you _ about to kill me.” Martin looks pointedly back up, not right into his eyes but close enough to count. “So I’m not exactly my best me. Did you come here on purpose?”

\---

He shrugs. "I learned that I could. I have never been able to use a body. Jonathan's mind was lax, so I came."

\---

“Of course it was. He’d just died. Do you remember that night?”

\---

"Yes. I did not know I was... Hm. There. It was strange. But I remember it."

\---

Martin folds his hands together in his lap. Something near jealousy pangs close to his heart, a kind of secondhand misplaced emotion. He’d like Jon to feel as free to exist so confidently as he did that night. How little fear seemed to matter. Right now, the Archivist is all he has for comfort. His own living space feels so suddenly foreign. 

“Can I help you with anything? I-I don’t know if you eat, or— What can I do?”

\---

"Better," He murmurs, pleased with Martin's willingness to help, and stands again, to go rifle through bookshelves and files and cabinets. This is the life of his quaint little Archivist; what a mind to place a crown upon.

"I am just looking. I'll give you Jonathan back soon."

\---

He sits still and he stays quiet. Each of his fingers are white-knuckled where they slot together, desperate beneath his own skin to break the air of patience he’s trying to pull off. There’s a stranger in his home holding Jon hostage and praising him for something he only got through emotional cattle prodding.

Martin’s voice is flat. “Thanks.”

\---

"Don't be so dour, Martin. This would all be much more pleasant if you just accepted the way of things. The world will be much different soon; the least you could do is enjoy it. That is my gift to you. The ability to enjoy it."

\---

“I like the world the way it is,” Martin offers quietly. “I don’t know how I can enjoy whatever this is. None of it was pleasant. I’m trying to understand.”

\---

"It's very simple to understand." He stops in his poking around to look at Martin again, and his smile is so very secret. "There are just parts of this that you're not allowed to know! You'll know it eventually, no lying there. Even.... Ah! Elias, does not know the extent of everything."

\---

“Simple for you, maybe, up there in your tower,” Martin grumbles, finally lifting a hand to gesture around his own head in some grand display of lofty arrogance he imagines coming from the Archivist. “I’m... I’m getting nowhere with you. I’ll just be quiet.”

\---

"You do not have to be quiet." The Archivist laughs, tossing Martin an amused look over his shoulder. "You may ask, and talk, and I just may not answer."

\---

“And trying to compel you won’t work, right?”

\---

"Hm." He stands very still and shrugs. "I actually do not know! Me, the fully formed me, of course not. Smush you with a thought. But I suppose Jonathan would have killed an Avatar with his thoughts alone, if I did not pull him sooner, and in this body, I am not my full self. A mere sliver. So I do not know. What a horrible feeling, to not know."

\---

Martin slowly lowers his eyelids into a squint, careful to keep the rest of him composed. “Mind if I try?”

\---

"Not at all." His smile is wide. "I enjoy it when you use my gifts."

\---

It’s been a while since he flexed this particular muscle, and a lot has changed in his life since, but the Archivist was kind enough to give him something Martin wants to know badly enough to kick it back into gear. He never noticed it before, but the slow-burning need to ask has a sound, flurry of white noise as it builds and builds in his head until the pressure needs to be set loose in one very specific direction.

“Why did Jon kill an Avatar?”

\---

His arms burst out into goosebumps, and the Archivist takes a long moment holding them out in front of his face, running his fingers down the small bump. How curious. The pull is not as strong as he would have thought, but he sort of assumed he would not be compelled at all so this is an interesting turn of events, indeed.

Words are always easy, but they come easier now, as though he wants to speak, wants to comply, and that's a strange, strange impulse, indeed. There's pride in there, too; he is so proud of how far Martin has come. If he hadn't gone and rolled around in Entity's that he really should not have, stinking himself up, maybe he would have chosen Martin.

He wouldn't, Jon is just too perfect, but it's a fun little thought.

"To save you, of course. Now-- He hasn't done this. He would have, though. He was going to. A couple more pesky days, and ah-- Oh, I can see it now. Thank you, Martin." Hazy understandings of To-Be's are different from the visions that fill this little human mind when Martin nudges them forward, and _ oh, _ what an interesting path.

This one's better. Jonathan is better, here.

"The poor Avatar-- Ah, his presence is known to this institute very deeply-- He did not want to answer Jonathan's questions. Good lad, truly; it was too early for Jonathan to know these things. But he didn't take the no, and he destroyed him. But it was all for you. He was angry for you."

\---

He’ll have to think about this, later. Let it swell up his heart the way it wants to right now, stifled instead by the oppressive pull of the Eye. This is so unlike Martin’s usually subtle, positive coaxing that he’s almost unsure draws from the same well Jon reaches into so easily. This is the angry, searching, obsessive thing Jon holds inside him. That Martin is rarely ever so close to. He doesn’t just want to compel, he needs to.

“Was it Peter Lukas?”

\---

"Oh, yes." The Archivist pulls in a deep breath. "He so had his claws in you. You are a manipulative little thing, but you were still no Avatar, no god; it was inevitable you'd be sacrificed. But such brave knowledge, to have known his plans all along." His smile is wide and huge, eyes glowing.

It feels good, this pulling. Delicious panicked fear that sits deep in Jonathan's heart, fluttering from the sudden knowledge of being forced to reveal the truth. Delectable.

\---

“We knew less back then. Maybe that was the best I thought I could do.” Martin frowns with concentration, rising from his chair to rest both hands on the desk. To look down at the thing that could answer so many questions but makes it impossible to ask them all at once. He has to pace himself, and it’s leaving him frustrated enough to keep doing it. “How— How do you become an Avatar instead of a sacrifice? Is there even a difference?”

\---

"No." The Archivist squints. "But I do not think you were ready. Prey is prey, even clever; you wouldn't have died. You would have slowly withered away in a numb cocoon of your own creation, while Peter Lukas would feed upon that loneliness for... A long time."

\---

“If Jon hadn’t killed him.” He thinks about the questions Jon would want him to ask. The questions he wants to ask. “Why does it hurt him so bad to use your ‘gifts’? Why doesn’t it hurt me when I do the same thing?”

\---

"He denies his nature; such lies will always hurt. He will get better with time; I See this." He stares at Martin and cocks his head, eyes squinted. "You only partially use my gifts."

\---

He’s so close to the question that claws for freedom with more desperation than any of the others. But it can’t come out yet. “I’m pulling from others, too, then? Using a few of them? It can’t just be— I know it’s not just me. I’m not that charismatic.”

\---

"Yes. You know this already. Jonathan lets the fears rule him; you use them."

\---

Martin steadies his voice, and he pushes. “Lets them rule him permanently, or temporarily?”

\---

"It would be easier on him, if he gave into his impulses. He feeds me with a voracity I have not seen since... Hm. In quite a long time."

\---

In his haste, his frustration with getting anything of substance, Martin can’t organize the question. “That’s not an answer. You let them— You, specifically, right? Because you get something out of it? Something worth letting fears rule him?” He sighs heavily. “You didn’t say fear. Plural. All of them?”

\---

"Men so often have more than one fear, Martin, yes. Jon is ruled by mine; but he is the Archivist; it is his purpose to categorize them all."

\---

“Is - is that what the Watcher’s Crown is? Categorizing them all under  _ you?” _

\---

The Archivist rocks back on the balls of his feet, pleasantly surprised. Oh, he  _ is _ clever. Jonathan and Jonah both chose well, with this one. His leash does need tightening, though. "Such a silly name. I will say, being afforded a consciousness in the body of a thing is making me realize how silly it is. I do like organization." He has to push against the question, slightly; no need to reveal all quite so soon.

\---

“Of course it’s silly, they’re all bad. You’re all— “ No, he’s not getting off track. Martin’s jaw hurts with the strain of it. This is exhausting. He has no idea how Jon does it. “Is that a yes?”

\---

"Let me be clear; this is no lie. You just don't need to know, right now. It wouldn't be good for you to know, yet." His smile does not have as much humor in it, a fake thing plastered across Jon's face.

\---

“If you’re trying to get the world you want on a need-to-know basis, it’s not— It won’t work. You’d think with every other ritual failing b-before, you all might learn something about people. Doing the same things you’ve always done over and over won’t—“

Oh. Fuck. “...Won’t work.”

\---

"So clever." He sighs, dramatically. "My brethren and their avatars are so very... short-sighted. Do not fret; I am not." The smile is back; perhaps it would be more prudent to leave him in the dark as much as possible. But he can't help but feel addicted to the rush of watching someone Know.

\---

“Your jokes are awful, and don’t call me  _ clever. _ I don’t— I don’t want praise from you.” He wants to ask for Jon back, but calling attention to it won’t help. Offering that up as leverage won’t help. With Gerry, they’re equal. Here, with this thing, he’s not.

\---

"I will give you praise as I see fit. I am being kind to you, for your dutiful work. I can remove the kindness. I have your mind. Your soul. And I have Jonathan's." He stands as tall as this body affords him, and it's such a foreign sensation, to be standing on the floor of something tangible, real, genetically imposed with fear and pain and horror and death. He steps closer, and Martin's specific fear now is grating on these bones. "Do not underestimate the things that own you."

\---

Martin moves to the side of the desk, using it to keep them separate and out of arm’s reach. It’s a much better barrier than the bed. He wishes he could just be normal about this, but he has no clue what normal even is, here. “We own each other, and if— If that kindness is fake, and we both know it, is there even a point?”

\---

"My kindness is not fake, and it is human folly to think you could ever own me." His eyes blaze, pupils wide. "I am but a mere droplet of the force I truly am, mere cells squeezed through a cracked door to manifest within the doorway. The thing that I am, in this body, is but a mere whisper to the cacophonous orchestra that will one day manifest Whole and Knowing." His hands rise up, gesturing to the skies, dramatic and contorted and serious, serious in a way that has his voice rising in static, building and building as too much of the thing he is tries to squeeze through.

"My kindness is real, but you are a fickle ant, and ants do not own gods, Martin Blackwood. Come here."

\---

He should have clarified he meant Jon. That the bonds they made together were real, and had power. Martin isn’t getting that chance, because any thought to speak is drowned out by the spectacle before him. Held still by a passionate preacher with the force of godly fear behind him.

Martin shrinks under it, angry and exhausted and yes, afraid, every one of his attempts to come about this reasonably snuffed out by the one thing he’s never managed to get on his side that he could talk to. Nothing works. Nothing he has. Martin doesn’t move, though his knees buckle beneath him, because he knows what’s going to happen if he does. What getting close enough to touch means, now. “Please don’t.”

\---

The Archivist takes Martin by the jaw, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of his cheeks, and his expression is unforgiving, cold, monarchical. The strange curiosity, the soft playfulness is gone; this is a God on a mission in the body of a man who is no longer human enough to count as one. This is a manifestation of proof that it will not end well. This is the Voyueristic Watcher having the will to touch and corral and speak.

"Better. I prefer it when you are polite," He sneers. "You do my bidding, not the other way around. It is a lesson I suggest you learn quickly. You may play your games with the Spiral, and the sickly Hunt within, but when the end times come, you will crawl to  _ me, _ for it is I who will rule over this domain. Do not forget that. I will not let you."

\---

Martin flinches in his grasp, every muscle tensing in preparation for something he couldn’t possibly prepare for because it will happen when it happens and not a second later.

But he doesn’t go anywhere. He stays in the present, stuck in the overwhelming world where all that exists is the Archivist in front of him.

Still, he cries. Stifled half-sobs cradled in a familiar hand now ruined by an entirely new association he fears to be touched by. The only rebellion he can offer now is his own silence, but it does nothing to help him.

\---

He finishes speaking, and lets out a slow-drawn sigh, his hand loosening, the touch softer, fonder, possessive in an entirely different way. He cocks his head and brushes one of the tears rolling down Martin's face away with his thumb, looking at the way the droplet of water falls down the slope of it in sudden fascination.

"Thank you, for satisfying my curiosity. For allowing me to see this plane of existence." It's for Martin, but it's for Jon, too. Martin will relay. Martin Blackwood is his Messenger.

His voice is much softer now, as though his outburst never occurred. And then he pulls back entirely, and sits lightly on his knees as though about to pray, and he closes his eyes, and the exhalation of his breath is like an exorcism. How kind the Archivist is, to even nudge Jon at the peripheral of his awareness, as though flicking drops of water in his face to awaken him, and then he retreats entirely.

Jon opens his eyes with a jerk, nearly falling forward, because he's not in bed, and he's not laying down, but he was asleep and now he is not, and now it's-- He blinks rapidly, trying to clear his vision, which swims with so many, many awful things.

\---

Martin stands as a statue, repulsed but not recoiling from the Archivist's grasp. The only control he has here is the ability to not make it any worse. There is no relief when the touch passes, even as the threat leaves their conscious world. Not even when the air shifts and he knows Jon is there, Jon has replaced the thing inside him, because it's still there.

He gets to the floor with his back to the half-Archivist, out of arm's reach, and curls part way up to focus on holding back his tears. The floor is cold and comforting against the side of his face, no more feverish heat in unwanted touches. Just the sickness he can't cool down from the inside.

\---

When Jon's vision clears, he's met with deep-set confusion, but also, fear. How did he get here? On the floor of his office and is that-- "Martin? Martin, what's-- Are you okay?" His skin feels fever-hot, and his breathing is heavy. His body aches and his neck hurts, and it feels so very much like he's just had a nightmare, but he can't remember any of his dreams, right now, not even the normal horrors. It's just blank.

\---

"No." Martin's voice is wet with tears, knees pulling up as close to his chest as he can manage without grabbing them. "Are you?"

\---

"I--" He runs his fingers through his hands. "I think-- Should I not be? I-- Why are we here?" He thought he was fine, but now there's a rising panic because none of this makes any sense.

\---

Martin breaths bleed into each other with near-panic. "I-I-I don't want to scare you, b-but-- You--" He dips into something hushed, like the walls will overhear. "--brought something back with you."

\---

Jon blinks, and he leans forward, leaning over Martin, and he reaches out to touch his shoulder. "What?"

\---

God, he's falling apart, isn't he? Where every other inhuman sound he's made by choice started as a deep, low comfort at the back of his throat, this is entirely new. He growls, even as it rips something apart inside that hurts, warning his person to back off only as his body's late to come to the understanding that it's  _ Jon's _ hand, not the Archivist's.

\---

Jon snaps his hand back immediately, cradling it by the wrist as though he's been bitten, his eyes flying wide. He pulls himself backwards, legs coming out from under him to crook out at the knees while his ass hits the floor hard. His heart flutters fast and frantic and scared, the confusion just pulling this rudimentary fear into something far, far more advanced.

He doesn't like it when the fear is unknown, when he can't remember, when his head is a cloudy, fogged mess. It's a stupid thought, and yet his first is to think, Is this the Unknowing? and immediately snap his eyes shut in fear, and he mumbles frantically, "This is real, this is here, this is the office, this is  _ real..." _

\---

What if, somehow, this is all a trick? That it's meant to lull him into a false sense of security just so halfway through a kiss that thing can laugh in his face and tell him he just didn't need to know yet, that it was an act?

Martin uses his hands to pull his head from the floor. He wants to pull Jon close by the cheeks and tell him not to be afraid, tell him the fear he's filling Martin's lungs with is the very thing stopping him from talking through this at all. Instead, he growls, and growls, no longer the defensive cornered animal out of desperation, instead something that needs to chase away the fear. He could control himself if it weren't for the fear. A primal thing that takes over in a blink-- Wasn't he just talking? He was about to explain what happened.

Like the first time he read a statement, a real one, invoking something beyond his understanding, Martin feels trapped as a helpless bystander in his own body. Funny, how universal that is here. The only thing he can be grateful for, in the worst of ways, is that it snapped only after the Archivist actually left. That he's hurting Jon, and not someone who could destroy him from the darkest corners of his mind and do it gladly. Jon, who loves him, Jon, who's scared. Jon, who's prone and easy to pin without touching, between his legs and fingertips digging into the floor on either side of his chest.

Martin isn't talking to Jon, he's talking at something inside. "Get out of him."

\---

Jon shakes. His body trembles beneath him, and he's never been scared of Martin before, but he's not sure if this is Martin, because as much as his blood sings for him, as much as he  _ knows,  _ he-- he's known before and been wrong. He's known before and gone into a coma and said yes before, and what if he's wrong again, and what if this is-- Isn't real, and he can't remember waking up in his bed, and Martin's growls send instinctual fear running down his spine, because this creature could kill him, unique in this world, and--

"I don't-- Martin, you're-- I don't k-know what you m-mean." His voice is so quiet, as though quiet will keep him from growling, from ripping his throat out anew.

\---

His own subconscious drive to continue the sound keeps him from holding his breath like he wants to, every inhale newly injecting a feeling he'd let grow dull for days straight to his bloodstream. Please, please,  _ please _ don't be scared, Martin thinks but doesn't say, mouth so close to a throat that could open up and pour out the evil thing nestled behind it.

He can't bite his hand, he can't move. Can't bite his arm, it's too far. Can't bite Jon, he'll die. Can't bite his own lip, it wouldn't be enough. Nothing in Jon's reach to grab, and if Jon moves Martin might follow, and--

And all he can do is scrape his fingers tight over the floorboards. He tries to think of a single word he can say to get Jon to help, and he almost says Compel, but he can't feed that, they can't feed that, not here, not now, maybe not ever. It has to be something easy that he can roll off a growl, right now. Martin is afraid, but this thing isn't. _ "Ghost." _

\---

Gerard comes, of course he does. Seems Martin's names for him are embedded deep in him at this point, and well, he's still tired after last night's activities, but he'll come anyway. Maybe they want to talk. Possibility. Hell, for all he knows, Jon is going to yell at him for the absolutely lewd things he did to Martin. Or maybe they'll high five him and lo and behold, round two commences. He's getting ahead of himself.

He comes to on top of the desk, where his book is set off to one corner. He comes, but he wishes he didn't, because there's no happy welcoming. It's Martin on top of Jon growling and Jon shaking with tears welling in his eyes.

Alright.

"Uh-- Martin? Jon?" His eyes stay glowing for longer than normal; there's an energy in the air he's never felt before, but the scene before him keeps him from questioning it. "Is this-- This is quite an escalation for a scene." He knows it's not that, he's not an idiot, but they both look terrified and Martin looks feral, and he needs to break the tension somehow.

\---

Gerry's introduction is muffled in both sound and comprehension, because Martin's focus is on the fearful heartbeat inches away from tearing open with his teeth. He has to use them. He's caught his quarry, but until Jon moves, until Jon sparks that instilled prey drive with a sudden move, he's locked here. The fear is heady and empowering and addictive, but he can't chase what won't run. And Jon is the one he's roped to, it's giving him so many outs. So many outs that skate by him before he realizes they're right there.

It's the only answer he can give, but it's also the answer that might cause the very thing he wants to prevent. He growls louder, chest heavy with the strain it puts on his own body, to illustrate the severity of where he's at.

\---

"Oh. Fuck," Gerard breathes, and scrambles off the desk. "Don't move, Jon, I don't think-- Um, probably wouldn't be a wise decision on your end. Goddamnit, Martin, you fucking freak."

He's still tired, so it takes longer to muster up the energy needed to come behind Martin and pull him back, but he does so with a grunt, hissing, "Enough, Martin. Easy. It's  _ Jon. _ It's Jon, Martin, there's no need-- C'mon."

\---

It gets a fraction easier with every bit of space between them, but with each reduction of pinpointed anger comes a growing humiliation that he's made a spectacle here. That he needs to be controlled. That everyone is controlling him. His hands, now unable to find purchase on the floor, grip tightly at Gerry's coat to free himself or to pull Gerry down with him, whichever comes first. 

"It's not Jon."

\---

Jon scrambles back, his chest rising dramatically with each breath, eyes wild and not here.

Gerry wants to comfort him, but he needs to ensure Martin isn't going to go after him again, so he lets Martin pull him down, and when he gets there, he goes incorporeal, so Martin can't actually hurt him, too. "Of course it's Jon," He hisses, and angrily bares his teeth. "Fucking-- Breathe for two seconds. Okay? You're being ridiculous."

\---

At the floor, Martin mimics his show of teeth with less enthusiasm than he'd held at Jon's throat. He needs to listen to Gerry when he's here. That's the rule, no killing without his approval. It was nice while it lasted, losing his leash, but they'd found him on a beach and clipped it right back on and that's the price he has to pay for love.

He  _ can't _ breathe, that's the problem, he can't--

But he does. He tries. He covers his mouth and nose with both hands and squirms to sit still and not lunge across the room again. He can't draw blood. Martin warps a growl into a whine, turning away from Gerry to stare with desperation at the filled up bookcase.

\---

"... There we go. There you are. Just keep... Keep breathing. Okay? I'm gonna, argh, check in on Jon, stay here?"

He pulls himself to his feet, and Jon flinches when he comes near. He's mumbling something too quiet to hear, and his breathing is erratic, uneven. Gerard crouches in front of him, and does not touch, but he snaps in his face to get his attention. "Jon? It's fine now. He won't bite. It's safe."

He ceases his slurred mumbling, and his words rake a long time to come after that.  _ "Am _ I me? Am I? Am I me?"

And, well. Maybe he did miss a few steps. But they both need to calm the fuck down before he asks. "Yes. You breathe, too."

\---

With neither of them in sight at this angle and now able to hold his breath long enough, Martin shoots closer to the bookcase. He moves so he only needs one hand at his face and grabs the first sizable thing he can pull down, and now with something properly distracting - so sorry, Jon - he bites down as hard as he can cover to cover.

Jon is coming down and the urgency is fading away, but Martin still cries angry tears as he anchors himself. He tries and tries and tries not to think that this is the force he would have used on Jon’s flesh.

\---

Jon is locked somewhere else. It's been a long, long time since this memory played out so viscerally. Gerard helps to cut through it; Gerard, whose stability is an ironic joke in the universe, considering his physical instability. Gerard, who isn't a growling parody of the man he loves, but the same brusque shell of care. He breathes, and breathes, and slowly, the swirling memory of confusion and lack of awareness, the swirling amnesia and knowledge that if he gives in, those memories will be gone forever, it all slowly pulls back, and he's in their office once more.

But nothing's right here, and it keeps him hovered on the edge of falling back into the Unknowing, in the patronizing hands of a clown, on here, with a reality just as foreign and foreign to him. How to choose? One memory tells him it's okay not to know; the reality tells him something's gone wrong and he might not be himself. He doesn't know what that means, doesn't know--

Gerard snaps in his face again. "Stay here. Ignore him for the moment. You're just with me. There's no threats anymore."

\---

Now  _ he’s _ the monster, now  _ he’s  _ the problem. Now he’s the one out of control and needing someone else to talk for him who doesn’t have a single fact. Martin knows everything they need to work through this, he had the ability to fix so much of this with a few words. Words that keep being taken from him, taken like stupid stuffed sheep he hasn’t thought about in decades.

Now he’s the one hurting everyone around him. Martin. Martin, Martin, Martin, stripped of autonomy and looked at the way his mother looked at him. Looked at as if a thing to manage. Martin feels the spine of his hardcover bend around his teeth, and he wishes it would flow with blood, and he wishes he didn’t wish that.

He’s sweating and aching and still alone, he has to sit in the corner alone, and he deserves it, he didn’t try hard enough, the Archivist is still there burrowed into Jon and this bomb has gone off inside of Martin, oddly Hunt-shaped. He’s alone.

He’s alone.

Martin hits the side of his head against the bookcase, a solid wooden thump, like that could make his thoughts and impulses go away.

\---

Gerard jerks to look at what Martin's doing, and God he hates that he's being pulled in two directions simultaneously. Jon, who keeps sliding into obvious flashbacks, if the vagueness of his eye-contact is any indication, and Martin, who's biting a book and wild-eyed and somehow worse than he was on the road. Ugh. He can't blame either of them, but he does feel frustration that this is what he's woken up to.

"I'm going to calm him down," Gerard says quietly to Jon, and his words are soft. There's a softness he's never unlocked that exists within him after their willingness to cooperate and lay together last night, a commitment in his mind that extends to Jon as well as Martin now. Martin is the Keeper of his book; he has to go to him. "Come to us when I call. Keep breathing."

Jon reaches out and wraps his hand around Gerard's wrist, and his eyes flutter green, but Gerry isn't taking him near Martin right now, so he lets him hold him, and then slowly pulls back after a few seconds. It seems to help; Jon's breath stutters and then he holds the hand that held Gerry to his chest.

Gerard once again rises to his feet and returns to Martin, sitting down heavily by his side. "Tell me what you need, if you can."

\---

Martin hits his head against the bookcase again, but this time he stays there. Easier with his eyes closed, to ease up on the broken book his teeth have pierced through, to bring himself down from hyperventilation until he relaxes enough to drop it into his own lap.

Oh. He’s very tired now. It takes so much just to lift both hands to his face, keep the lingering fear smell of the room at bay, but he’s breathing and that’s good. He doesn’t deserve it, but it’s good.

He needs that thing out of Jon. He needs to know how to do that. He needs someone to read his mind, and no one can. Not anyone who’s here, anyway.

“We need... “ He starts, quiet and scared behind his own hands. “...to do Michael’s ritual. Watcher’s Crown. S-soon as... possible.”

\---

"... The Watcher's Crown? It-- What's got you freaking out about that one right now?" He wants to be gentle, but this out-of-order storytelling isn't easy. "Clearly neither me nor Jon know what you're on about."

\---

Martin whines, high and frustrated. He knows what he’s about to say, but he doesn’t like it.

“I need a muzzle.”

And then he sniffs, eyes still tightly shut into darkness. “And a pen. P-Paper.”

\---

"I can get you the latter two. I'm not humiliating you with the former." The amount of fucking effort he has to put into all of this should quantify him as a saint. He once again rises and steps to the desk to grab whatever notebook he can find and one of the pens Jon always keeps an abundance of, considering he's constantly losing the damned things. Gerard hasn't been around long enough to see that, but he just Knows it when he picks one up. Evidently the Eye deems that one important. It would make him snort under other circumstances.

He hands them off to Martin, and sits down at his side again. "Can I call Jon over here, yet?"

\---

This time, Martin isn’t alone long enough to fester. He takes the tools with unsteady hands, and finally cracks open his eyes.

He looks down at the wreckage of the book, and he doesn’t spare an acknowledgment beyond a short, cautious nod and a reach to put the book in his mouth again. Different spot, less dents. Less force.

And then, against all odds, he starts to write.

\---

"Right." He takes an artificial breath once Martin starts writing, and spares a look to Jon. He's breathing, and trying his best, but he looks lost. "Jon; you can come over now."

Jon looks up to him from his place on the floor and gives a cautious, lost nod, and painstakingly pulls himself to his feet. And christ, Gerry realizes, they're both still in their pajamas. Whatever this is, started the moment they woke up.

Jon sits heavily next to him, and slowly, Gerry wraps a hand around Jon's shoulder, and the connection begins, and it makes it easier for him to lean solidly against Martin's shoulder.

\---

Martin ignores the comfort, because he hasn’t  _ earned _ it yet. He scribbles down onto the page, chicken scratch writing far worse than his usual readability. When he’s finished, he pawns it off on Gerry and goes back to leaning his head against the wall with his face turned away from them both.

It says: ‘Jon brought something back on accident. He can speak. Didn’t like him. Had a bad dream. You were right about the Hunt.’ There’s a small frowning face next to that. ‘Tried to keep him in here. Part of the Eye. Made me go back in time to prove a point. Remember Socks now.’ Another frowning face. ‘Won’t tell me about Watcher’s Crown. Need to do Michael’s ritual so he tells us what he knows + I think I’ll be getting worse. Need to be coherent b/c Michael likes me more. Hunt wants thing inside Jon (“Archivist”). Didn’t mean to. Really sorry. Really--’

The last word is a black scribble, but the ‘really’ is still readable.

\---

Gerard takes the notebook and reads, then reads again, and for good measure, reads a third time, the tip of the pen poised over each letter as he does so, trying to sort out the narrative and figure out what he means. He tongues the inside of his snake bites while he does, and ignores the pleading expression Jon is leveling him, and ignores the sullen way Martin is turned away from them.

"One thing at a time, I suppose," He murmurs, and begins to underline a few sentences. His lines are jittery and uneven, and he's upset, almost. Had good handwriting once. Seems this corporeality, even with Jon's help, doesn't afford him such fine motor skills as that. "The Hunt wants a new trail. You're going through withdrawal. You got your prize-- Jon-- and now he's more than human. Makes sense it would target him next. He's a monstery threat. No offense, Jon. Just the truth. Dunno how to fix it, but I mean-- it's got to at least subside eventually. Hopefully."

That's part one, and the one they can't do much about. Gerry presses the side of his face back onto Martin's shoulder.

\---

For the first time, Martin doesn't jump to defend Jon from that particular label. He leans his head away from the wall so he can rest against the top of Gerry's head, and he huffs out his approval of the first part. This is terrible, but now he's not just a mystery to them both. "Thank you."

\---

"Right." He squints down at the page and then fields a side look to Jon, grimacing. "Next on the docket. Evidently, Jon, you brought something back. I'm thinking-- Is this an Exorcist type of thing? Body possession, all that? A ghost thing? You didn't really elaborate. Are you sure it wasn't Jon? I've never-- Ah, I've just never heard of anything like this."

Jon is sitting up straighter, now, his hands clawed around each other, and Gerry pulls his arm down enough that he's squeezing the man by his arms, pulling him closer to his side. He's not about to start questioning his sudden desire to all but cuddle these two. They need the comfort, and he wants to comfort them.

\---

He was able to get a nice thank you from around the book, but now he bites down again. Martin snatches the pen back and tilts the journal without removing it from Gerry's lap.

He tries to write fast enough. What he gets down first is a hasty, angry 'NOT JON', before he huffs and tacks on 'Talked about owning me + having servants + slipped thru door + end of the world + knew future + talked about entities like siblings'. Then he moves the pen away. His handwriting looks even worse. What is he, five?

\---

Gerard reads through it, brow furrowed, and then tilts the notebook Jon's way, who squints and reads and rereads, and looks very, very scared. He didn't think-- The door has always existed. He didn't think other things could get through. He thought it was just him, just his own exoskeleton nightmare. But this is--

His breathing picks up again, and he squeaks, "How long was it here? With my mouth?" And then he slaps his hands to his face, covering as much as he can, but the eyes peeking out from beneath his fingers are wide and terrified.

\---

A heavy stone drops in Martin's gut, and he growls again. This time it's subdued, like he's just heard something rustle in the bushes outside and isn't quite sure whether it's a threat, but it's the fear. So much fear. He grips the pen tightly, and he tries to write at an awkward angle to avoid getting any closer but to help. It reads, lack of punctuation and all, 'not long dont be scared'.

\---

"You said it was the Eye, Martin! How am I not meant to be scared?!" Jon asks, and his voice is raised, and fuck, Gerard can't blame him, but considering how growly Martin is right now, it's Probably not the best recourse of action.

At least Jon's here now, and not off in whatever place he was when Gerard first manifested. But the fool is too shortsighted to see that Martin's in an equally bad, instinctual place.

"Whatever it was, it's gone now. It's just Jon, now."

\---

Jon's voice gets loud, and as it does Martin's growl deepens. Internally, he prays this book isn't something important. Probably not. It was sort of dusty when he'd dislodged it from the shelf. He really, really hates himself right now.

He doesn't stop growling, not completely, but he does nudge Gerry into continuing by pressing his shoulder up with more weight against him.

\---

"Well, I don't know what some of this shit means, Martin. But, um-- I guess. Either it spoke about the Watcher's Crown, or Martin asked it, but regardless; no dice. Martin wants to get Michael's ritual done." Gerard squints. "Which I  _ still  _ think is frankly stupid, but I'll help where I can. It's the fucking Spiral in-- Oh."

He turns to Jon. "I think you've accidentally made the Beholding version of the Distortion."

\---

Michael's ritual is non-negotiable. Martin won't defend himself about that, but it's something he feels he has to do, not just for the information but for Michael. He believes that more than ever, that this is something important to see through.

But Gerry says one thing, and the vibrating source of pain in his throat instantly dies. He perks up, grabs Gerry by the arm, and nods. It's a very passionate nod. That's exactly it.

\---

Jon blinks rapidly. "But it's gone now-- I'm. I'm just me? I can't remember being... Being that. It--"

Gerard shakes his head, already focused on the train of thought. "Of course the Spiral would be all twisted up and tangled and knotted. Duh. The Spiral and Shelley were forced together. From what I'm told."

"Yes," Jon says, squinting. And then his mouth opens a little, awareness flooding him. "...I said yes."

"Not as complicated as a Twist, I suppose." Gerry looks back at Martin. "It's like a landlord with the key to the house."

\---

The book falls from Martin's mouth, and now he's beaming at Gerry. He's so very smart. It surges a new kind of energy through him, one that can bury the Hunt as he crashes. He's going to have to lie down very, very soon. There's his voice.

Martin talks up at Gerry. "The Eye isn't really a  _ physical _ fear, it's not attached to a space unless it can, erm, See? We talked about the Moon, it's not-- You can't go to the moon, but the Moon can sort of see it all up there. The Spiral is... Well. It has a lot of... um, wh-what's the word... tactile? Textures."

\---

Ah. There Martin is. Gerard doesn't bring notice to the return of his voice, but his smile is wide. Strange, this sudden feedback loop of information and theory rushing through the three of them, on the floor of an office they've all found solace in. Strange, the way they have found themselves orbiting around each other, a satellite to Jon's Moon and to Martin's planet.

"Has the Eye done this before?" Gerard asks, and Jon immediately shakes his head.

"Can't have. We would have known. I- I think." And Jon is here now, and he leans forward so he can look across Gerard at Martin. "It-- He-- I'm sorry, Martin."

\---

Martin listens, and absorbs, and puts various pieces together in his head. He's not at his best, but it's absolutely better than his worst. Jon refers to him, and Martin tilts his head so he can see him. With Gerry between them, right now, he feels safe doing that.

He's glad he did. He likes when Jon looks at him. Martin tries to commit that exact face to memory, to start building a catalogue of differences. This is not a depressing or scary thing to make at all. "It's not your fault. I talked back to him. He has a bit of a complex, he - he doesn't know how bodies work, I think. He's definitely never talked to a person before."

\---

"A-and we're sure it was um--" Jon coughs, and looks away, decidedly unsure and not wanting to say it. He trucks on, albeit not without the stutter. "You know. A-a. Some kind of, you know, some kind of mental breakdown? Y-you're positive?"

\---

Martin's eyes narrow. "Jon, you could never be so mentally unwell that you'd make me remember missing a stuffed animal to get me to move from a doorway."

\---

Gerard squints. "Is  _ that _ what the thing about Socks meant? I'll be honest; I ignored that part because it was not coherent."

\---

Rude. It was coherent, Gerry. "It made me sad! I thought it was relevant!"

\---

"I didn't know what 'Socks' meant! Now I-- Jon?"

Jon has his face scrunched up slightly. "He inserted a memory into you? E-Elias can do that."

\---

"Well, now you know. Apparently it was a big deal when I was five." Martin rests his chin on Gerry's shoulder. "I don't know about _ inserted.  _ It was mine, but I could-- I knew more things about it. Like that my mother threw her out. I didn't remember any of this before, but I knew it was real. I-I think?"

\---

"The Eye wouldn't lie," Jon says quietly. "I don't-- I don't think I can do that. I wouldn't want to. It-- It didn't hurt you, right?"

\---

"I-- No, but I think he..." Obviously, it could have been much worse. "He basically called me a slut for other fears, and that was a bit mean. I, um, I don't-- I just think we need to focus on... that. Michael's ritual. Right now."

\---

"He called you a slut?!" Gerard just can't hold back the laughter, which prompts Jon to lightly slap him in the shoulder. Gerard isn't complaining; Jon being a bitch means he's fully here, at least.

"I agree, but you sound-- Do you think. You sound scared, Martin, like you know something new."

\---

Martin shakes his head. "Mostly I'm just tired. And scared I'll hurt you. If Gerry hadn't-- I don't... I don't know."

\---

Jon blinks, and opens his mouth, but Gerry beats him to the punch, huffing and saying, "Yeah, yeah, guess I have a daily alarm clock now, attack dog." He reaches out and ruffles Martin's hair.

\---

Martin lowers his head, but it's more out of shame than comfort. "I'm serious. We need a plan. I screwed up, talking to... to him, and I might've just made it worse." He pauses, and he so, so, so wishes his voice didn't crack. "I'm afraid of me."

\---

"... I don't know how to remove a Mark." Gerard says it solemnly, the smile slipping from his face. "Especially if you've said yes. I'm not sure if--"

"I think we can just bury the impulses," Jon interrupts, and his grimace is full of many, many horrors.

\---

The thing that whimpers in Martin's voice might be him, and it might not. In all likelihood, it's both. "How... would that work?"

\---

His voice is very, very still. "The Buried."

\---

Martin holds Gerry's arm between both of his own wrapped around it, now. "What does that mean?"

\---

"My- My friend. She was a Hunter. Is? I suppose she isn't my friend, now. She was trapped in the Buried, and it... Subdued the instincts. They were still there, just... muted, foggy." He blinks and holds up a triumphant finger. "Ah! Like a spiritual Xanax." Gerard snorts and Jon ignores him.

"That's why I went there."

\---

He's being weirdly clingy. He wonders about as he makes no effort to stop himself from hiding one eye at the crook of Gerry's neck. "I don't want to be drugged for the rest of my life."

\---

"And I-- I don't want you in the Buried. I'm just... Just telling you what I know." Jon lets out a breath. "I don't want you to get sick, if y-you stop Hunting."

\---

"E-Either way, we're not doing that before Michael's ritual, that's an even worse idea. I'd rather be sick, but-- But I-- Management. It's not like Gerry can be around all the time, and... and I don't want to do that. Make it... Make it your job. I should just be able to not kill my... my person."

\---

"I don't know how, Martin, and I-- I don't know when it. If it will come back. I don't-- I just don't know." His voice is getting frantic again; it's all too many things all at once colliding in a mental storm that cracks and fizzles and thunders upon his brain.

\---

Martin says, "Jon, please," but it comes out more like a hissed Jonplease. He grips Gerry impossibly tight. "We can't do this. We can't break down. Steps. Do it in steps."

\---

Jon keeps breathing loud and frantic, and when Gerry pulls him closer, it doesn't do much, so the ghost sits up from both of them and softly claps his hands and says, "Okay! Awesome. We know what the problems are now. That's a good first step. I'm revoking both of your consciousness rights. Trying to sort this out now will just keep resulting in this--" He gestures to Jon's abject miserable face, "--Or that." He gestures to the teeth-mark ridden book.

Jon opens his mouth to say something and Gerard jabs his pointer finger in his face to shut him up.

\---

Martin stares dumbly up at his ghost taking charge like a preschool teacher corralling the kids into a nap. And, well, he sees Gerry silence Jon before he can even get a word in, so maybe he shouldn't try either, but...

He tries to get it in really, really fast. Just real quick. "What if we wake up bad?"

\---

"Then we deal with it. Duh. Like we always do." He stands and turns around to offer a hand to both of them. Jon looks sullenly at him, but takes it after a moment, pulling himself up roughly. He is tired; it feels like he's been run over by a truck.

\---

"...Okay, but how? What, are you watching us sleep?" Martin follows suit, gripping Gerry's wrist in his palm, and wow, standing up is very hard. He braces his other hand on the bookcase.

\---

"No," Gerard says, and once both of them are secured, he steps back, trying to pull them along.  _ "I'm  _ going back to bed, and you call me if there's a problem. Worked earlier. And you weren't exactly, um-- Well, quite frankly that's one of the worst moments I've ever seen you in. And you still called."

\---

Martin's face scrunches up, but he follows along without complaint. He's too exhausted for that, and he trusts Gerry, but that exhaustion isn't without a self-hatred he thought he'd abandoned at the beach, on the roof. Maybe he's having trouble admitting this, even to himself, but he does want to see Michael. It feels so odd, being so far apart after that. "Lucky the word ghost starts a lot like  _ 'grr'." _

\---

"Lucky indeed." Once he leads them to the doorway to the room, he lets go of the both of them, stepping back a step so he isn't being touched. He is tired, and doesn't want to utterly deplete himself in case he can't sleep within the pages of his Book for long enough to be at full strength. Not even Jon's strange little jolts of Eye-magic are giving him much at this point. "Still with us, Jonny-boy?"

"Just thinking. Don't call me that."

Gerry steps off to the side, and of course the pep in his voice is fake, of course it is, but neither is he going to be dour when the two of them are clearly close to breaking point.

\---

For once, here, Martin has nothing left to offer in terms of banter. He's over this, he wants to feel better, he wants to sleep without fearing hands at his neck.

He ignores them both, and falls face down back into bed. Everything hurts so much except pillows. Pillows are good.

\---

"Good," Gerry says, and then shoos Jon to do the same. Jon does so, but he curls into himself when he does, and Christ, what a miserable lonely pair they make.

Hoping they don't tear each other to bits for two seconds, Gerard returns to the office to grab his book, and sets it on the nightstand closest to Martin, before flopping on the bed in the middle of them. He won't leave until they sleep; he can afford them that much energy.

\---

It’s easy to trick his own brain into thinking that Gerry will stay there until he wakes up again. Acknowledging comfort where it’s given now gives the alternative so much less power.

He can’t breathe very long with his whole face pressed to a pillow, so after a few seconds of everyone else settling in, Martin turns. He makes sure he uses a pillow to prop his head up and not Gerry, he’s practical like that, but he does curl up against his side with his face pressed to a shirt that does and does not exist.

He sighs through his nose, and within a few breaths he’s completely out. He’s been falling asleep much faster these days. Might be all the emotionally draining turmoil.


	40. Chapter 40

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We reach the eleventh hour of Martin's plan to rip Michael Shelley from the Distortion.

As much as it pains him to admit, Martin’s sudden and delirious need to work alone isn’t… Well. Jon isn’t complaining. It  _ hurts _ to think that, but after the last few days, after that  _ morning _ on the floor of the office, he thinks maybe some space is due.

And it’s not like he has much of a choice, regardless. Any time he raises his voice, or uses anything approaching Beholding-abilities, a low rumble issues from Martin’s throat, and either Jon will lock up in fear and make it  _ worse, _ or Martin will flee before they get a chance to discuss it.

So, three days after that morning, when Martin abruptly moves all of his office supplies, research material, and God-knows-what else to some deep dark corner of the Archives, all but creating a nest of clutter, Jon doesn’t complain.

(And couldn’t, if he wanted to; he slept in the Tunnels for months out of sheer paranoia, before. Jon’s learning very quickly that pushing back the responses to sheer Fear just makes it worse, in the long run).

Jon  _ agrees _ that they need to fast-track Michael’s ritual. If it will give them  _ any _ more information at all, it’ll have been worth it. But he’s afraid that Michael’s just lying, and Martin seems to be handling the research for it, and frankly, Jon has other things to research himself. He can’t rely on  _ Michael  _ to get them Watcher’s Crown intel. And more than that, there’s a pesky little elephant in the room that he’s been desperately trying to find more information on.

His dreams are heavy and oppressive, and he knows  _ it _ is watching. Whatever it wants to call itself. _ The Archivist  _ is just too cheeky; even without speaking to the thing, he knows it. Who would have thought the Eye joked.

Martin and Jon are both afraid of this  _ thing,  _ and Jon is afraid of the _ Hunt,  _ and Martin is frightened of himself and also the inhumanity of Jon. It’s a cycle he’s not keen on triggering right now; the only time he’d gone down to Martin’s hovel, he’d been met with far too many goosebump-raising growls and laughs.

Hence why he’s woken Gerard up. He’s opened the book and intended to read line by line, as is proper, but he was sitting in front of the desk by the third line, a scowl on his face and a curt reminder that Jon could just say his name with intent instead of reading that dreary account of cancer and mother’s and ritualistic flaying, thank you much.

Jon reaches across the desk and Gerard takes his hands, and that little look of excited wonder never ceases to make Jon feel an assortment of somethings that he’s still quite not sure how to quantify. Gerard stabilizes him and Martin, but more than that, they both like him, and Jon doesn’t know yet, how to internalize that he’s allowed two people that spread love to him. He doesn’t know how to internalize that he has two people to spread love to.

Gerard has pulled his hair up off his neck, piled on top in a loose bun, and the wonders of ghost physiology distract him for a second, and Gerard says, “Earth to Jonathan; did you just summon me to hold my hands? I’m flattered, I am, but that’s quite a big thing to awaken someone for.”

Ah. That pulls him back. Gerard is rude, but it’s directed and focusing; he stays on track and keeps Jon there, too. He clears his throat. “Well-- No. I mean, would that be a bad thing, if I did?”

“But you didn’t, Jon, out with it.” Gerard looks around them, and squints. “Martin?”

“Right, yes, well--”

“Is he doing something stupid. Should I go d--”

“Gerry! Gerry. It’s fine. He’s fine. Um. I think. It’s just-- He’s researching. In the Archives? He wanted to be alone. Or, well, I think away from me, which is. You know, more than fair, and I’m getting more work done anyways, but he, um-- Doesn’t want me there. Which again, fair. Triggers, and all, um, that. But I don’t know if he’s-- Eating? Sleeping? I think he’s cycling, and--”

Gerard gives a short nod, and squeezes Jon’s hands. His words are light and joking-- “You woke me for Puppysitting. Got it. I’d salute you if my hands weren’t otherwise occupied--”, but his expression is far more worried.

It’s another hard-to-contest thing. The way Gerard cares for Martin, on this deep level that awes Jon to look at and behold. He’s glad these bonds exist. He’s glad they got Gerard. And Jon’s thankful that he tends to pull both Jon and Martin’s frantic, and  _ bad,  _ attempts at communicating into something linear and easy to parse through.

“Thank you.”

Gerard pulls one of his hands away, just to cup the whole of one of Jon’s, and he leans down to press his lips mockingly to the back of it. Mockingly, but not, all at once. He stands. “Of course, my liege,” he says, and when Jon lets out a low laugh, Gerard’s expression lights up in triumph, before he turns to haunt the hallways of the Institute.

\---

So far, it’s been a  _ splendidly _ dreadful set of days for one Martin Blackwood. He’s coping as well as he can, at least, considering the very man he risked life and limb to kill for is now the source of half his neuroses. Not that he blames Jon for any of that, it’s about the thing inside him Martin wishes he could like. A part of him now that he’s tried and soundly failed to assimilate into his life.

Though, that is how it started with Michael, wasn’t it? Now they’re  _ friends. _ More than friends, technically, based on the ritual complications of it all, but still friends in their own odd sort of way. Definitions are beyond him, now.

Working on a task and nothing  _ but _ the task at hand has brought him to some semblance of clarity as he’s ripped apart with hungry teeth from the inside out. Between unexpected moments of feverish pain that beg him to scratch at the door to the office where the Moon rests beneath his lover’s flesh, Martin pours every ounce of energy he can into Michael’s ritual.

He wants it to be good, for all their sakes, but also to  _ do _ something good. He has to do something good not tainted by the blood of a man he still wishes he could have spoken to, something good that will require no spilt blood. Something good that he can take charge with while he’s still coherent, that he can show everyone--  _ See? _ I can do it. I can do something without going ballistic, without breaking down, without all the humiliating tears of a child.

He has handled the predicament of office workers in a blessedly easy way, since they  _ are _ technically back from their trip early and it would do them  _ all _ some good to get this mess out of the way before picking back up with their admittedly abyssmal correspondence with Tim and Sasha.

Taped up to the door of this particular room is a sign that reads ‘Closed for Maintenance’. There have been no knocks and no questions, at least not any he’s been made aware of, and it helps what’s left of his brain not needing to add human interaction to his list of things to worry about.

Right now he’s somewhere between feral and floating, but at least he can still read. He can still take notes, even if they seem incomprehensible. They make perfect nonsense to him. Martin has three different notebooks open to different doodles and passages before him, not at a desk but at the floor, and isn’t that just hilarious? Doing the very thing he had to help Jon away from, back at the very beginning? He understands, now. There is  _ so _ much room on the floor. More room than the room itself, with its bookcases and shelves and corners and walls. He thinks he might be making progress here.

\---

Gerard has started to make a habit of checking the date, when he's awake. It's not like anyone bothers to tell him. So he glances at a calendar on his way out of Jon's office and frowns as he closes the door, more than a little irritated that they didn't bother to wake him up for  _ three days.  _ He'll have to talk to them about that. Or maybe make a concentrated effort to manifest himself without their guidance. Hard, to, when the Sleep becomes Existence becomes Him.

It's not hard to find Martin among the stacks. Gerard can really only take solace that he took one of the study rooms, rather than just posted up in the corner like a madman. Or like his fucking spider he jabbered about more than once.

Jon didn't tell him where to go, other than the Archives, but Gerard didn't need it. He knows. Martin is like a beacon to him. Whatever magic they've toyed with, whatever marks, he can piece out Martin through the fog. A lighthouse. And like a lighthouse, he's currently alone.

He knocks on the door, the sound arrhythmic in an effort to actually connect a fist with the wood, ignoring the maintenance sign automatically.

\---

Hm.  _ Hmm.  _ Martin stares at the door, and continues to stare, as though he could see through the thick layer of wood. That's not what he's trying to do, though. He's following the center point of the sound to judge the shape of knuckles connected to a body of constantly-altering weight, one that does not creak on the floorboards unless it chooses to. All good, then.

He rises from the floor with a pencil in his mouth and another tucked up behind his ear, and he unlatches the lock on the door.

The Martin that answers isn't the worst version of him to exist, per se, but he is a bit of a mess. A working mess, not a paralyzed-breakdown mess, and that makes all the difference. He's feverish, skin hot in a way that makes him want to crawl out of it, eyes sunken by the bad dreams mucking up his sleep, hair in thick, messy curls that desperately need a pair of scissors. But he still smiles when he meets Gerry, who's been gone for so very long. He's the chill in the room that makes the heat fade away.

"Hi, Gerry!" No, that's a bit too peppy. "I thought about doing a bit when you came in, act like you had an appointment, or maybe it was that  _ I _ forgot you had an appointment, but I wasn't sure exactly what job to go with that would make it really, really funny, so-- No bit. Just me! And you. Apparently. Hi."

\---

"...Good morning to you, too, Crazy," Gerard says, and immediately stabs his hands into the pockets of his coat, his shoulders hiking up as he cranes his neck around Martin to look at how he's set up his impromptu office. "Not so Growly today, are we? I wasn't sure what to expect, considering you've let me rot for three days."

Gerard supposes it makes sense for him to get this manic after researching the Spiral, but it's definitely an energy he was not expecting to be greeted with.

\---

Martin drops the pencil in his mouth, because talking like this would just cause more harm than good. "Oh,  _ here _ we go-- I didn't leave you to rot. I've been busy and you needed sleep. I made something for you. One second." He shuts the door behind him and quickly locks it back up before bending town to sift through all the papers. "Should... be...  _ Mhm." _

He finds the sheet he's looking for, grabbing the roll of tape so he can stick it to one of the nearest walls. "There's two already. One for Hunt-related nicknames, check--" A tally is marked, then another. "And one that questions my mental health! Great start."

\---

Gerard blinks at it, scrunching up his face as he beholds both Martin and the paper. "What is the purpose of that? And I don't question your mental health, I point it out."

\---

Martin shrugs loudly, if that's even possible to pull off. "I thought it might help me not fly into a blind Hunter rage when you called me names if I made it a game instead of my life!"

\---

"Uh-huh. Leaning on the Spiral instead of the Hunt, lately, are we?" He starts to move around the small office space, looking at all he's got set up and written on.

"Anyways, knock-knock, Nurse Keay is here. Have you been eating? You're bad at that one."

\---

"If I want this to be good enough to get us out alive, it's better that I do." Martin watches each little movement Gerry makes around the room, and he doesn't do it on purpose, but Martin's staying out of arm's reach at all times. "You're not my nurse, that's-- That's a bit unethical, isn't it? I've eaten."

\---

Gerard fields him a look, and there's an amused smile finally dancing on his face. Whatever; if this is what Martin needs right now, then it's best to just mitigate it, rather than wholesale put a stop to it. "Nothing we do is ethical, patient Blackwood. Tsk tsk. Rule one of eldritch entities is we're far beyond morals, I think."

\---

As Gerry speaks, Martin watches with bewildered curiosity. In the silence, he opens his mouth to speak up but just as quickly shuts it, instead moving back over to the paper to mark another tally.

Once his attention is back on Gerry, he continues properly. “Well, I still have a few tucked away for a rainy day. You know, being handy with a first aid kit doesn’t qualify you for nursing. Your bedside manner is terrible, too. Beyond the ethical situation.”

\---

That earns him a humored snort. "Good thing I'm a nurse in the loosest sense of the word. If you're gonna count everything I call you, you're gonna be at that chart all day, you know."

\---

“I’m not counting everything. I have categories,  _ Nurse Keay.  _ I’ll be at everything all day, what’s one more?”

Martin takes the pencil he’s pulled off from his ear and twirls it between his fingers. “Jon sent you down here, didn’t he?”

\---

"Yeah." He steps backwards to hop up on the table, which Martin doesn't seem to be as fond with cluttering as he does the floor. "Didn't think it'd be smart for him to check in on you."

\---

“It’s not. You’ll know when you meet him.” Martin taps the pencil at his bottom lip, following the whirlwind on the floor until he can sit at the center again. “Might be worse for you, since— I think that’s why he can touch you. It’s  _ him.  _ Me, well— I’m already touchable by nature. Bodies, you know.”

\---

He grimaces. "Was he really that bad? I knew something was weird on that beach. It was like I was given  _ permission _ to sleep. Ugh. And I listened."

\---

“You asked for it, though, to him it probably looks like you’re covered in his lipstick,” Martin giggles, but it’s hollow. So hollow it’s easy to make dissipate into a quiet, quiet breath. “That’s why I’m not telling him things.”

\---

"Jon? Or... It?" As much as he'll be willing to distract Martin soon, he wants to get the reality they're in straight and narrow. Understood. They didn't actually  _ talk _ about this creature much past the basics, much past figuring out what it was, and now everything's changed.

\---

“I’ve seen him too little to test so far, but I don’t know if he’s watching,” Martin whispers, “So I might mean  _ both. _ I don’t know what’s safe to say, and—“

In a moment of stark clarity, staring down at the clutter, Martin’s breath stutters. “Oh, Christ. Am I turning into him?”

\---

Gerard sighs. "In a land of 'he's' and 'hims', nouns are useful sometimes, Martin."

\---

_ “Jon.  _ I’m on the floor and I’m a wreck and I’m keeping people in the dark about things that really, really matter, and I hate myself.”

Martin sniffs. “I don’t know if the Archivist is watching, or if he sleeps, too. He might make things— Complicated, if he doesn’t.”

\---

"... Not to potentially shatter what remains of your sanity, but it's the eye. I think it knows everything."

\---

“It doesn’t know how to be a person, or have _ manners,  _ and—“

Martin throws his hands up in Gerry’s direction. “Knowing doesn’t mean he gets it. It’s like, like if I Google atomic bombs, and Google says ‘atomic bombs are made by splitting an atom in half’, that doesn’t mean I know how to split an atom in half. Not all-seeing. It’s got people eyes.”

\---

"Well, I imagine it's like the other and relies on its humans to get things done. Like--" He gestures upwards. Elias' office. "Though I guess-- I mean, why'd it come n _ ow? _ Did it give a reason?"

\---

“Jon died. I think it’s like picking up a flea and bringing it home. Not like the flea knew where it was  _ going, _ but now it’s causing a lot of problems exactly where it wants to be.”

\---

Gerard whistles low. "Getting happier and happier by the day that I wasn't given the chance to say  _ yes,  _ to tell you the truth."

\---

“Again, lipstick. You said yes by saying no to everything else.” Martin clears some of the clutter so he can stretch forward on the floor. “Gerry, I want to tell you my ideas. But right now I’m too— I’m too scared, but I trust you, and you need to know where I’m going with this. You need to— Spiraling doesn’t mean it’s not _ based  _ in the truth.”

\---

"Well I'd  _ like _ to know, yeah. If it means touching your nasty Michael-Hand, so be it." He snorts.

\---

Martin grumbles, hoisting up off his knees like Gerry’s forced him to do a terrible chore. Back to the board, one more tally. He wiggles the fingers on the aforementioned hand. “Fine. Let’s play, then.”

\---

"Jon's gonna be mad when he finds out I've done  _ drugs _ with you," Gerry says, wrinkling his nose, but he focuses and takes Martin's hand, letting himself feel the Spiral deep, deeply embedded into flesh and bone and blood, and his eyes unfocus a little. Easy to, when his very being is a lie brought forth upon this silly altar.

\---

“He’s done them too,” Martin snorts, “Blaming me for liking Michael, helping Michael, awful idea, Martin, truly awful. But you _ like _ it, every time. Love watching me run myself into spirals, free entertainment. Free drugs.”

\---

"Oh, you'd be a hit at all the gay clubs, superpower like this," Gerry giggles, and leans forward on the desk, his smile wide. It's getting easier to, ironically, focus the Spiral. Or at least as much as 'don't freak out about it'. Which is nice, at least.

\---

“I’d be a hit without superpowers,” Martin hums with a pointed wink. “I already know that.”

Okay. They’re just playing. It’s just a game. It’s all a game, a story they’ve made up, but what are they playing? “How do you want my secrets, Gerry Keay?”

\---

"Oho, too much to ask for you to just tell your ghost, hm? We've to get creative?" He lays down on the table, tilting his head to look at Martin, one hand still clasped firm with his, and the other splayed on his belly.

\---

“That’s too easy, right? Where’s the fun if you never have to work for it?” Martin moves without breaking their contact to where Gerry’s head is, cocking his head over him so he’s upside-down in Gerry’s view. His other hand hits the desk next to Gerry’s head so he can lean forward better. “You can’t just take all the benefits and leave it there. It has to eat as much as I do.”

\---

"Tell me how to feed it, then. You know it better. We're still just..." He laughs, breathless, "Acquaintances."

\---

“You’re having a hard time putting out for someone who’s  _ good _ at it,” Martin smiles, lifting his free hand to flick Gerry’s forehead. “No dirty jokes from you. Let’s see... What’s ten minus five plus three minus two plus six minus one plus three?”

\---

"Mate, I--" He laughs. "Twelve? I dunno. I was homeschooled by a witch! You ever think about that? Least you went to school proper." He wrinkles his face into a frankly adorable little snarl. "I'll put out when I damn well need."

\---

“I dropped out,” Martin says with an upturned brow. “It’s fourteen, and I wouldn’t make that face unless you want me to wrestle you to second death right here in this room. Can’t tell you anything straight-out, my brain won’t work that way. Backwards only.”

\---

"So start from now and work back. It's not like I have an eternity or nothing. And you can't kill me. Just tease me. Funny how that works." He grins.

\---

“Maybe the little Hunter will rip your spine out next.” He scoffs. “Fourteen minus one, Corruption, minus four, Spiral, Hunt, Web, the  _ Eye,  _ the rest goes on, what happens when you get to zero, prophet-witch?”

\---

"You win? Keep them at bay? You-- the Web?"

\---

_ “Somebody _ wins, and it’s the one that sees it all, prophet-witch.” Oh, where is he, right now? “It makes sense! I get it! Little figurehead makes way for the thing at the center. All depends on where you place them. Maybe they’re closer than we think they are.”

\---

Gerard takes in a sharp breath, and he's thinking. It's loose and not all there, but something is opening. His eyes flare green among his body, for just a second, and he says, "And what about the others?"

\---

“You’re not a butterfly, you’re a firefly,” Martin says with a passionate grin. “The others play all they want, this one just wants to see it all happen. Both do, actually. One wants to see it all, the other wants to stand next to the throne where it’s safe in the Archives. I get the hallways, but they’re not safe when the Spiral needs eyes to know which way to turn. Can’t get lost, can you?”

\---

Gerard squeezes his hand. "Give me more," He says, and it's desperate, his eyes bouncing to and fro trying to understand him, follow him, knowing he's just on the precipice of something here.

\---

"The crown, it's a passive thing. When it's up there, up in the Moon, it's a disconnected  _ thing, _ it can't pierce through eyes clouded over with something equal to it. It has to  _ own _ them, and if it owns  _ all _ of them, they can feed as much as they want, but only if they feed the Eye. Right? " Martin blanches. "I can't go telling you everything while you sit there and soak it all in. You're a pest."

\---

"It feels awful, and it feels good," He says, and he'd be pale too, if he could. "Always been a pest. Tell me how to return the favor and I will."

\---

"Play with me," Martin starts. "Oh! Sit-- Sit down. You can be the little Eye figurehead, and I'll be the Archivist. That could work. I-I-I think that could work."

\---

"... Okay." He pulls himself from the desk and meets Martin on the floor, sitting criss-crossed in front of him, his eyes wide and his lips pursed in curiosity. "The-- I'm Jon then, is it?"

\---

"It's a game, but it's the truth, right? Not in a  _ weird _ way." Martin stands up, stretching until he feels taller, fuller, until he's looking down.

\---

"Okay," He says, and leans back to sit with his hands to the floor, tilting his head to look up at Martin. "It's the truth."

\---

Martin shakes his head, and it's nearly with violent force, shifting the blood in his brain and making him woozy.  _ Okay. _ He stands straighter, any hint of a slouch suddenly lost in this game of lies-that-are-not. He puts on a voice that is nothing like the Archivist, but holds the same pompous detachment, a parody of the real thing. 

"Now, my  _ Archivist,  _ who holds such a beautiful fear of each and every Thing and is thus so easily hunted down and Marked. You leave your Mark upon the very things that hunt you, so that you may  _ Catalogue _ and  _ Observe _ each for what they  _ Are. _ That is your role, which I have bestowed upon you as the only force above a king."

He lifts his hands, not past his head but palms raised up. He slips a bit, because this is  _ ridiculous,  _ and there's a twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth. "Your God."

\---

Gerard pulls in a breath, and watches the show, and his prone figure basks in it, basks in this performance, and he understands now. Understands, though it's funny, and he gives a hollow laugh, and he plays his part well. 

"Ah... And I am afraid. So very afraid. And therefore I submit, though I do not know I submit. Because I need to know. And knowing is power, or so they say, even if it's just  _ portals." _

\---

Oh, no wonder everyone loves to use the proper noun words. They make Martin shiver. 

"With this Crown I grant Us the ability to Know the Unknowable, to See in the Dark, to absorb each detail of decay, to play audience to every Hunt from the side of the prey, the predator, and the untouchable spectator. My gift to  _ you _ was to throw you into a distant memory with the ability to See what could be, and your attachment to the Eye grows ever deeper, accelerated, less factors to not Know, so that you can bring about this Ritual. Your rebirth in plain sight of the Beholding... "

He sighs, and it turns into a giggle that he has to stifle. His voice grows comically whimsical. He waves one hand in the air. "...well, I am a bit sentimental. Along for the ride, I suppose."

\---

Gerard stares up at him, prone and thinking and absorbing and,  _ oh. _ "But of the other rituals, how does this change the world? How does-- Does Jon change the end, knowing? Does it--" Oh, he's not spiralling as much as Martin, and his breath quickens, scared, thinking through all of this. All the manipulations.

\---

Martin loses his steam to point an accusatory finger in his ghost's direction. "Gerry, I wish you knew how much I  _ hate _ that I can't smell your fear. And I don't know that part." He pulls his hand back to his chest, and somehow he ends up with both arms gripping the opposite shoulder protectively. "There. You've met the Archivist. He's not  _ charming." _

\---

"But quite the demanding force." He wrinkles his nose. "And in such a small body, no less." He continues to look up at him, his eyes comically wide. "It seems the Institute already _ does _ this. What would a ritual change?"

\---

"Sometimes-- I... Sometimes I ask questions, or... or say things that feel totally random, in conversations. Um, like-- " Martin sits down next to Gerry, close but not touching. "They feel important, so I say them. I asked... I asked if there was an observatory on the roof of the Archives, it made  _ sense  _ to ask that after talking about the moon, and he said... The Archives  _ are _ the observatory. But I think right now... Right now it's... small."

\---

"Not as powerful as it could be." Gerard huffs. "Suppose that makes sense. The rituals are meant to bring them _ into _ this world. If it can hardly reach us, then the Institute is... paltry, compared to its actual weight and scope." He shivers.

\---

“You get why my stupid  _ animal _ thing wanted to kill him, now? There— What if I’d gone completely feral? What if I hurt him, and no one could explain? What if I got locked up and nobody  _ knew! _ I— It—“

No, Martin. Calm down. You’re not feral. You’re not normal, but you’re not feral.

“We need them on our side. Michael, the Spiral,  _ others, _ I guess.”

\---

"...That just gives  _ them _ more power. I mean at least-- At least this just wants to _ categorize? _ It doesn't want to- to rot, or to bend, or to pull, or bury or-- I can name adjectives all day long, Martin. Really, I can. Why would we want  _ that?" _

\---

“Do you _ really  _ think something in charge that might - might let them all loose and do whatever they want just so it can _ watch _ is a lesser evil, Gerry? They’re all doing that now! Just in smaller amounts!”

Martin gets completely to the ground, looking up at Gerry plaintively. “We can’t get rid of fear without getting rid of people. That’s what Gertrude did, right? Stopping rituals?”

\---

"Yeah, it was, like, her one mission. To stop them." He reaches out to where Martin is, wanting to touch him, to feel him, to keep him in place as he talks. "Destroying the rituals doesn't destroy the fear. It just keeps them locked away from this place."

\---

“I know. I’m just worried that— I mean, Gertrude fought against it, didn’t she? The Eye wants an Archivist that... that won’t stop  _ one _ of them, I’d imagine.” He feels so conned. He’s done nothing but help. Maybe he should’ve done nothing at all.

Martin leans until he’s on the floor, on his side, curled slightly around Gerry and facing him. “One that actually... One that loves it.”

\---

"Does... Does Jon Love it?" Wait. Too much of the spiral in there. He giggles. "Oh. Jon Lovitz. Wait-- sorry. Sorry. But does he?"

\---

Martin blinks. “What, from Rat Race?”

\---

"You." Gerard immediately leans back and wrinkles his nose, and then laughs. "Is that what you know Jon Lovitz from? Martin Blackwood, just how uncultured  _ are _ you?"

\---

Martin stifles his own delirious laugh against Gerry’s leg. “I’m not  _ uncultured,  _ I happen to know random things all over the place. I— I dabble. Jon got mad I didn’t know what Nine Inch Nails was, but I bet I know something he’d  _ freak out  _ about. He never asked.”

\---

"Well, see, now _ I'm _ upset you don't know what Nine Inch Nails is," Gerard huffs, and then laughs at that, because how preposterous, to have met him, Gerard Keay, and not know? "I feel like you've missed a crucial aspect to my whole  _ thing." _

\---

“Well, we never got around to listening, so how am I supposed to know? I like music.” Martin’s barely getting the words out. This is ridiculous. Did they fall off track of something? “Now I’m just afraid to tell anybody what I like.”

\---

"Why? Just makes me more curious what you do know. It's just mind-boggling. I mean, I  _ am  _ older than you. Could be a factor. Woulda graduated in the 90's were I to have gone to school."

\---

“You’re  _ really _ hung up on the school thing, aren’t you?” Martin shakes his head. It’s a very fond, present gesture. “Here’s a game. Why don’t you tell me what I  _ seem  _ like I know?”

\---

"Alright." He snorts, and reaches down to casually press his hand around the small of Martin's hip. "Hm. Let's see. Talking Heads, Brian Eno, Blink-182, and oh, for a modern one, LCD Soundsystem and Arcade Fire?"

\---

“First one,  _ yes.  _ No. Yes. That sounds familiar, I think I know— That one song, starts with ‘Dance’, that’s by them, right?” Martin hums, contemplative, glancing down at the new contact with a lax smile. “No to the last one, but for some reason my brain thinks it sounds like First Aid Kit, which I  _ do _ know.”

\---

"How interesting," Gerry murmurs, and now he is curious. "Eclectic. Wait.  _ Jon _ likes Nine Inch Nails. Him? See, that's more surprising than your weird ass not knowing Brian Eno."

\---

“Like I said. Random. I like a lot of instrumentals. Almost brought up a few songs about the moon with the Archivist. Ugh. His music taste can only be bad. But—“

Here he goes, spilling more of Jon’s information. “He was very weird in university. I learned not to be surprised. He’s done more drugs than  _ I _ have.”

\---

Gerard tilts to one side and is about to start laughing at the utter preposterous aspect of that, but, upon further thinking, "I mean. Honestly? I can totally see it. I mean, if you told me you were  _ straight edge,  _ I might have believed it. You have the sheltered vibe." He laughs.

\---

“Not sheltered. Controlled. I just haven’t done many  _ party  _ drugs. I know where Tim keeps his office weed. It’s, erm, crossed my mind once or twice that Jon hated the aftermath of statements so much ‘cause he’s desensitized to drugs that make you happy.” He shakes beneath Gerry’s hand, because it’s  _ funny, _ that they are the way they are. “More than half our make-out sessions were right after I read one.”

\---

"'Cause you get weird after them. Yeah. I've been around  _ that _ energy. Addictive, if fucking psycho." He's laughing, though, and it really is a sight to think about Martin riling up poor serious Jonathan Sims after a dreary account of squishy organs or parasitic breaches. "Should find me that weed. I miss it."

\---

“I doubt you can smoke, unless I trick you to breathe and Jon holds your hand. But that’s not happening, and— I— It’s a _ bad _ idea,  _ considering, _ but I don’t want to read any more. Not now.” Martin sighs. “I like your laugh. It’s very nice.”

\---

"I was just  _ saying," _ Gerard huffs, and then he laughs again, and his free hand moves to his mouth, because no one's ever  _ said _ that and meant it, and the next look he levels Martin is a glare for making him do that silly gesture. Ugh. He's got it deep. Ridiculous afterlife. "Manic-you's fun, at least."

\---

He kisses the part of Gerry’s leg he can easily reach, short and sweet like he’s sneaking it in. “You like all of me. Sometimes I get scared I’m someone else, but you— I like that you have names for all of it. Makes it feel like I’m not _ that  _ crazy.”

\---

"I may call you crazy, but it's just because you're infuriating," He says. God, is this the Spiral's influence? Being honest and so  _ sappy.  _ Smite him down where he stands. Or sits. Or projects some psychic memory. "You're endearing in all forms, despite the odds."

\---

Oh, don’t get all wide-eyed and lovey up at him, Martin. “We’re all a little infuriatingly endearing, aren’t we? Um.”

He doesn’t want to go back, but they have to. “I think he does love it, in a... a complicated way. I think... I think it’s strongest when we latch on to something that hurts and feels good.”

\---

"And he's always got to be the prick who knows it all, even when it freaks him out." Gerard rolls his eyes. "Your boyfriend's just about the funniest man I've ever met."

\---

Martin rolls again, onto his back. "I'm afraid this is changing everything. With us. With me. Him. I don't want it to  _ change." _

\---

"Don't really have a choice, here, Martin," Gerard says, and he doesn't say it unkindly, rather just... honest. To the point. "This kind of life isn't full of  _ normal _ people things, like love."

\---

"I think love is always there if you look for it, now." He covers his eyes with his own elbow. "I always thought that, but kind of as... an outsider, sort of. Like love was important, but I didn't get it like other people. I think I _ do _ have a choice."

\---

"To love and for it not to  _ change?"  _ Gerard clicks out of the side of his mouth. "You're gearing up to deal with gods. Owned and tossed around by them. Feel that complicates things."

\---

"I think I'm already  _ there, _ Gerry." Bad place. "Do you want to hear my ideas for Michael's ritual?"

\---

"Oh, better. Yes. Is Jon even working on this with you?"

\---

"Sort of. I think he's finding Jared, maybe? I don't really-- I don't know. Maybe we should start texting."

Lovely idea. Teach the Archivist how to send emails. "I'm working under the idea that he needs to be fed before we go in. He likes me, us, but I think he's still  _ tempted, _ just who he is. Has to be public."

\---

"Michael, you mean. He-- Just being somewhere public is enough, you think?"

\---

_ "No, _ I mean there has to be a scene. Something he can feed off. Can't be anywhere, and we  _ can't  _ be in the middle of it when we bring Shelley back out." Martin pulls the crook of his arm away from his eyes and reaches over his own head to grab at Gerry's coat. "It also can't be too like the Stranger's... thing, he's not a fan. They are similar, though. I'm thinking a roof."

\---

"A roof. Public enough for him? What's the-- I mean. You think you can really get Shelley back alive, not just.... A corpse to rest?" Gerard blinks.

\---

“I... I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about the way he seems to come in and out, it’s not actually Shelley’s body, it’s connected to the hallways and the hallways lead somewhere and—“ Martin groans. “—I hate saying it, but I think believing he’s in there is why he’s  _ in there.” _

\---

Gerard shakes his head. "Nah. Makes sense. Especially with the Spiral. Intentions and beliefs to make reality." He pauses. "You....  _ know _ I can't follow you there, right? It'll just be you and Jon."

\---

Martin nods slowly. “Yeah. That’s part of why I’m trying to get in the habit of using that mark and not... not the Hunt. I don’t... Mm. Can I tell you something?”

\---

"Mm. You're gonna tell me anyways, I feel." He nods. "Yeah. Duh."

\---

“I think after everything, I’m— I had the best— I’m the only one who can  _ remember _ the beach. But Michael remembers the part before. With me. I feel—“ Martin shifts uncomfortably on the floor. “—I kind of just want to spend time with him, too. He’s the only other person who remembers watching me forget I was unlovable.”

\---

"When you two were on the roof." Gerard watches him, his expression unreadable and complicated and clogged with too much emotion. Seems to be the standard these days. "... You're good at humanizing these things. Seeing them for what they were or could be, rather than what they are. That's hard."

\---

“It all comes down to— We’re all animals. You try to be nice to them, even the scary ones. Maybe especially the scary ones. They probably get the least amount of care in their direction. They do what they know.” Martin watches him right back, but his own expression is plain— He’s just  _ sad. _

\---

"... Right." He says. "Guess I've never been afforded that thought." Which is harder to say than he expected.

He shifts on the floor. He doesn't like this topic very much. It just makes them both melancholy and alone. "Hey. I think you should rip my page out of the Book."

\---

Martin is about to comfort him, or at least make the effort to try, but that’s... “...Okay.”

He lingers on that for a minute, not fully comprehending what’s being said here. “Why?”

\---

"Not efficient to carry a book around. Safer to, I dunno, fold me up, put me in something, wear me around your neck." He shrugs and looks away.

\---

“That wouldn’t hurt? How do you know ripping you out won’t... you know.” There’s genuine fear rippling beneath the words. “Change anything?”

\---

"Ripped my mum's page out. Nothing felt different. Though I guess we burned her." His shoulders are high. "It'll probably hurt. I don't care."

\---

Martin lifts a hand and brushes the backs of his knuckles over Gerry’s nearest leg. “You care. What do you want to be put in?”

\---

"Anything, really. So long as it doesn't get damaged, I guess. You-- you'll do it?" He looks up, and his brow is furrowed, a complicated twist to his lips and surprise edging his eyes.

\---

“What? Of course I would. I’m just worried about hurting  _ you,  _ that’s the only reason I’m hesitating. But if you’re sure, yeah.” It can’t just be  _ anything _ and you know that, Gerry Keay. “Yeah. A locket would work, right?”

\---

"If you could squeeze the page in there, yeah." He shrugs again. "Won't hurt more than usual, I don't think. Not like you haven't hurt the Book before."

\---

“Just something that seals, I don’t want you drowning if I’m out in the rain, or something.”

Martin’s stare goes vacant. Then he comes back, back to Gerry, back to their conversation. His tone isn’t accusatory, just seeking. “You really want— You want me to wear you?”

\---

"Yes." There's no hesitation. Of anyone, even in the state he is, Gerard trusts Martin at this point. Might be the first person he's ever been  _ able _ to trust. "So I'm right there, if you need me."

\---

“Even if I didn’t need you, I  _ do _ want you here. I’m guessing it’s not just for me, though.” His eyes squint through a smile. “You’re helping me pick it out. That’s my only rule here.”

\---

"Ugh. That's sappy as hell. I hate you." He leans back until he's laying on the floor, his hands folded over his chest. "Making everything about  _ feelings." _

\---

“Everything _ is  _ about feelings, Gerry Keay,” Martin sing-songs smugly. “I should feel weird having a ghost as my collar, but I think it’s charming. Very  _ symbolic. _ ”

\---

"Saying it like that," Gerry scoffs and rolls his eyes. "Just can't be a normal ghost getting a favor from a normal friend, hmm?" His voice is light, though; now that Martin's agreed, the fluttering nervousness cutting through the veil of his ghostly form has dissipated.

"I like you being my Book Keeper."

\---

“I thought we weren’t _ noooormal.” _ Martin flicks him, a motion that’s second nature by now. He’s not sure when that started, but it’s so frequent now it might as well have always been that way. “I like being your  _ friend.” _

\---

"Ugh. See, you put me in the position of either feeling guilty when I brush you off, or the mortifying discussion of having to call you my _ friiiieeend.  _ Awful man you are." But he's smiling. Smiling wider than he should because he's fond of Martin, and he supposes that's a friend.

\---

“Then don’t brush me off. Problem solved. Just means Jon can’t ask you here unless he’s near me. I, um, maybe that’s a good thing— I hate keeping things from him. He’s the whole reason I know  _ anything.” _

\---

"Yeah, well, I didn't ask him for this. I asked you. Safest with you, I think." Gerard grimaces. "Besides, isn't that his whole  _ deal? _ Keeping stupid secrets?"

\---

“I...” There’s no right way, is there? “I think by him trying not to get anyone involved this whole time around, it’s about to blow up in our faces. It’s too  _ quiet,  _ you know? Stupid secrets.”

\---

"Yeah." He pauses. "There's still the Unknowing. If that even matters anymore."

\---

“Right. I think—“ Martin wrinkles up his nose, feeling very guilty for this. “—I think it might be a good idea to be in the Spiral pretty soon.”

\---

"Yeah, I got that from your frantic research. I-- why? What do you-- you clearly think something's about to happen."

\---

“I don’t know, it’s just a feeling. Not like a world-ending ritual kind of feeling, I think, just... A feeling. I don’t know if I’ll be good for it like this.”

\---

"Gut feelings are usually smart to trust. Do you think you're ready for it, soon?"

\---

“Maybe. I was thinking it might be easy to distort some film and sneak it into a movie theater.” He talks a little faster than his usual voice as he describes it. “Have all of them on time stamps so they start warping at the same time. Nobody... nobody dies.”

\---

"Okay, Tyler Durden, you know how to edit film? I-- mean. Yeah, preferable that no one dies."

\---

“Mhm,” Martin half-lies. “You might be able to help get it in. If _ you  _ get caught you can just disappear. I can’t.”

\---

"So-- what, rig a theater to get him to show up? Thought you had him on speed dial. Does he need to feed before doing this?"

\---

Martin shakes his head. “No, he’ll show up. We’re taking something from the Spiral, and the Spiral is different from Michael. It’s about keeping him there, not moving anything around while we do it. Not trapping us there or... It makes sense in my head, that things that aren’t hungry don’t hunt.”

\---

"... Keeping him sated enough that he isn't tempted to keep you." Gerard nods. "Suppose that makes sense."

\---

“Yeah. The Spiral  _ liking  _ me isn’t just a friendly thing. I’m close to it. But I don’t want to be it. Have any better ideas?”

\---

"Like you, you're close to it. Closer than me." He pauses. "I just only have your stories of him to have seen anything nice. He was a prick when I was around."

\---

“I don’t think it was you he had a problem with, he was in a bad mood because he wants freedom from Michael and we promised to do it. Next time he sees me I’m a complete wreck and I try to kill him, I’d feel a bit cheated, too.”

\---

"Fair enough. And-- well. What's the end-game here? The Distortion still active and alive? Because -- look, I know you want allies, but that's not a greaaaat idea? At all?"

\---

“Helen’s in there. She’s supposed to be the next avatar. I think I’ll try to talk to her, too.” Martin rolls his eyes. “It’s not about allies, it’s... I... I wonder what happens if you have all fourteen, and you’re not... not with the Eye. If you’re just you.”

\---

Gerard blinks. "What would be the point? I thought-- the fourteen help the Eye come through, right? So if you're not the Eye, or one of its avatars, what would be the point? Except the fun tallying up of trauma, of course."

\---

“Look, I don’t know. I’m trying to figure this out, and it’s not like I’ve ever been very _ academic.  _ I’m just throwing things out there.”

Martin stands up, and he’s not fond of the distance between them, but he has to pace now or he’ll go the bad kind of crazy. “The point is being liked better than the Eye, or— This is all really, really out of my depth. Intercepting it? Not like it’s a big problem  _ now,  _ Jon’s got as much as I do.”

\---

"Still more than most." He pauses and cranes his neck to look up at Martin. "I know you don't  _ want _ to keep things from Jon, but you clearly are. Guess if I'm playing messenger, I need to know what not to say."

\---

“Just make sure it’s Jon you’re talking to. I want— It hurts, so much, that I’m afraid to be near him. That’s not fair.”

Martin scratches at one of his arms, sighing to himself. “I just got him back.”

\---

"... How would I know? I mean-- if it was  _ pretending,  _ which, by the way, seems very unlike the eye to pretend anything. But how would I tell? I think you're right. Whatever got me connected to Jon is.... Probably it."

\---

“You’ll probably  _ glow,  _ Gerry. Or something worse. If he can touch you without you  _ letting  _ him, that’s—“ Martin grimaces. “He already did it to me. Fact is my body can’t tell the difference now, and I’m cut off from a man I love for it. Fun time.”

\---

"But he's definitely not letting you do that ritual alone. You know that right? There's no way he's letting you in alone."

\---

“I’m not asking for that, I just want to make sure I’m ready as possible. He’s not really...goooood... at Spiraling? We both get off track and then never come back to it.”

\---

"Right. Well. You seem to have it mostly figured out. Guess I can be on standby at the theater. Or-- Maybe. Maybe do the book page thing after the ritual. Just in case."

\---

"Well, what would you want? Before or - or after?"

\---

"What's most prudent to-- you know. Everything? If you're going to need my presence at that theater, might be best to... I mean. At the very least hand whatever we've put my Page in to me. I don't know how easy it'll be to manifest if I'm on your neck in the halls for that long. You know? Dunno how that magic will interfere."

\---

“Right. I wish this wasn’t so _ complicated. _ I’m just— I’m just me, just one person, and I’m meddling with— With  _ this. _ I just kind of...”

Despite himself, Martin giggles. “I kind of want Jon to handle his own problems!”

\---

"Oho, Martin, but that would be asking His Highness to actually account for himself, hm?" Gerard says it lightly, with humor, but he's not _ lying, _ either. Gerard's hardly been around and he's already quickly found the way Jon shuts down under emotional fragility to be a load to handle.

\---

“Ugh, I just— I hate being mean about it, but I— it’s  _ hard. _ I don’t want to tell people our business since he’s afraid of that, but it just— It keeps people from defending themselves!”

He’s working himself up, isn’t he? He’s still pacing, stepping on a few of his notes. “He’s the first person I could ever say  _ I love you _ to. But I can’t say— I’m not— It’s like this loop, I’m too much of a-a  _ coward _ to do anything but keep the peace, or take matters into my own hands, and— It’s my fault too.”

\---

"...You two should probably talk, after the ritual then. Hm? I mean-- Not that I'm a relationship expert, but it sounds like building up to being bitter isn't  _ gooood?" _ Gerard shrugs. "And who knows. Maybe Jon just doesn't know. But chances are he  _ does _ know, especially if he's done this all before."

\---

“I try. I tried. Every time we talk, a-about... I’m just  _ expecting _ it to break down. I bring up Tim and Sasha, it always turns into a way to put it off, and— And crying. About the future. Years of trauma that I don’t even know how to start with. Things he— He blames me for. The Lonely. I think he blames me for it, too. And I don’t even know who  _ Peter Lukas  _ is!”

\---

"Don't suppose he'd ever agree to-- oh, shudder the thought-- therapy?" Gerard wrinkles his nose. "How's he expecting this all to  _ turn out? _ It can't be good. He-- God, I can't imagine you shacking up with the Lukas family. You're way too lovey-dovey."

\---

“Martin Blackwood, resident martyr, at your service. Therapy would mean talking to someone other than  _ me. _ I don’t even know if I’m ready for that! Or— There’s no, there’s no  _ monster  _ therapist, and I’m one of those, now, too.”

Martin half-heartedly kicks at a balled up piece of paper. “For a minute there I felt really loved. Now I— Now I... I don’t even know how to _ talk  _ about it.”

\---

"Of course you're  _ loved,  _ Martin. Sheesh. Dramatic." Gerard rolls his eyes. "Sometimes this life just makes it difficult to bridge, you know. Boundaries, and-- and emotions, I guess. I mean, I  _ never _ managed to. So you're ahead of me already, I guess." He slowly sits up to his full height, tracking Martin's movements as casually as he can.

\---

“That’s why I’m— Okay. It took us so, _ so _ long to get here. To get you. And we only had a real conversation with Tim  _ once.  _ He’s our  _ boss,  _ and he told Tim everything, and then— Nothing! They’re on their own.”

His throat starts to hurt. Anger. It’s anger. “So if I don’t do Michael’s ritual  _ now, _ it’ll never get done. We’ll just go back and forth and— I’m just going to wing it! Screw research. I’m just going to have  _ fun. _ I deserve to have  _ fun  _ saving someone else.”

\---

"From what you've told me, the plan is... As solid as it's going to be. If you think it'll work, I'll back you." He holds out his hands in front of him, high in the air. "Stop pacing like a caged tiger and help me up."

\---

_ “Grr. _ You’re just a zookeeper who fell in my pen.” That one was terrible, Martin. Thank you. He still reaches for Gerry, though, and it’s easy enough to lift him. “I have no idea if it’ll work, but if I say it’ll work, and I get  _ really _ into that, it’ll work. I think you should keep working with Jon. Maybe he’ll listen to you.”

\---

"Maybe. Better yet he'll piss me off and I'll angrily nap. But maybe that'll motivate him to get things done." Gerard snorts. He's liking this 'Martin not having shades on for Jon' thing.

But after a few moments, his expression softens somewhat, and he says, without the normal filter, "He  _ is _ worried, you know. I think that's why he's so-- stupid. He's stupid because he worries and isn't used to having people to take care of. I think it blinds him a little." He can only hope that kind of care blinds the thing dwelling in his bones, too.


	41. Look Through My Window

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter the Spiral.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every little thing is now set perfectly in discordant place. Each little rounded piece cut from the jagged ends of a puzzle of coherent image, shoved together into a rainbow mess of color. It is a Saturday, and for once the clouds add no dreariness to the day before them. Up on the roof, there are no distractions, no unwitting participants aside from the audience waiting dutifully below for a job they don’t know they have.

Martin does choose a movie theater, in the end. An arcade is too busy, and it’s mostly children what go there, anyway. Despite it all, he has his own morals, and against the warning that there are no morals here with gods of fear, he does skip the two rooms playing movies meant for children. No sporting event. That would draw too much public attention, too easy to trace back to them. No museum, though every few days the thought crosses his mind that the blood of their ritual seeped down, down into the walls of a place he might never go again, invisible droplets of little truth-lies to change the foundation forever.

Maybe something comes to life there that shouldn’t now. Maybe lies fall easily from the lips of living bodies at the top floor. Maybe they’re actually truths. Who’s to say?

Some of the movies have already started, and they’re lucky they live in a modern world where digital files can be so easily distorted and slipped into the metaphorical drinks of computers set to their little schedules. Replaced with something that is close to the truth, yet nothing could be further from it. They have a few minutes, now, running on a countdown. Martin organized them all, and somehow math has made more sense in the days leading up to this, as though the incoherent organization of numbers is the geometry building up the very world they stand in. Each file is set to begin its slow, subtle warp at the same exact moment, barring human error, one so smooth that it will take very, very long to notice anything is awry at all. By that time, who could help but do anything except watch?

He’s brought a watch for this, a little inconsequential thing with a singular purpose. Maybe he’ll be able to tell how long they’re in there. He has a feeling they won’t.

“Michael,” He starts loudly at the center of their stage, audience to the side, fully in the light and better for it. Freshly showered - for some reason, that felt important - with hair brought to its own natural curls, this Martin isn’t afraid of the limelight. In fact, his heart thrums with excitement, anticipation, and no insignificant amount of pride. This is what he’s worked for. His offering, his choice. His creation. An audience of loved ones, strained relationships held tight for the singular purpose of seeing this through. There is no danger of ripping Jon to shreds, not here, not when he’s trying to prove his own control. To prove that he’s done this, done something incredible with his own mind, that he can  _ do _ things, do things that work. 

“I have a surprise for you-- I think you’ll like it!”

\---

Jonathan Sims is in awe of this Martin.

After days, a week of having a bed to himself, Martin Spiralling and otherwise Huntery in the safety of his Archival study room hovel, Jon has missed him. Missed his warmth, missed his voice, missed distracting himself from work by just pulling Martin along and resting in the crook of his neck, the very scent of his body allowing his busy brain's buzzing to fall into something far, far more muted.

He's kept busy, especially with Gerard to keep him on track. Martin, too, considering how often the ghost would slip from his vision to go visit, bringing back small tidbits of the plan as they laid it all out. Jon, for his efforts, has kept out of the... Michael planning.

Sure, he's had his thoughts and opinions on the ritual, and had Gerard send them along, a strange game of ghostly telephone that was far more accurate than any school-children's curse. Send files or things Jon had come across that might be of use for Martin's planning; Helen's original statement, and his own sullenly written account of when Michael Shelley was finally torn apart and became her, all because of his audacity to try to kill a monster like him.

But overall, he's left this to Martin, and had been diving back in to the pursuit of mapping out each Entity's rituals, each Entity's histories, The Eye's history, and finally, the Institute's historical relationship to the thing that now seems to sit heavily beneath his marrow like a sickness waiting to bloom forward, a cough that transforms, and commands, and controls.

It's not that him and Martin haven't spoken, haven't been near each other, but it's been brief, and Jon had agreed profusely; it was probably for the best, until the ritual, to stay apart. Not only just because Jon was scared, scared of the thing in him, scared of Martin's teeth, scared of regressing and going somewhere else when Martin inevitable was triggered to bite. Jon was scared for Martin, too. What could it feel like, to have your person turn into a facsimile of a nightmare of a nightmare? To have his face contorted with a voice that did not belong?

Gerry kept him on track, because if they fell down the hole of talking about… it, too much, Jon would lose track and hyperventilate, and Gerry would have to take him by the hands, glowing, and tell him to breathe. And then he'd bop him on the forehead and tell him to have better control over his thoughts and they'd move on. Such brusque bedside manner was somehow what he needed. It kept him here. Maybe that's why Martin loves him so.

And their ghost performed wonderfully; not a tremor in his clumsy hands as he moved through the theater to replace film, something with a golden chain clutched tightly in his hand as he moved gracefully through the halls.

Jon has been enjoying being near Martin, and now, with Gerard returning, the show begins in earnest up on this cloudy rooftop, the bright sunlit grey of the sky almost mirroring the light grey of the concrete roof. He smiles at Martin, as he speaks, and all the roiling, boiling emotions kept under lock and key for over a week, for longer, are not there. This is just Martin, and he's beautiful, and they're going to do a good thing, together. A wonderful thing. Something that helps, instead of just mitigates.

Gerard lights up between them, green eyes blinking as the door appears. It does not affix itself to an object, like it normally does, but rather just exists where nothing existed prior. It is a celebratory red this time, the wood burned with a stain so dark it's almost bloody, but one could get away with calling cherry, if they were so inclined. Jon smiles.

\---

Here in their liminal space of fantastical intentions, the air burns with contradictory menthol, frigid and fiery as Martin’s own mind leading up to this day. The primal sickness of the Hunt within him recoils at the great and familiar threat of love on the concrete, and to that Martin says  _ good. _

It’s deliriously uplifting, to leave behind an oppressive performance anxiety in this tiny rectangular world with care at every angle. Of his person, his ghost, his sun, and himself. No matter the turmoil of the passing days, they’ve all pulled through much greater terrors.

The truth is, Jonathan Sims has always been possessed. By himself, yes, by his moods, yes, by the lightswitch in his head that blinks away his thoughts and brings him to hold his person deathly still to pour baptismal magma in the holes of self-harm Martin had bored into himself.

The Spiral, in another life, might be his home. The dedication to deceit is an all-consuming love, one he narrowly avoided through the intervention of a meteor from the Moon crashing through his life. Uproot it all.

Martin dressed up for this. With a caffeine shot to the heart at the prospect of frolicking in the Hallways he dearly wishes to brush with his own hands outside the realm of the Hunt, he knew Michael alone would appreciate the gesture.

As he stands in his own mental teetering of unreality, his hands are clasped behind his back with the Spiral mark held in the opposite wrist. His new cardigan blankets him from the wind comfortingly, a bright and multicolored woolen thing patterned with scales a la The Rainbow Fish. His worn-out hiking boots have switched out for bright yellow sneakers, the kind he sorely missed wearing. Regular tan chino pants he already owned, he’s walked pretty far in them before and knows how they fit. He can run in them, if he has to. Beyond the watch, he took to borrowing another little accessory, one he thought might give Gerry in particular a bit of a laugh: Sasha kept a few magnet earrings at her desk. He’d borrowed a mismatched pair. Might as well get another opinion on how he’d look with piercings before he commits.

He feels really, really good, for someone who made no move to dress Jon up similarly.

Not that Martin knows. He doesn’t, not really, it seemed important that he fit the part of their little performance art, and Jon was allowed to do as he pleased.

Martin grins at the door, and his first thought is that red is his favorite color, but that’s not it. Michael is a little bundle of symbols, and the little Poet very much enjoys keeping his analysis a temporary secret. When he calls out to the door, it carries with an echo that signals the shift.

“Knock, knock.”

\---

Michael emerges from the door without fanfare. He's dressed in a black suit, with his hair pulled back simply, and though there's minuscule stripes that run down the hems burning with vibrant, shifting color, it is otherwise not flashy. He's barefoot, and he does so wonder if it's a bit overboard, this presentation, but he immediately lands his gaze upon Martin and he grins at the fish before him, and he can feel that hand burning on his flesh, and he wants to fall into his neck and tell him to sink his teeth deep, deep, and never let go.

What a peculiar evening he has landed himself upon. He loves peculiar evenings.

He closes the door softly behind him, and rocks back upon his heels, and he says, "I do love surprises, Martin. A kind gesture, considering I've caught Scarlet Fever and my belongings will be poorly fumigated soon enough."

He laughs, and laughs, and loves the way Jon Sims flinches, and  _ oh _ what a peculiar development for the dear archivist. Something heavy upon his little bird bones.

A shiver runs through him; he can't even bring himself to be sad right now.

\---

“You’re in an awful hurry to die, aren’t you?” Martin mirrors the smile, and for the first time in his life the violent wind chimes of distorted laughter don’t hurt him in the slightest.

This isn’t a place for guilt. If it were, he’d be having a particularly annoying pang of it at Jon’s fear behind him. As-is, he’s more focused than he’s ever been allowed to be. 

“When you’re on death row they give you everything you want, but it’s still not really a happy meal, is it? I wonder if in the minutes before they’re ushered off to the chair, they all realize they  _ hate _ lobster. Or maybe you knew you hated it the whole time, but you still ordered it. Maybe it’s not about the food, it’s about making some poor prison chef suffer on your way out.”

He’s also not sure his voice ever projected like this. Deep and healthy and courting like a prismacolored bird in a Shakespearean fairytale. 

“As fun as it might be to get eaten today, you won’t, Michael. I ordered you your favorite hated thing. And I think it’s about to be served.”

It’s all  _ very _ silly.

\---

Michael is delighted. He claps his hands together over his nose, his smile peeking out from behind hands that are having a hard time staying human, in the utter delight of the madness behind his words. O, the irony of happiness so deep at the advent of one's wake that one almost reconsiders, just for a brief, scandalous moment.

His little Hunter has blossomed, and that violence and blood and red sits deep in him, but it's twisted, and influenced by him, and it's influenced by the thing that Jon is becoming, and it's influenced by more, and it's just an anachronistic piece-- an anachronistic as the scales of his sweater-- that he cannot help but step forward, close to him, the hum of blood connected so very prismatic.

"I haven't had a Happy Meal since I was a child, Martin," He breathes. "I hope they've upped the quality of their chicken breast in the time since I last indulged."

\---

Just as Michael won’t eat him or Jon, Martin won’t tear out his throat. A nice little arrangement that leaves all of them unscathed. He finds himself leaning forward, but not enough to topple over. “Mm, I doubt it. I hear they still put rats in there.”

None of this was planned, but that makes it better. Well, except for the parts he’s already set up. Uncertainty is good in all the right portions. Martin’s watch ticks on.

“Oh, here we go. You’ll see for yourself. Right about...” He holds out one hand for Michael’s, no fear or hesitation as he’s always held inside him before. Little blips of color start to burn into corners of screens at the focus of hundreds of eyes, but that’s not Martin’s subconscious first pinprick of confusion to feel. “...Now.”

\---

Michael takes his hand immediately, and relishes in the lies that have been embedded deep, deep in metacarpal, phalanges, phalanx bones. "Oh," He whispers, when he feels it, and oh, Martin was right. He does hate it. He hates it so very deeply to the core of him, this feeding, the consuming of others, the desire to take and take and take and take.

But it's good, is the thing, and this human form wavers, jittering in a fractal image of many other versions of himself, itself, themself, as sweet confusion fills him, noxious as spring berries gone to ferment.

"A plump nectarine, just for me, sweet Martin, how kind," He purrs, and he can feel the Hunter he owns humming beneath Martin's flesh, and his smile curls upwards.

\---

White-hot fear jolts up from the base of his spine at the touch, but it's just a joy buzzer. That's all it was. Martin fights against it with a tightening of his fingers as they grip between Michael's being masquerading for a willing hand. Below, missing frames turn to near-silent, discomforting static, turn to toned down speeches of actors just so slightly it's your ears that must be faulty. "Careful, there's a  _ squeamish _ one in the audience."

Martin turns to face the other two chess pieces on the board up here, showing them squarely and unhindered to Michael. Cats might bring paltry gifts of death to Michael's doorstep, but a dog will come to the house with a bloody mouth from a trail that leads into the woods and stops dead at the corpse of a fox that's been killing the chickens. "Are you two ready?"

\---

Gerard has no hesitation in his "yes", though it's likely easy for a ghost that gets to sit back to say yes, when his role is looking over the door for any latent movement. Martin's little Skin-Spirit tickles Michael pink, and now that he's a better look at him, not under the fractal movement of the Sky Cloud, not in the bloody chaos of the Hunt, he can see the callous Eye leaking from him, and he wonders how such a man ended up in a nasty little Book, the page of which is curled tight within metal in his fist. How curious.

But it's not his place to pry anymore. Leave that to Jon, who is hesitant and scared, and a coward, and yet he steps forward and nods, the gulp in his throat one that feeds Michael as much as the slow-creeping confusion a floor below them.

What lovebirds, they are. He wonders who built the altar to their nest first; whose plumage was brightest? Whose homeliness was desired? Or perhaps it's a story of two plumaged birds fighting, and fighting, and fighting, until they've no choice within the confines of their zoo but to be affectionate to one another. He does not know. And isn't that a wonderful thing, sometimes, to not know?

He knows Jon does not know what he's signing up for. He wonders if Martin does. It does not matter; they will either succeed, or they will feed him, and either way, he will have companions, for a short time.

\---

"Thank you, prophet-witch," Martin winks with a flash of tongue between his teeth to his ghost, and Jon is so very far away. So quiet, he might as well not be here. Martin wishes he would play, but respects that he won't. It's not in his character to be marked by the Spiral for anything but contempt.

He rounds on Michael as, below, colors begin to invert, little discolored pixels as scattered confetti to captive eyes. "You can take the shape of Michael Shelley only because he's wedged in the gears of your manmade heart, isn't that right?" Martin presents the lie as a question, a question that can come back just as deeply untrue. "Just a piece of gum you never thought could get so stuck. We're climbing in to fish him out."

\---

Michael cocks his head, and his smile grows, and oh, how clever this little puppy is. He so suits the Spiral. He wishes he could take him instead. Oh, he wishes, the thing that is Shelley shivers from disgust and want. "Careful to mind the ice," Michael hisses, and it's true and it's not and it's real and it isn't and oh, maybe this will be fun for them all.

"Our little archivist is coming, too, then? To keep you sane, or to categorize my downfall? Hm. I'll try not to hurt you, Jon." And he laughs and loves the flinch it garners him.

"We're trying to help you," Jon says.

"I know." He turns back to Martin. "Oh, there's still sweetness in him." His voice falls down, deep, serious. "I cannot and won't promise I won't hurt you both."

\---

In his own imagination, Martin pictures a complicated, twisted mechanism of gears frozen into place by an emotional blizzard. Not on the forecast. No wonder they hurt. On the outside, Martin continues his lazy performative smile. Polite little thanks for the warning, as the first man shifts uncomfortably in his seat below. He can't explain why.

"Anchor on the inside, anchor on the outside," he says, tilting his head each way as he speaks for the halves. Martin's eyes meet Michael's, and there's a disturbingly wrong mirth inside them. "You won't hurt me."

\---

Michael smiles, and his own little 'we shall see' is dancing upon his lips as he takes a step backwards, and another. "Then let's start." He shivers. "The reality is set. And it isn't. But it's there. Splendid."

\---

Martin follows, taking a few extra steps so he's closer to the door than any of them, if only to close the distance just one sliver more. His blood sings for something at the crack beneath a door that should not exist. He never understood that phrase, but Michael was kind enough to give him such a generous gift to hear. "It gets worse, you know, as the films go on. I... made them pretty bad. I think you'll still feel it from the inside."

\---

Michael pulls in a deep breath, like it gives him great pleasure, almost sniffing the air. "I imagine I will. What a lovely parting gift. Don't get lost." 

And he opens the door, holding it wide open for the archivist and the man who is so very ever-changing in titles.

\---

In a stroke of part-playing, Martin lifts his hand with Michael’s and plants a decidedly chaste kiss over the top of his hand, all wet paper skin.

And then he lets him go, searching for Jon to grip both of his hands and bring him forward. One hand for the Spiral, the other for Them.

Or is it the Eye? Martin never found the chance to ask.

The voice he’s used thus far today all but disappears. “You’ll be okay, I’ll show you. Promise.”

\---

Jon squeezes both of his hands with Martin's; he knows just how dangerous the task they're about to endure is, and he nods, and then nods again, and hopes for the best. It's less that he's scared of Michael, and more that he's scared of himself. Hallways are just vestibules for doors.

At least Martin is confident.

"We'll do our best," He says, to Michael, because he feels he should say something, and the ringing laugh is getting less and less grating every time he hears it, but it still prickles something fiery and hot across his arms that travels down like electricity.

"I should hope you do, Jon."

Right. He lets Martin lead him.

\---

The biggest relief, to touch his person without fear. The Hunt is quiet, waiting its turn, knowing the Spiral comes first, and he loves the warmth in Jon’s hands that snakes through the veins of his own.

“I love you,” Martin says as he takes his first few perilous steps backwards into the Hallway, eyes trained on Jon. He knows Jon loves his eyes, might as well allow them to be beacons. “It’s a corn maze. Everywhere you go, you can still walk right out. Exits if you push.”

He doesn’t know what he’s saying, not really, but whether it’s true doesn’t matter.

\---

Jon feels wholly and fully loved, for the first time in over a week what feels like an eon what feels like always, and his smile is soft even on the edge of a purgatory he dreams about often. Martin will guide him. And he will keep Martin from going too far. This is the way of things.

And then he steps over the threshold, and the first step of gaudy shag carpeting is fine, the words to respond to Martin on the edge of his romantic tongue, and then on the second, there's a breath, far too hot to be normal, feverish, and his grip on Martin tightens as his head explodes. He tries to stay, he does, but it just hurts. It hurts, for his insolence. It hurts, for his disobeying. It hurts, because he should Know better than to step over the threshold into a domain it cannot see.

The beast known as the Distortion closes the door behind them, and its eyes are wide and shocked and fearful when The Archivist falls to the floor, and he could rip its throat out for taking what is His into this lair, but he doesn't, because golden drops are beading and rising in the air around him, and his tongue is poison honey when he hisses, "Let me out of here."

Perhaps he will have to keep a closer Eye on his cohort.

He rises to his feet shakily, and presses a desperate hand to a doorknob that is not, and levels Martin with a look. "He cannot be here, and you disappoint me for thinking he could." This body shakes with the effort, and his grip upon the door is weak, but his expression is one of abject Judgement.

\---

The Archivist arrives, and the static of his presence warps the swirling air around them into the jarring squeal of a fast-forward tape, until Martin is on the ground too. Unsure how he got there. Too fast to tell. It turns the disorganized center-seeking of the spiral into something that sharply turns instead, something violent, and scary, and confused.

A petrifying thought passes his mind: If you don’t set the pattern in motion again, none of you will ever come out.

He can’t think about Jon. He can’t think about the beast on a rusty chain about to snap from his chest. He can’t think about how his blood might as well have been ripped from his beating heart. He’ll lose it all, lose everything, even Jon, if he falls apart. If he spirals the way he should never spiral.

The Hallways are watching him, and they’ll just as quickly turn on him as he turns on the Archivist. Go with it, go with it, go with it.

Martin only rights himself after the Archivist has made it to the door. “We’re on a need-to-know basis, Moon-prince. Looks like it was something you thought I didn’t need to know.” Fuck. He’s really bad with this one. Why does it have to be the one Jon’s stuck with? Shit. He can’t warn Gerry. Shit. Don’t think about that.

He smiles, lax and soft and scared, far, far beneath the surface.

\---

"I did not think you to be so foolish," The Archivist grinds behind teeth that are not his, eyes that are not his, but they are, aren't they? In the end.

The Distortion is mute, and the Archivist bares his teeth at it, and the Distortion blinks, jerks, and does the same back, hands long and needle-like and dangerous and threatening, and when the Archivist gets a grip around the handle of the Door, it turns easily. Neither of them want him to be here.

"Namaste," it says, and pretends it is not scared, but the Archivist knows better, and he feeds from that.

The Door opens far enough for him to slip through, and before he can fully leave, he turns one last look to Martin, and he commands, "You  _ will _ come back to me. I will stay here until you do, dear Messenger." The Door closes.

\---

Martin whimpers behind closed lips, the door closing on a promise of punishment Martin can only imagine. The sound dies with the Archivist's dramatic exit, like an absent father stepping out on his child.

That makes Martin giggle his way back into the task at hand. No use dwelling on the past. Who was that? No one important.

Ha-ha.

Martin reaches for one of the framed photos on the wall, tilting it slightly as though fixing its orientation after a slammed door. "Looks like I'm in trouble, but that's fine." He grits the last word through his teeth, more of a growl than anything, "Michael, we both know he's not the sort of fun we need right now. It's the last day of your life. Let's play."

\---

Michael shivers and his form breaks up for a moment, all sharp angles and pooling psychedelic swirls. It takes him a moment to get back, and his eyes are wide, and he's Leaning for to Martin, like a zombie on a trip.

He shakes his head and a few curls fall loose from his respectable pony tail. "That was a brother," He says quietly, wondrously, and then shakes again, as though perishing the thought as it stands.

More than ever, he thinks he needs a better body.

So he claps his hands and the hallways shake and he leans forward and smiles so very bright and says, "Come find me," and he slips behind a door that was not there before and is not there after. The game is afoot, detective Blackwood.

\---

He can’t get lost, now. Those aren’t words of encouragement, that’s a fact. He literally can’t. He can feel the rope tied to his waist even now, so close to the entrance, if he tries really, really hard to concentrate on it.

No, thank you! Talks of brothers are boring when there’s a Chase to be had. Martin takes his first steps into the bowels of Michael’s world with the intent to familiarize himself with the impossible, and doesn’t bother inspecting the abandoned wall, instead splaying a hand lovingly across the paint as he walks by. He passes door after useless door, and none of them stick out to him even as he turns corner after illusory corner.

Oh, he wants to ruin it. Ruin the walls, scratch up the paint, leave drywall scratches, shattered glass. Oh, yes. He could. He might. He will. Martin cups around his mouth with both hands, letting the words carry down the walls. “Shelley, you’ll have to show me how to use it, first— Can’t play the game without an example!”

He tries his first experiment, though, because he’s not one to shrug off his own part to play, here, and tries to imagine a door. He can’t visualize it completely, but it both is and isn’t exactly unlike the other doors he leaves behind, beautiful and mundane and identically unique. He’s in something alive and responsive, one that knows him from the inside out, one that can hear without ears the thoughts that whirl around inside him. “Who do you want me to be?”

\---

Nothing happens for a long, long moment, and then, as though in a game show with a victory buzzer, the false door swings open on imaginary hinges, the interior of the belly within pitch black and unseen.

The air that billows out is thick and musty, stale incense from years of use playing upon its notes, and the game is not who do you want me to be, but rather what have you been, and in a world where Michael Shelley has ceased to be, these are the rotting remnants.

_ Who, _ Martin?  _ Why, _ let's play archeologist.

\---

Second-guessing what he wants to do, whether there’s a right answer to this that’s set in stone is only holding him back. This is a dialogue, one where conventional approaches don’t apply.

There’s a comfort in knowing if he fails, the worst that could happen is a life of lies set deep within the shell of the Spiral with Michael for company. Two little failures. That’s the thought that brings him to step through a door he can’t comprehend the inside of from out, shutting his eyes in anticipation for what he’s about to walk into.

\---

The darkness clears, and a smattering of brightly colored fractals play about the air, heady with incense, darkened with wood, and the altar is a proud thing, and the priest sat high upon it is a droning, spiritual distraction.

Martin is sitting in a pew next to a small, wide-eyed girl, blond hair plaited down the middle, curls threatening to over spill the brutally tight braids. Poor thing, her scalp must hurt from perfectionist fingers demanding she sit still even as she desperately wanted to squirm, and run, and he wild-haired even in the house of God.

"I haven't seen you in this congregation before," the child greets, and there's a slight lisp in the voice, and a breathy, not-there quality to it as stained-glass plays shards of light upon brown, brown eyes.

\---

Even as disorientation rings loudly in his ears, Martin forces his only reaction in the face of sudden bodily relocation to be a tight grip with one hand at the seat of the pew.

“I just moved here,” Martin says easily, eyes wide with sheer wonder as he takes in just enough of the scenery to matter, until he can focus wholly on a child that’s somehow everything he expected and nothing like what he imagined at all. Who made this place? Was it Martin? No, that’s not right. Was it Michael? Yes, partly, but how did Martin know? Is it something they changed together, just slightly, tricks of the light to add something of agency to an otherwise dreary scene?

Either way, he’s somehow comfortable here. Martin doesn’t have much firsthand experience with children, but he knows how he feels about Michael, and that’s enough. “I’ve never been in a church before.” He brings his voice down lower, shy. “I don’t know how they work.”

\---

Michael's expression is shocked, and scared, in that open way children know they should be scared, but don't quite understand why yet.

Her eyes shift to her right, where a shadowed woman all in black sits attentive, rapturous, in the face of a bored and frankly dull priest.

The child smooths hands down her white dress and turns back to Martin, and whispers conspiratorially, "Mother says heathens go to," Her lips mouth the next words, child-fear too afraid to put power to a name, 'Hell.' The smile dancing on Michael's lips betray the fear.

\---

Martin follows the trail of sight to narrow his eyes at a clearly passionate woman he wants nothing to do with. She’s important, but not in the way that warrants a waste of his visual space.

He cups a hand over his mouth in a mock gasp at the silent Hell. Oh, how dreadful. He makes a point of glancing around the church, not actually taking stock of the surroundings but to give a relieved sigh, voice just above a hushed whisper. “I don’t see any heathens. I just grew up in a cave, so I’m not exactly sure what all the rules are.”

He reaches forward for one of the Bibles placed at the back of the seat in front of him, and opens to a random page. It’s upside-down. “Is this right?”

\---

Michael laughs, a too-loud peal that earns a glance from the woman in black, and the child has to clap hands over her mouth to stuff it down. "No." She flips it over deftly, and points to the passage he's opened to.

"Was your cave in Sodom or Gomorrah?" She points an authoritative finger. "Women get punished for looking back, there."

\---

That’s a laugh he recognizes, somehow. The way it curls up, everything about it screams  _ Michael _ in a way he’s quickly finding endearing. But he notices the silent exchange that seems like nothing but is charged with something. A sound starts to crawl up into his throat, angry and protective, but as Michael takes the book he rubs a hand over his own throat to make it stop.

He makes a grand show of squinting at the words, as though consumed by thoughtful analysis. “Neither. My cave was in America. That’s a little harsh, don’t you have to look back sometimes? What if someone calls your name?”

\---

"Well, you don't sound like you’re from America. You're not even a cowboy." The child says, and her smile is wide and beaming and her two front teeth are missing, and no matter the Sunday Best attire she's been adorned with, it ruins the doll-like facade. Not so porcelain with missing teeth that look like a forked tongue could roll from between the gap. "Mother says you're supposed to obey God, and that's why the wife turns to salt. Because she was naughty."

Michael squirms in the pew and leans forward more, and whispers close to Martin's ear, "But Mother says I'm naughty all the time, and God hasn't made me salt yet."

\---

“Of course I’m not a cowboy, how could I ride a horse in the dark? Cave accents just sound like this, no matter where the cave is.” Martin shrugs, returning the smile with his own show of teeth.

“God won’t make you salt.” Oh, he wishes, wishes he could say because you’re not a girl. Too young for that. Right? He’s pretty sure that would fall flat. “I always heard He likes pranks. That’s why I try to do at least three a day. He hasn’t hurt me.”

\---

"Yeaaaaayuh, but you're a heathen. It's different." Michael kicks her legs dramatically. Short for her age.

"I'm not even s'posed to talk to strangers, but I bet you wouldn't even get mad if I got mud allll over my church dress, or put a frog on the kitchen floor, or told a lie to the maids. I bet."

\---

“I’m not a heathen,” Martin scoffs. “Mud and frogs are part of the earth, aren’t they? They’re - they’re just as natural as all the clean stuff, too. And... I guess it depends on the lie.”

He wonders what Michael wants to show him, here. Whether he’s meant to do something. To ruin it. To fix it.

He doesn’t think it’s either. Maybe Michael just needs someone to see it. To listen. He doesn’t have to uproot this. But it is giving him ideas for what he wants to look for down the line. “Are there any doors around here?”

\---

Michael pulls her knees under her, and sits up as tall as she can get and extends her arms to either side. "Sometimes the priest goes back there," She jerks the arm pointing to the altar, where there's a door behind the religious iconography. "I think he lives there."

And then the other door. She gestures to the front of the church, where natural light spills out from beneath its frame, stark against the darkness of the cathedral.

"Are you going to catch frogs? I'd come with, but Mother doesn't like me to play much with other kids anymore, after Father went to heaven."

\---

“Maybe,” Martin says quietly, looking between the doors. No waffling, he already knows what he wants, but he’s not about to leave this one alone after that. “My dad left, too. I don’t get to play with anyone.”

The words fall out from his own mouth with so much ease, he’d barely noticed what he said until it surprises him. This place makes him feel... small. Very, very small. He can empathize. Not too much. Don’t get lost in the very first one you find, Martin. “I... One day I’ll come back and we’ll catch frogs together, okay?”

And he holds out a pinky.

\---

Michael grins again and connects their pinkies, another peal of happy laughter rising in her lips. So very human; no static, no chaotic or lilting overlappings of voices and voices and voices.

"Okay, Martin." And she disconnects from him, looking forward at the altar again, and after a few moments of fidgeting, legs bouncing wildly in excitement, her mother turns to whisper something harsh to her, a light smack on her shoulder that gets Michael sitting still sullenly, forgetting Martin exists.

\---

Martin flinches, first at his name and again at the sight that plays out before him he knows to his very core is one that plays out often. Where Michael helped him take the plunge into feral ferocity, so too did he domesticate him into something protective. Martin wishes he could take this Michael with him, too.

Instead, he stands up, rattled and out of focus. He can’t spiral into his own mind within someone else’s memory. Or is it a memory? It could very well be fabricated.

But it’s not. As a whole, it’s real, it’s not real, there are additions, subtractions, making something new. Martin walks to the front of the church, not to where the priest stands, because he doesn’t want all their vacant eyes on him. He doesn’t want to retreat into some dark corner of pain when he can instead grip the doorknob to the outside and press his forehead against it, thoughts coming together in his head.

This door, despite the warm reality of sunlight at the other side, leads back through a dark, cold, warping tunnel. Michael is there, the thing that both is and is not Shelley who brings him comfort that is no longer false.

The kick is, this is purely selfish. Part of the love is harm, part of the love is brushing just as close as you can to madness for the thrill of coming out unscathed. He imagines he’d very much like to have a tea party right now, to forget the grim reality of children and go into the world of make-believe instead. After weeks of pain, and fighting, and self-isolation, the thought of blood, he wants time to stop and to have a little pointless fun with the only one here who might understand what he needs. Martin twists the knob and pushes forward.


	42. String Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> God damn acid reflux is putting me in a bad mood.

Michael is quite surprised with this development. He was not expecting to be pulled forward from the deep, was content to let Martin search and search and search. And he will. Michael cannot make this easy. It's an impossibility, not a want to make things harder. He is beholden to actions and natures as much as the rest.

But a reprieve is different, and so he allows Martin to pull the strings, his strings, his very tendons and guts like a very, very macabre little violin.

He let's Martin create this, but it's still his in the end, and when Martin steps in, his smile is so very deliriously happy, and he's pouring them tea. There's a chair ready for him. Author Michael is at work right now and cannot justify spending 3 paragraphs describing the scene before them, but he's certain Jack has some ideas so perhaps it works out.

\---

This is Martin’s own way of learning the space. Testing this now gives him the confidence he needs to try it again later. Maybe the map to navigating the maze is opting out of the idea of it as a maze at all. It moves, relocates, redefines itself based on whimsical intuition, wouldn’t that be perfectly unreasonable?

Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, who knows, there’s a closeness to Michael’s reality within Martin’s own heart, one he can’t lie his way out from because he hadn’t thought the words yet to break free from them.

Jack does not have ideas, but it seems Martin does. Martin’s own smile cracks, the lingering thoughts of Michael’s mother and Martin’s mother and mothers, children, places shaping this subconsciously, and he’ll have to be careful about that if he doesn’t want to get stuck later. 

The room bleeds into the Spiral, little pictures on the walls he simultaneously does and does not recognize, a plain wooden dining table he hasn’t seen in years upon years that’s no doubt turned to sawdust by now. Cheap mismatching chairs, the inherent chaos of secondhand, thirdhand decor. There are no windows, because they’re outside, but they’re not, either, and somehow it’s all dark and bright and purple and sunshine-y all at once. He tries not to analyze it too much. He can already feel himself sticking to the wrongness that is wrong because it’s not real and wrong because it’s not comfortable.

“How—“ He sounds distracted, so he clears his throat. “How’s my time?”

\---

"Time isn't real," Michael sighs, and he crosses his legs in the chair he's sat at, and leans back to continue smiling at him. "The numbers, they just, ah, fall right off the watch hand, like little ants marching to sugar. Or maybe baking soda, to explode from the inside out. Pop!"

He laughs and then takes a sip of tea that is not, and grimaces at its bitterness.

\---

“We keep track of plenty of things that aren’t real,” Martin mumbles as he looks down at his watch. When he shakes it, the numbers just float around like they’re submerged in water. Figures. It was mostly just to count up to the ritual outside, anyway.

Martin holds his breath as he sits, willing the chair not to creak. To just be a normal, quiet chair that isn’t— It doesn’t make a sound. Okay. “I, um— I know it’s your day, and everything, but— I’m learning. Michael’s memories, they’re scattered all over you? Taking up doors? Or did they make doors?”

\---

"Who can say." Michael says, and rolls his eyes all around. "Maybe both. Flower girl scattering petals willy-nilly, but being so very careful to preserve a few, tucked in the hem of a dress that will never be worn again. To be forgotten."

He blinks. "I don't go in those doors. I do not like them."

\---

Martin doesn’t ask which one of them is answering. Both, he guesses. He takes his own cup, pointedly looking away as he fills it. If he imagines the familiar sound of it, the rest might come naturally. “Will you remember, after this? Speaking to the Spiral, really— If Michael comes out, will we still be friends?”

\---

"Yes," He says, and frowns, a cloud of different thoughts and emotions floating through and shivering through a body is just a facsimile. "But it will be different. No doubt... Shelley has influenced the mark I've given you that makes you mine."

\---

Martin smiles in the face of Michael’s frown. “This is as much for you as it is for him. I  _ do _ want to play with you, too.” Martin takes the edge of his cup with a finger. It makes a nice, sharp little noise. “Sometimes you like violence, and I have an itch— Do you have any favorite doors?”

\---

"I do. But you wouldn't _ liiiiike  _ them." He smiles. "My ritual failed, but my imagination remains; the world that would have been is very fun. So much twisting. I do not know what it would do to you to taste even the vision."

\---

“Oh! Right. Right. God of fear.” Martin giggles. This is so absurd. “I  _ have _ tasted the vision, just a bit, when I— Eugh.” No, don’t like how that sounds. ‘Tasted you’ will not fly in this house. “It’s hard to balance a good spiral and a bad spiral. I think I’m learning. I think I want to entertain you like a stage animal.” Oh, oops. “I like that in here everything’s wrong in a way that actually makes sense. Not out there.”

\---

"Ohh, you are lucky _ indeed  _ that I like you. Begging to bring other entities' gifts into the lair of a beast of another master... _ Brave."  _ Now he's laughing, too, high and full of mirth and his hair floats with the laughter and when he tastes his tea again it's good, delicious, even.

"You tasted your unraveling, dear. My treat to you was your Spiral. Who am I to deny you one last romp? After this, you won't see me until the Final Door, I think."

\---

“Maybe I am brave,” Martin says brightly, mulling it over. He takes his cup with him as he stands in his chair, and this time it creaks. “And maybe they’re all tangled up together. The Hunt in you’s in me’s the Eye’s and the holes and everything in-between.”

He takes a polite sip, letting this particular spiral infect him, then puts one foot on the table so he can lean on his knee with an elbow down at Michael. “When I’m in here, I think it’s more fun to say, yes! Yes, I am important, I’m special, and I’m  _ brave.  _ I think I might know almost as much as you do about the Crown.”

\---

"Oh, do you now." Michael leans in too, and his grin is sharp and his eyes are a bright color color color what's that color? It is. "If that's so, why bother keeping up your end of the deal, Special Brave Martin? Tickle me pink."

\---

“First, I don’t make deals and back out of them, I find a way to make it work. That’s a recipe for disaster, no one could trust me. I know about the Crown, I think— I’ll still ask, but— Well. Second, I’ve got you.”

Martin leans heavier on the table, and the way it groans under the pressure is, for once, not a source of childhood terror. “Third, you let me set myself free. And, and even better, you actually  _ remember.  _ A god of deceit can’t lie to itself as much as my person does. I wanted an excuse to be somewhere that part of me that wants to rip everything to shreds is cared for as much as— as doting, helpful, accommodating Martin. That’s four. I think I just missed that.”

\---

Michael's expression stutters, and his grin kind of falters at the truth being laid before him on a velvet tongue, and he reaches out his hand, not touching, just offering him to do whatever he pleases with it. "Oh, Martin. You'd be so dutiful and chaotic if you truly were mine to unravel. What a masterpiece you'd be."

The smile grows back into a sharp grin. "But regardless, I will enjoy you going wild, even if it's just for a short time."

\---

Martin lifts his free hand to grip Michael’s own, using that to hoist himself up onto the table with both legs.

“I have a few calls to make first,” he says as he drops the cup, and it explodes into thick shards off the side of the table. “But I-I almost wish I could. Back on the beach, our Archivist said he’d strip the Hunt from me eventually. I have a feeling he’ll make good on that, but you’re the only one I’ll do tricks for, now. Spiral and the Hunt, black and white on the same wheel for me.”

Like something possessed, Martin puts one hand behind his back as he leans down and brings the hand he’s holding Michael’s with up to bridge the gap, lips stopping just short of touching the back of his hand again. A little mocking play-bow. He has no anxiety about how much he’s talking, here. “How can I entertain you, for now? Call it a goodbye.”

\---

"Hm." Michael sucks in a very deep breath, and he knows it is as such. They will not meet like this again. He will not be Michael, and Martin... Well Martin's chain may be lax for now, but the Eye Consumes. It will be different.

"Be what you wish to be, in those dark corners of your mind that you hide worse than you think you do, and I will be entertained. If you are pulling my dark doors and corners, brushing against them, allow me to see those urges all the same."

He drops his teacup, too, and the shards melt into oil. "Spiral for me."

\---

Easily done.

“We’re all filthy little mother-rejects, aren’t we? No wonder they didn’t love us, maybe they could see it.” Martin lets go of Michael’s hand for the second time today in a fit of stifled laughter - he’s not about to bite him from here - and bends to pick up the kettle.

“Anyway, I’ve-- I’ve been thinking about spiders. Nobody wants to talk about  _ spiders. _ I’d love to talk about spiders. Do you think that’s why nobody wants to talk about  _ spiders?” _ He holds a palm up and pours the remainder of liquid inside into it, but he’s not looking to see what it really is. “I’ll bet there’s something there in that. I think on a bad day, the worst ones, I don’t like to be seen, but I like to change things just the same. I used to go around and nobody would notice me at all unless I wanted. Maybe it’s all an act so nobody wants to hurt poor, simple Martin. That Martin can get away with anything.”

\---

"Spiders," Michael breathes, and his eyes are wide as saucers, as he clambers up onto the table and lays down on his back, hair spooling on either side. He looks up at the teapot. "Pour it into me, dear, pour it all, I love to hear it, I do."

He giggles, because already he's learning, and the secret about Learning and Knowing is that it just makes lies and deceit more powerful, in the end. "You bring so much filth into my hallways. But... Ah. I suppose dirt and mud are just nature all the same."

\---

Martin borderline sneers down at Michael as he draws the pot directly over him and tips it. “I would, but there’s nothing there!”

Nothing does indeed come out. Maybe they were never drinking anything at all. His laugh is somehow both jaded and inspired. “I just told him that, a few minutes or years ago. Being too clean and too dirty are the same thing, they’re a total lack of something else. I wonder if, if those memories will stick around. Am I just a spider in a church telling secrets to a kid, if I go into more am I a spider again, am I meddling, or - or maybe I’m going back in time? Is there a door that goes all the way back to where Jonathan Sims reads a book and the spider eats someone else instead, where the spider used him as bait not to hurt him but—“ He snorts. “Because it  _ liked _ him? Is that why my mother hated me? Because I walked through a door and waved at her from across the street and she knew I’d outlive her? It would all be very, very funny.”

\---

"It's very funny," Michael says, but he's pouting from the lack of anything from the spout, childish disappointment playing on his features. "And the funniest part, I won't know! Who knows what he'll remember. If he remembers. Memories are so  _ funny _ Martin. You seem to be plagued by willful amnesia  _ aaaaaall  _ around you. And to say the Eye doesn't lie."

\---

"I'd buried almost everything, you know. Sleepwalking through it all until he showed up, and I had to remember, and remember, and remember." How much of it was helpful to bring back? How much of it was to satisfy the Eye? How much of it was for someone else? How much does he still have to keep unearthing from the depths of his heart when it sat perfectly fine put away?

"I've tricked you all into liking me, liking Martin, but I'm not just Martin, I'm something else, too, and when it's one at a time and easy to slip away I can do that, b-but now it's all closing in, and I still have no idea who I am." He judges the weight of the teapot before he pitches it across the room, splattering like a pitiful dead bug in the high speed windshield of a truck. "I thought I finally put it away, after our ritual. I finally understood what love was supposed to feel like. I don't know what love is. I think I might just be crazy!"

\---

"I think you just think there's some inherent truth and inherent Being," Michael says, seriously, and then breaks that seriousness with a peal of laughter. "The world is going to end and you think you need a solid Identity. Oh, Martin. You're the funniest creature I've met."

\---

"If I don't know who I am, people will tell me what they think I am, and I'll have to believe them. Just like my mother." Martin growls through the last word. "I thought I didn't care. What am I, Michael? Really? How many faces do I have?"

\---

"A lot." Michael sighs, and unspools his physical form slowly, faces and faces and beings and bodies and shapes and angles and geometry all at once. "Embrace it," He says in many voices all at once.

"Some people are so bogged down by being one thing that something worse can steal them away."

\---

"Maybe I'm eating a part of all the people I keep close to me, too." Martin stands mesmerized, absorbing, thinking, committing as much of he can to memory. Since he has that, now. He jumps off the table, shoes crunching the broken glass beneath him.

He'll be everything, today. He'll be whatever gets him to Michael's core. Maybe, by the end, he'll even have a few names for who he is.

Huh. Maybe it is a comfort, actually. To be many people. To be loved a million different ways, hated just the same. Feared. Cared for. Protected. Protective. Angry. Afraid. He knows exactly who he wants to be right now, though. He should go with it. "My mother used to keep a hatchet in the kitchen," Martin lies, walking with purpose to the half-formed countertops melting into the wall or the floor or the nothingness around them, opening a cupboard that now exists. "She used to say, 'Martin, I think the table you always eat your dinner alone at could use a good beating, and I'm too tired from telling you to stop being a waste all day, why don't you take care of it?' Of course I'd say, 'Right away, mum!', and I'd come out with it right then."

He grabs something that doesn't exist with a handle that isn't wooden, like a magician's trick, balancing the end of the handle on his open palm. "You might want to move."

\---

Michael snaps himself into being and grins, and splays himself upon the table and says, "Couldn't I be Aslan for an hour,  _ Maaaartin?"  _ And he flutters his eyes.

\---

Martin lets the hatchet fall until he can grip it loosely with both hands, a slightly more lethal baseball bat. “I’d have to cut your hair first,  _ Miiichael.” _

\---

He sits up slowly, and drapes himself over the side of the table, letting his hair fall loosely down, curls just barely brushing the floor. "Did you know," He begins, and pulls his body backwards in an impossible contortion, legs going forward towards his head and palms on the ground to right himself. Perversion of a slinky.

"He's never had it short, before. Not once in his life. Angelic, she'd say. I find that funny!"

\---

“Well, are we starting today? Might not be the most even cut, but at least I won’t behead you. Maybe. Hopefully. We’re all getting new looks, might as well join the party.”

\---

"Do it when you have him. I am not him. He's elsewhere. Hiding." He hums. "A child."

\---

“Fine. Boo.” Martin steps forward, and without any fanfare he hacks once at the table. He’s never felt this particularly violent before, but he’s thought about it, and he always hated this stupid table.

There are a lot of good moments in his childhood, too. It’s not all doom and gloom. Too bad that’s not relevant in a world of monsters and fear. Too bad all he gets to remember is the wounds that cut the deepest. “Maybe I should start calling them by proper nouns—“ He huffs as he slams the axe down again. “Like my own little pantheon. What should I be today, Michael?”

\---

"Names are boring. Stifling. Such a little neat box to fill, with a name." He snorts. "Violent is what you are, today. Savior, Cleaver, blah blah. Names are nouns, but they're usually verbs."

\---

“Oh, stop, I know how you feel about names. They exist for a reason, and they could also be lies, Saint Michael,” He shakes his head, and decides to slam the hatchet into the center of the table so it gets stuck. Splinters all over the wood, still capable of standing up but clearly all the worse off for it.

“I don’t know what that was about. I still wish I was a dog. My life would be so much easier.”

\---

"Are you still a spider? Ugh. Maybe you're just a series of nasty little creatures who want to blossom and be rude to your friend, the Spiral. Maybe that's it." Ignore him Martin. He's throwing a fit all over the floor of this tea party turned table murder.

\---

“I’m a lot of things, I think. You’re a series of nasty creatures, I had some of them in my mouth, remember? Maybe some of them are still inside of me.”

Martin looks at the wreckage before him, grin turning sheepish. Of course he’d get shy over a bit of material slaughter. He stands over Michael, trying to parse his complexities. “That took a bit of a turn. I-I think I’ll play nice, now. Bit selfish of me. Did I ever get a chance to show you my new teeth?”

\---

"No. But I felt them in your gums when you held on." He's still pouting. Little self serving today, he is. And all this talk of names is making him want to split apart at the seams. Maybe he'll have to send Martin on his way soon. This tea party is an utter disaster. What will the guests say?

\---

Martin tilts his head, and then gets to his knees so he’s close to Michael’s face. Not hard to see he’s pouting. “To be fair, you let me have that hatchet. And you could’ve made there be more tea in the pot. In fact, I almost asked for spiders. And you could put another in my hands right now. But, look.”

He tilts his head back a little, shutting his eyes as he bares his teeth for him like a prized show animal.

\---

He reaches forward immediately with both hands, pressing a thumb and a pointer finger to each as though about to yank. He doesn't, he's just looking, feeling, and he relishes on the knowledge that he helped create these.

"What does my sibling think of these?" He asks, and he knows Martin said it was boring to talk of such matters, but it's novel to him.

\---

Martin tilts back down a centimeter, like he’s trying to playfully, accidentally set Michael up to have his skin punctured with sharp edges. Hard to talk around it, but Martin gets out what roughly sounds like, “Oh, they scare him, I think, especially since I tried to use them to kill him.”

\---

Michael gives a soft, breathy laugh, and presses his fingers up so they do puncture, watching droplets of blood bead up around both of his teeth. "How very star-crossed you are, with your Jon. When my body is correct, I will meet this thing within him. More than just fear."

\---

Maybe it’s a good thing, here, that the compartmentalized pieces of his greatest accomplishments embodied aren’t a problem. Maybe this is exactly what he needs to save Michael at all. Michael is full of gifts for him.

Martin holds his mouth open, struck still as a shark sensing crimson drips in the water. He does like the sound of that. Maybe the Spiral’s rebirth will keep them in check. Maybe he should stick to meddling, back and forth, preventing any one entity from being stronger than the others. The thing that is and is not Martin purrs out his approval, a pleasantly inhuman sound in his throat that doesn’t tear it to shreds from inside.

\---

Ah. That's better. Michael giggles out a long note that starts high-strung and ends relaxed, and as his shoulders fall, he pulls blood fingers away from Martin's mouth. "First sentient vampire," He breathes, bubbly and euphoric in all the ways he wants to be, on his final day.

He draws his knees into himself, and in this moment, blood streaking down his pant legs where he wraps long fingers around himself, he looks young, very young, and it isn't Shelley's doing. Shelley is hiding. Shelley is preparing himself. Shelley got lucky in the way the universe doesn't get lucky. It's unusual, new, that it keeps him together, too.

\---

“They might’ve started like this,” Martin says with a lazy smile, momentarily drunk on memory by sense association.

He leans forward, palms flat to the floor, into Michael’s space. “Did something change?”

\---

"Mm. Just quantifying. Today, you're killing me. Misery or not, that is quite the change. Not often an ego death has real blood involved."

\---

“Oh. Well, it didn’t have to, you did that.” Martin’s sigh gives into a single-note laugh. “Do you want me to leave?”

\---

"Ugh. You care too much still," He says, and slowly rises to his feet. He sticks his fingers in his mouth to suck the remaining blood away. "About what other people think. What do  _ you _ want."

\---

“I’ll always care. Nothing to fear if I don’t.” Martin thinks from the floor, wracking his brain for an answer. “I’d like to feel the way I did on the roof of the museum again. I wish it could last forever, but I know it won’t. Can’t. Especially with how bleak I know my life’s about to get.”

\---

"To sound like a parrot,  _ you _ did that," He laughs. "I just removed your excuses and made you see."

He looks towards the door and his expression thins. "I have to go soon. But I can do that again. Dangerous, here. Closer to the well of madness. I want you. But I can restrain. One last gift."

\---

“It was a collaborative effort,” Martin snorts, and he’s not sure whether that’s true or not. “I’m really testing you, huh? Keep giving you chance after chance to take me. I wonder what I’m hoping for.” He sticks out his tongue, reflex with a helium-filled brain.

\---

"Maybe once. Now...." He clicks his tongue. "Your patron might rip me apart. But surely he won't mind temporary bliss."

\---

“I won’t tell him you slipped something in my tea,” Martin says as he stands, placing both hands at his back as he looks up at Michael with some kind of muted expectancy. He remembers what he’s wearing, now that he’s standing again, and has the passing thought that he looks really good. It’s a nice thought.

\---

"Allelujah," Michael says and holds his hands out. "It'll be different," He warns. "No Hunt to focus you." The amount of force it takes to explain is agonizing. He does so hope little Martin appreciates the gesture.

\---

“I have no idea what that means.” At least he’s honest as he places his own readily before Michael’s. “Am I allowed to knock things over in your hallways?”

\---

"Yes," He laughs. "I'm going to redecorate soon, anyways! New guts. Might as well have one last party for my liver to be upset about!"

He wraps his hands around Martin's, and digs his nails into his wrists, and just like the roof, but just so new and different all the same, he feeds, feeds lies, and visions and disjointed impossibilities, colorful and muted and nothing at all and everything at once. The world of the Spiral would be a beautiful, horribly nightmarish land of dreams.

"Is this to your liking?" He purrs, and urges him to let go, give in, see it and feel it and be it as he isn't and won't and can't.

\---

Fantastic. He’s been so polite. Martin won’t ever get this chance again. The new Spiral won’t be Michael. The n—

With each minute twitch of his eyes, everything starts to smear a little. Blinking it away instantly makes it worse. Consciously moving his eyes more than a fraction makes it worse. Something pierces deep into the inner sides of his eyes, a gentle prefrontal lobotomy, nonexistent needles jolting bright spots in his vision as they wedge deeper and deeper in.

Martin wishes he was a capable artist. The visual sort. He imagines, like this, he could dip his hands into deep, cold buckets of paint and coat the walls of a room with his bare hands and craft an homage to this view for days without stopping. Martin wishes it wasn’t beautiful. He wishes he could touch it. It’s not real. The only thing keeping him in the loop about the concept of up and down is Michael’s grip at his wrists.

“I’m a Kaleidoscope,” Martin starts on a shaky exhale, and in the wake of Michael’s voice he’s babbling. “Can’t open them up it’s full of things— they’re breathing in the walls, I’m  _ sooooowoah.” _ His last word goes up and down, a little auditory rollercoaster that echoes through his ears. Maybe that’s a yes.

\---

"There you are." Oh, how Martin glows with color and lies and beauty and horror. Michael holds him for a few moments and then steps back, steps back to just behold the sight, to watch Martin sway and fall into the last great gift of unreality.

With the Great Twisting's failure, the small droplets of the Spiral begging to push through full were contorted into the body of a poor young man full of rage and anger and sadness and loss. But so too, that humanity has given him something that he daresay is kinder than most entities would be willing to extend. He just gets to watch. And he is so very old, in the grand scheme of things, one of the first truly Human fears; a middle child if there ever was one.

To contort an older brother's plaything into maddening and dazzling spirals is a thing of beauty. And Martin is full of so many different colors. What a doll, to be so frightened of his multitudes; like this, they all sing harmonies, threads of colors looping and loving and making palettes as his mind is open to Michael.

He unspools his face again, lets Martin look at him, truly, without the pain. This is his domain, his hallway. It's easier to look at things under a different light here.

\---

Martin’s hands reach out for purchase he swears exists in front of him, soft swaying fabric somehow made of glass that parts around his fingers and leaves him falling back to the floor, weightless, sure he’s still falling even long after he’s gasping for air on ground and oxygen that never existed at all.

The dog is bursting eyes that float away in wide-eyed terror sounding wet pops between teeth evolved for gnashing swelling cuts under beds in jars and traps for secrets in cold bathtubs sneaking under porches grabbing wrists alive with pain and holes and holes and holes that might be moons and golden balls of light and metal forks scraping on boards green moths on car windows of bursted glass your father’s hand and street lamps buzzing chaos towers overhead with gemstones clattered on the floor with searching hands on foggy mornings dewdrops beetles burrow flesh wounds sharp voices breathing out their contents shards and paper books told under blankets pillows muffled strangers crying zippers stretch on leather cancer beeping promise you’ll promise you’ll promise.

From down here Martin’s fingers splay into splashing false colors bleeding marrow under muscles and thin lines of age where he reaches from so far away but Michael’s there and he exists and he makes sense and the dog is quiet. “There’s goats and lions and lambs in you, Michael, you’re all made up of  _ rings.” _

\---

Michael stands over Martin and reaches down to press to his hair, and he says, "Ah. A much better last meal. It's always better when it's homemade pain, my little sleuth. Or, hm, that's not quite right." And he smiles, long and twisted and incomprehensible.

He's full. And Shelley is waiting, and they're both so, so tired. One way or another, Shelley is being evacuated, and soon. He... Thinks he wants Martin to succeed. He thinks Martin has made him mature, to settle from the erratic fool he has been.

Smoothing through his hair, Michael crouches before him, sitting back on his heels. "Oh, Gamemaster, Gamemaster, what's your next move?"

\---

The face of God is beautiful and warped and wrong and barely human. Imperfection in beheaded little sacrifices he wants to join but won’t. Serve him up on a ritual stone and carve out all his faces so the Spiral can wear them all.

Martin won’t be consumed today, but for the first time he wishes he would be. It is his choice, in the end, but oh, oh, it isn’t, is it? Yes’s and No’s ended with compelled truths and commanding voices that first told you it’s a choice. Is the rest of it?

Martin sobs tearlessly - a first he’s sure - from the floor, but it’s a pleasant thing with Michael’s hand at the one and only place on his being to touch that’s never been ruined by bad memories. With that comes only comfort. Indulging him in names, no less, another for his arsenal of things that he is not but is and will be and could be and was and hates and loves. Martin’s voice is free of stutter, clear and crystal calculated.

“I’ve always been in his life, it’s just that he’s yet to remember. I’m his imaginary friend.” He grins conspiratorially. “Shh. Don’t tell anyone.”

\---

"Don't worry. I love a good secret, I think." His smile turns soft, fond, and he steps back. Proud of his work with Martin's landscape. This tea party room is already so much brighter. Too bad it's littered with porcelain that's turned to glass that's turned to green sea glass.

"Do you want to hear one last secret, yourself?" So many gifts today. He needs something else to carry him on. "It's selfish not to kill Jon." And another door appears, tilted where it's embedded itself into the center of the table, the cracking wood from the hatchet its bed.

\---

Martin rolls, and with it the world bends in each direction until he’s sure his spine is snapping from the force. But no, he’s just fine, and he can sit up, then stand, little angry owlets bursting behind his vision in the split second of blinded vertigo at full height.

The lie brings forth a fit of giggles, and Martin moves and grips the handle of his door, a waiting hand, climbing up onto a table that by all rights should be cracked in half. “I’m a selfish monster, Michael,” he says, content with one last look at Michael’s twisted visage. “Some day I won’t have to ask if you’ll all play my games.”

And then he pushes.


	43. Mansions

The Door opens to a lush garden. Behind it, a large manor sits, ivy crawling up the gothic architecture in historical vines. The garden is overgrown and clearly not being trimmed to anything approaching good gardening standards, and the thickness of the bushes in the back would make for a secure hiding spot to smoke, if not for the peek of rising smoke dappling the sunlight that leaks through onto the patio.

This was once a loved home. Now, it is loved by none but the creeping vines and the faded imprints of memory upon the brick. It wasn't always like this. Even just a year ago, and at least some passion, if fading, would be visible in clipped hedges and power-washed moss from the foundations. But it's not a year ago.

\---

The Gamemaster enters into territories unknown, not as a stealthy predator but as a multicolored flag, eyes bright with wonder at a husk much bigger than anything he's ever called home except the one place he's afraid he's on the horizon of hating. Colors shift and twist as vines reclaiming structure, buildings bent to nature, and maybe he's the only one who finds it beautiful.

Should he have a new name? No, she already knew. He wonders where this one is, what he'll look like. What part he's meant to play. Martin Blackwood finds himself momentarily lost in the jagged edges of leaves that lost their ordered cuts, lazy in his exploration because he knows. He knows a memory can only be a memory when the person containing it is about to make an appearance.

\---

Michael sits ass-pressed to the dirt, uncaring that his skirt, so nicely pleated, will get muddy and dirty and the maid will tut and his mother will be notified. Not like she won't find something else to corral and perfect and situate just so. At least dirt is an easy fix.

He pulls in a choking drag from the cigarette what Monica gave him in the bathroom today.

Leaves crunch from outside his lazy fort and he mumbles, "Shoot," and stabs the cigarette into the dirt, leaping to his feet to crunch it into submission, paranoia blooming fast in his gut and swirling and twirling his thoughts like tossed waves. Not that he was thinking much. Easier not to, sometimes.

He peers from behind the bush, trying to gauge through the thicket of leaves it could be.

\---

Martin squints at one of the leaves. It's nothing like the Hunt, here. It's like being one with it. All the imperfect geometry in the technically-perfect outlines of veins that deviate in individuality more than most people notice. "Don't waste it," he says to no one and nothing in particular, and he has to bury the excited laugh at how ridiculous this all is so he can focus. "I'm saying that out loud, to nobody. I didn't see anything."

\---

Michael doesn't recognize that voice. He doesn't think so, at least. But it's foreign enough that he creeps to the edge of the bush and pokes his head out far enough to look for the culprit, and when he lands on the shaded body of a boy, not able to see his face or most of his features yet, he squints.

"You didn't see anything because nothing happened," He says, and oh, he hates how frantically high his voice comes out.

\---

Martin gives him a little wave. Something changes here, but he’s not sure what. “Didn’t I already say that? You can smell it though, might be, um, a good idea to— I used to— I always hold it out and make sure it doesn’t catch on my clothes; that’ll give you away. And it’s a-a good idea to, erm, wash your hands the second you get back inside.”

\---

He doesn't think it's a trick. Can't be. Couldn't. He steps out from behind the bush and runs hands down his sweater and skirt, dirt and stray twigs flaking off. There's no hope for cleaning these stockings with just his hands.

"Who  _ are _ you?"

\---

Hmm. Should he? No, no. He shouldn’t. “Martin,” he says brightly, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “You— You could also learn to... squat. Do you live here?”

\---

"Yes, I- I mean, maybe. Depends,  _ Martin." _ His memory plays a whisper and he blinks a few times, gaze unfocused, before snapping back. "Uh-- Why do you ask?"

\---

Martin shrugs. “I’m nosy. It’s easy, just—“ He picks a leaf off from the nearest vine and bends down at the knee, keeping his feet flat on the grass as he holds it out between two fingers. He pulls it to his mouth and mimes an inhale, then an exhale. He blinks. “Oh. Wait, y-you meant maybe about the living here part.”

\---

Michael blinks at the display and tries to hide his laugh, but it comes out anyways, a burst of giggles that no one likes. It dissipates the remaining paranoia in his gut.

"Yeaaahuh the living here part. I know how to-- to squat!"

\---

This isn’t who Martin is. He’s somewhere else, somewhere different, where things are different, where he’s... Where he’s... confident? Is that what this is? Competent? He can even get words out?

Michael Shelley, what a gift. He beams back up at his laughter, and flicks the leaf away from his hand to stand up. “What are you, rich?”

\---

"Uh, yeah? I guess." He blinks and then squints up his face, all confusion. "Where are  _ you _ from?"

\---

“I didn’t even get your name, and you’re asking me where I’m from? Maybe we’re both nosy.”

\---

"You're in MY backyard!" He exclaims, and his cheeks go rosy in his frustration. He doesn't like to say his name. Not around school. They think it's a boys name, and he doesn't know how to tell them they're right about that, but he didn't plan for it!

But he squints at the boy he does not recognize and feels another pang, and at length mumbles, "Michael."

\---

“We’re both ‘M’s. Neat.” Martin makes a show of spinning to take in all the sights. “I guess I am in your backyard. I-I was just... walking around.”

\---

"'Just walking around'", Michael repeats dubiously, and keeps squinting. "Did-- did one of the others at school put you up to this? I bet it was Martia. Or-- don't tell me it was Johnny. What are you playing at?"

\---

“I don’t go to rich people school. What, you think someone paid me to give you tips about— “ Martin lowers his voice to a whisper. “—About smoking without getting caught?”

\---

"No," He says. "I think they put you up to be mean to me. All nice at first 'cause I don't realize you're making fun." He squints and takes another step out of the bushes. "Are you making fun?"

He'd like for him not to be.

\---

“Bullies don’t talk to me.” He wrings his hands between them. “I-I think it’s my superpower, they don’t see me. I’m not making fun.”

\---

Michael deliberates for a long time, sucking on his bottom lip before nodding. "Okay." He steps closer and offers his hand out. "Then you don't have to leave."

\---

Martin watches his hand briefly, and then grasps it with a parodic business-like shake. “Oh, you can  _ banish _ people. Are— What else is there, um, to do around here? I’ve never been this way.”

\---

Michael shrugs. "I dunno. I don't do much." He shakes Martin's hand, and it is very much a warm, soft human grip. "I'm usually bored. And books take too long to read, so I usually just do my homework and then come out here and don't do much. The other kids run around and stuff, though."

\---

“We could run around and stuff. You can make a game out of anything.” He bends down again, this time to pick up a blade of grass. “Hmm. Have you played a grass whistle?”

\---

Michael squints, still slightly skeptical, but... He really  _ was _ bored. And clearly Martin must not be from around here, because he doesn't yet know that Michael is weird, and alone.

Better to go with it. His eyes widen, and he says, "Show me," and puts his hands on his hips.

\---

Oh, Michael. If only you’d both met when you were both weird and alone.

Martin pulls the blade of grass somewhat taut and places it between his lips, then blows. It vibrates into a squeaky, high-pitched single-note hum.

\---

His eyes become comically wide and he all but leaps forward, and where the cloth headband had been falling back up his head, it slides the rest of the way, and he pulls it idly, wrapping it around his wrist to let his hair tumble out. He can fix it later. Let it get messy and tangled.

"How'd you do that? What's in your hands? It's not just grass." He presses his fingers to Martin's knuckles, begging him to let Michael see.

\---

Martin bites down on the grass and opens up his hands, giggling around it when he proves there’s nothing else there. He lets it fall from his mouth. “It’s the grass, when you blow it it moves really fast and makes— Noises? If you get a really good one you can - you can make different sounds.”

\---

"I didn't know that," Michael says, and then crouches to look for a big, long piece. He mumbles, "They don't cut the lawn as much anymore. Maybe it's a good thing for once." He finds one victoriously and jumps to his feet, presenting it in front of Martin. "Show me. Okay? I wanna know how to do it."

\---

“Better if you try it, you’ll kind of— Um, it’s angles.” Martin mimes pinching either side of it so it lies flat. “Just not too tight, it’s like— It can’t move, but— You put it between your lips. Don’t bite it or anything.”

\---

"Angles," He mumbles, and lifts the blade of grass to his mouth. Gives it a few valiant tries and fails spectacularly, and by the fourth try, he grimaces and pulls the blade of grass away, pouting at his seeming inability to do it. He let's it drop to the ground.

"Whatever. You're probably better at it anyways. What do you usually do? It can't be much, huh, if you're trespassing all over a neighborhood beyond your means."

\---

“It took me, like, like ten tries to get a noise the first time. And it was a lame noise.”

The rest sinks in, and Martin grimaces. “I’m freer than you, I’m like a— An explorer, can’t do that with a million bags of money weighing me down.”

Just as quickly, his grimace flips over.

\---

"Explorers have homes too." He pauses, and then just sits down on the grass, pulling his knees up and not caring one bit about the way his skirt hikes up. It's not very ladylike, but the nuns aren't here right now, now are they.

"I bet you go to the mall, and you've got punks, and goths, and can listen to whatever music you like, and I bet your school is better than mine." He blinks. "I don't have bags of money. Have you heard of banks?"

\---

“I’ve never heard of a bank, I’m feral,” Martin says, holding his hands up like fake claws as he growls childishly down at Michael. “There’s one goth, he’s nice, and I’m sort of limited by a Walkman. Can’t carry too many tapes around. So— Not whatever.”

\---

"I have an iPod. You can have it if you want." He wrinkles his nose. "If feral things can play those."

\---

“I don’t want your stuff. And a Walkman’s more complicated than an iPod, so I-I think so. Do rich people know what ponds are?”

\---

"We have a koi pond in the front. Does that count?" He huffs. "Can you make me feral? I wanna learn. You growl good."

\---

“Oh. Thank you?” Martin tilts his head. “I don’t know how to make someone feral, I think it just— Happens, maybe? How long are you allowed outside?”

\---

He shrugs, and says unhelpfully, "'Till I have to go in. You could teach me. Like a teacher. You know what that is, right? Considering you're feral and all."

\---

“Yeah. Yeah, I know what a teacher is, Michael. Lesson one. Keep a backpack, and a set of extra clothes you can get dirty? And, uh— um, hm. You... like frogs, mud, things like that?”

\---

He nods, cautiously. "Yeah. I'm not supposed to mess with that stuff, though. Mum prefers it when I'm clean. Unladylike to bring frogs in the house, or to touch animals and filthy creatures."

\---

“That’s why you bring something you can get dirty, obviously.” Martin squints. “Is she...you know, nice?”

\---

"I dunno. She wants what's best for me, I guess. I'm just no good at being good. I mumble too much, and I get too dirty, and I don't like the clothes she gets and I guess that’s my fault, not hers. Y'know. When she gets upset." He shrugs and tries to pass it all off like it doesn't matter, but it does.

\---

“You’re just— You’re just a kid. How are you supposed to appreciate being clean if you never get— never get dirty?” Martin scoffs with a dramatic roll of his eyes. “I bet you’re good at loads of things.”

\---

"I'm not a kid, I'm fourteen." He scowls. "And I suck at everything and girls aren't supposed to get dirty." He kicks into the grass.

"You can do that cool growl thing and make instruments from grass, and know how to be an explorer and I can barely even get passing marks because the nuns said God gave me too much hair and too little smarts, and said my attention is all bad. I dunno why I'm telling you this."

\---

“Girls can do whatever they want. Your hair’s nice, and it’s not God who did that, it’s— You know, whoever in your family has big hair. That’s why mine is brown, like my dad’s.”

Martin steps back and looks him over. He doesn’t say it’s always been this way, people like to tell him things. When they do notice him, when he lets them, people like to talk. It’s part of his charm. “You look like you’d be good at cartwheels. I can’t do those.”

\---

"Mum has blonde hair. She says it used to be thick like mine. I dunno why God would make me dumb, anyways. Seems awful cruel."

And then he lights up, processing the rest of what he says, and the sullen look turns to one of excitement, and he squeaks out , "You can't? Maybe it's 'cause you're short. It's  _ sooo _ easy. Watch."

And then he demonstrates, kicking off his shoes, first, so that he can land solidly on his stockinged feet, and does three in succession, coming back up for air with his hair hanging in his face and his face stretched into a grin.

\---

Martin laughs, the sort of childish glee that can only be positively delighted, not cruel. “See. You just have to find them. They want you to be— I mean, of course they want you good at their things, so they don’t...”

He shoots Michael a lopsided grin. “They don’t point a ruler at you and say, ‘give me a cartwheel and I’ll grade it!’— If they did, you’d be at the very top. And, just so I-I say it— I’m not short.”

"Shorter than me." He comes close and stands on his tip-toes, and sure enough, he's several centimeters taller. "I grew so much over the summer and everyone at school thought it was so funny, 'cause I used to be really short."

\---

Martin crosses his arms, evidently not phased. Maybe he’s used to it by now. “All the tallest people get tall slow. Creeping up on everyone else.”

He tilts his head up to put out an air of confidence. This is all so new, in a body he’s used to slouching in. At this age, all he wanted to be was small enough to disappear. “Hey, you said they said girls aren’t supposed to do this and that, and it’s not ladylike, but you’re a boy, right?”

\---

The smug and excited look fades all but immediately, and Michael takes a step back, blinking rapidly a few times. Panic flashes across his face and he smooths his hands down the front of his skirt. Was it something he said? Did he-- is he really so stupid that he can't pretend?

"How do you-- w-why would you say that? Are you trying to b-be rude?"

\---

“Wh-what? No— No, I don’t mean it like that.” He holds up both hands in a placating  _ I’m innocent  _ gesture. “I’m just— My mother wanted a girl and got me, and she sounds— Kind of like yours, a little, I just— I just notice stuff.”

\---

"Yeah, but you're not a girl. And I'm not a boy." He laughs, nervously, and then laughs more than is appropriate because he just can't stop, because no one's ever acknowledged it except to say he's too much of a tomboy, but that's different, it's not this, and Martin said it so confidently, and he ends up blubbering, "Who are you? I- I don't even know you. And you're--" His voice turns to a whisper. "You're not supposed to know that."

\---

“I’m— I’m Martin? I’m sorry. Supposed to know... what? That you’re a boy but it’s secret but it’s all weird because... because you’re already named Michael?”

\---

_ "Yes."  _ Michael breathes, and then he slaps a hand over his mouth like he's said something so, so bad. "Shoot.  _ Shoot.  _ Martin, are you a heathen witch?"

\---

That gets a fresh stream of laughter, which Martin soundly stops up with a hand against his mouth. “No, I’m not a witch. You know— Michael’s just an angel, right? I don’t think they knew what boys or girls were until they made people. They were just— Rings and wings and... stuff.”

\---

"Well I'm not rings or wings or stuff." Michael huffs and crosses his arms. And then he slowly leans in closer, and whispers quietly, "How-- how did you know? Is it obvious? Is it-- I've never said it before. Not out loud. I guess God knew and didn't smite me, but he doesn't smite a lot of people these days, it seems."

\---

Martin gets to the ground and sits criss-cross across from Michael. “I didn’t know. That’s sort of why I asked.... Maybe God might be bored of that. Like, like he’s fine with watching, he’s had... a lot of time, right? It’s just a TV show.”

He leans back and holds fingers on both hands out, forming a box around Michael with one eye shut so he fits squarely in it. “This is the one where Michael learns how to be feral.”

\---

"God just watches," Michael paraphrases, and he likes that quite a bit. Less scary, than thinking he's gonna get smote. He smiles, and when Martin pulls the box of his fingers up, he laughs again, high and childish, and he falls back over into the grass like he's possessed by it.

He flings himself back up, hair piled to one side of his head, and he pouts dramatically, hand under his chin, and poses. And then blinks and cocks his head into a question. "Can feral people still be pretty?"

\---

Martin lowers his hands, offering a short hm. “You can be whatever you want. That’s what being feral is. There’s not really any rules until you make them up.”

\---

"That's what that means? Just-- anything?" He pauses. "Are you whatever you want?"

\---

The bit.

The  _ bits. _

The  _ biting. _

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess. But I have rules, f-for me. I don’t hurt animals. I, um, I don’t get scared of them, either. I try to be... helpful?”

\---

Michael nods, and then cocks his head further. "And if you need to eat?"

\---

“You don’t have to stop cooking or buying sandwiches if you’re— When you’re feral, Michael.”

He cocks his head the opposite direction that Michael’s doing. “I guess you could hunt if you need to, but that’s only if there’s nothing else you can do.”

\---

"Can you still go back home, if you're feral?"

\---

“If people still want you there. Part of being feral is— You— You can be clever, too. Like packing hiking boots for when you go out. You can be feral and still act normal and nice.”

\---

"Oh." He almost sounds disappointed. "That just sounds like hiking. I don't think you know what your own word means."

\---

Martin stands up, leveling Michael with a stern look. “Hiking boots, so you don’t go back inside with dirty stockings and get— Get yelled at by your mother for no reason. Like—“

He paces slightly as he thinks of something that might work. “Selkies! They take off their seal skin and they go up on land so - so nobody bothers them, and they put it back on when they go back in the water. Part of being feral is knowing when you’re supposed to blend in.”

\---

Michael looks up at Martin and frowns. "I think you're better at that than me. I'm no good at blending in. I always.... Stick right out."

\---

Martin shakes his head. It’s a very passionate gesture. “I didn’t start good, and I don’t mean— Not invisible. It’s like, like acting? That’s what being polite is. Just— Like a game.”

\---

"Well..." Michael looks back to the house, up to one of the windows. It's dark, and in the afternoon light, it's oppressive, like shadows are threatening to spill out over and take over the garden itself. Michael shivers. "We should go do it. Be feral. You can show me. She should be asleep for a while."

\---

Martin tracks his sight, peering up at the window with a pointed purpose. Willing the bad away. “Okay. Do you own anything you can get dirty? Or are we working with this?”

\---

".... Help me look? If we're quiet, she'll... It'll be fine." He slowly stands, and looks nervous, but excited.

\---

“Just pretend you’re a spy.” Martin takes a few steps to the side, waiting on Michael. This is fun. “You’re probably an expert on your own—“ He snorts. “—territory anyway. You might just not think about it that way. Like where the floor creaks and— and things like that.”

\---

"You're weird." Michael says it with zero malice, starting to walk across the lawn. "But fun. Wish you went to my school. You're the first person who's been nice to me in ages." He walks with purpose, a quiet softness to each step, and when he gets to the sliding doors, he opens them slowly, ushering for Martin to follow.

\---

“Having friends is hard. And— You know all the people you meet are weird, right? Just in different ways. Or they pretend not to be. Or...” Martin follows after him, keeping his footfalls light as he can. Distantly, he wonders how much of this he can change. Whether he can choose to weigh nothing at all. But right now, it’s fun to let it all be Michael’s world.

He had something else on his tongue, but they’re on a mission.

\---

The house has been refurbished, but there's still the heavy, dim atmosphere that a house that has seen too much, over the centuries. There's a weight to this place, and as Michael walks, he hunches over himself slightly, as though to hide from that darkness.

Luckily, his bedroom is on the opposite side of the house as his mother's; there's a wide set of double stairs in the foyer, and Michael leads Martin through the kitchen and the dining room and the sitting room and the living room's hallways, his fingers trailing along the walls like they offer him a comfort. Paintings line the walls, stern ancestors from both sides of a family that have abandoned him in different ways.

He winds his hands from the wall to the brilliantly polished railing of the stairs. The outside may be unkempt, but the staff have done their best, even in their diminishing weekly hours, to keep the house kept to the highest order. Michael doesn't care that his stocking trail dirt where the stair run softens the blow of old wood.

No peep, until they reach a door at the end of the hallway to the left hand side of the house. Michael opens it and lets Martin slip in, too, and then closes it softly behind him, turning on the light to a sparsely decorated bedroom with a large bed encased in white gauze-like curtains. It's brighter here, than the rest of the house, since Michael had torn down the suffocating thick draperies, and left only the thin inner veil that allows sunlight to spill across the floor.

\---

In their silent journey, Martin finds out just how haunting Michael’s hallways ought to be. How they might be, without the gift to see the Distortion’s mark upon the surface. Shelley’s heart has fused with the Spiral’s, but not the seamless stitching of fabrics meant to fit together. Shelley’s world is dreary, oppressive, except the tiny corners he’s found ways to shed light into.

Now, more than ever, Martin wants to rip the paintings and portraits off the walls and make them shatter. What a place to be trapped, an old decrepit thing with its own hunger. Doors within doors within doors. Unblinking pitiless eyes that see Michael as an unfortunate byproduct of history instead of a living person of worth.

He wonders if it hates them so much because it knows the only thing keeping it alive is Michael’s heart. And Michael will outgrow even this massive dungeon.

Martin moves the veil back and rolls onto the bed like he owns it, something he’d likely never do before. In that other world, where at this age and this time on this day he would likely be frantically cleaning up messes his mother might or might not notice depending on her mood when she came back. Here, he’s a stray brought in from the cold.

“Do you like it here?”

\---

"No," Michael says idly, lips curling around the word as he opens his closet, and turns on the light. He turns back to look at Martin, and there's a dazed little smile on his face. She'd never let him bring someone like Martin to the house.

"I hate this house. I hate this neighborhood. I'm going to go to a city, one day." He steps into the guts of the closet and starts rifling through everything, looking for an old, abandoned pair of trousers that he hasn't worn in forever and won't be missed if they get dirty from him being feral.

\---

“I don’t blame you. It’s dark out there.”

Martin runs one of his hands over the curtain, watching it ripple in the aftermath of his touches. “If you want to go, you’ll— You’ll go some day.”

\---

"I dunno." He finds an old, old pair of khakis that barely fit anymore, after he sprouted up, and they're basically badly hemmed capris at this point. That and an old button up, he leans out of the closet with, gesturing wildly. "These okay? Will I get teeth like yours?"

\---

Martin looks in his direction, but he’s blind long enough that his face is blank with thought. He lifts a hand up to his mouth, and almost grazes a finger against a canine. Ah. Okay.

“Yeah. Yeah! It’s good. Really good. I’m not sure, I think they’ve— They’ve been that way for a long time.”

\---

"Huh. God gave you weird gifts too, I guess." Michael strips in the doorway and quickly throws on his feral-clothes, tossing his stockings and skirt and sweater and school button down and tie willy-nilly. Someone will clean it before mum sees. Probably.

He runs over to his desk and pulls out a brush and two ponytail holders, and says way too loudly, "Hey! Do you know how to braid?!" Only he says it all fast and quick and excited, so it's more like 'doyouknowhowtobraid?!'

\---

Martin has a feeling it might not matter how loud they are, in here. He waits until Michael addresses him again to do anything but ground his thoughts, just enough to think yes, yes, God did give him weird gifts. Strange to think this space exists in the same world as monsters and gods. What if that was all a dream? When did he get here?

No, he won't spiral that deep. Just a taste. That's all.

He sits up when Michael calls for him, pulling his legs over the side of the bed to part the curtains. He loves doing that. He should get some for his own bed at home, where-- Somewhere. He has a bed, he's sure of that. "I can. I'm used to, um, straighter hair, but-- I can try."

\---

"Good." He steps to Martin and hands him the hair ties and brush, then spins and plops down on the floor in front of him, sitting up straight and throwing the mass of his hair back to let Martin deal with it all. "'S easier when it's still wet, but Um, I don't mind if it's not that tight anyways."

\---

Martin places one of the ties on the bed and brings the other up to his mouth, and by the time he touches Michael's hair something like muscle memory takes over. He hasn't done this in years, not since her hair thinned out with sickness, or was it before? Was it when he grew tall enough to see over her head from the mirror? It doesn't matter. He sections off a good portion of Michael's hair with a loose tie and pulls it out of the way and gets to work with the brush, figuring out what he's working with.

He bites down on his bottom lip with concentration, momentarily lost in his own thoughts.

\---

As he works, Michael babbles. It's nothing important. Things he saw at school

Drawings he half finished when he grew bored during classes that he meant to finish but never did because he's really rather forgetful. Animals he saw on the walk back home, because he'd finally convinced mum that he likes walking and doesn't want to be picked up by her nurse. Daydreams he spends hours of time in. How he doesn't even like the taste of cigarettes yet, but he knows he will and it gives him something to do because no one likes it when people just space out all the time but he can't really help it, it's just something in his brain he thinks.

It's nothing but it's a lot, and he talks without moving, staying still as can be with practiced ease.

\---

At the start of this journey, Michael Shelley’s rescue was a selfless idea borne of Martin’s inherent care for the people so far gone from this side of humanity that others think of them as its. It grew into a series of promises built on empathy, built on an internal need for companionship Martin wasn’t yet totally aware of.

And then it was able to be presented as a transaction. Shelley’s purpose was to be a currency exchanged for information Martin thinks he already has. He thinks about this as he braids because, throughout the entire dialogue spanning months and several half-baked schemes, he never got to know much of anything about Michael Shelley.

There were glimpses, but anyone could see he wanted freedom from the pain of living in an existence that hurt. Seems he’s always wanted that. But beyond that great need, he doesn’t know Michael Shelley. He’s an idea. A concept. Not a person.

Here, Martin thinks he’s learning what he actually wanted to get out of this. He wishes he could tell Michael that, when he thinks his life is nothing.

Instead, he gets to work on the second braid. “You don’t have to smoke. You could mess with Play-Doh, or— Or kneaded erasers. Or you could doodle in the corners of your notebooks. I know you don’t like books, but what if you were writing all your daydreams down?”

\---

"It's hard to pull them out of my head, y'know. They're just--" He makes a couple woo-woo motions around his head. "But maybe. Maybe. Hey! Why are you so smart?"

\---

Martin pauses near the end of the second braid. “You think I’m smart? You’re just—“ He scrunches up his nose. “—Just lucky I happen to know a few things that you don’t really know about.”

\---

Michael shrugs. "Yeaaaaahuh. That's what being smart is. Knowing more than someone else. Duh. Is running about being feral all you do?"

\---

“Yeah; but you can do cartwheels and probably handstands too and you know things about church and you’re nice. No.” Martin hesitates. “I like... writing. P-poems.”

\---

"Oh! Like- uh. Uh, that Silverstein bloke. Like that?"

\---

“Hmm...” He ties off the last braid. “Yes. Like that. Monday Mornings Michael’s Miserable Maid Mutters Madly, Making Michael Moody.”

\---

Michael twists where he sits to wrinkle his nose at Martin, the effort not to smile making his face twitch and his eyes to crease. And then he sputters out a laugh, and says singsongy, lilting up and down with a spacey breathiness, "Martin's Marvelous Mystical Marathon, Moving Michael Madly as Mayflies towards Meadows!"

\---

Martin sits with both hands politely in his lap as he looks down with genuine surprise. It quickly turns into a sharp grin. “Maybe Martin Meddles in Michael’s Mother’s Moldy Mansion so Michael Mucks around in Muddy Messy Marshes.”

\---

Michael's hands fly to his mouth and he lets out a peal of laughter, falling backwards onto the plush rug, braids flying out to either side of his head. He kicks lightly at Martin's shins. Nobody ever says funny mean things about his mother. The kids at school don't dare, anyways, since Michael will bite them. "You're  _ funny _ too!"

\---

Martin covers his mouth with both hands to hide his own laughter, but Michael’s is infectious, and he just ends up dissolving into sounds that leave him breathless.  _ “You’re _ funny! I’ve never done one like that before.”

\---

"You're  _ good _ at it! And they're-- I like how it goes off my tongue. Tongue twisters," He laughs again. "Very clever." He leaps to his feet and holds out his hands. "Okay. Marshes or meadows now."

\---

“Maybe both?” Martin takes both his hands and stands up. “Anywhere around here that you can actually go feral in? I don’t want— No being, um. Mean to fish.”

\---

"I think my neighbors have a pond in the back of their property. Way, way back, they got more land than we do. Does that work?"

\---

Martin acts like he’s thinking it over, then nods once. Satisfactory. “I bet they have frogs.”

\---

"I hope so. And tadpoles. I like tadpoles more, you know. They're softer, and they just squirm around in your hand and try to squeeze in like they could bury themselves there. It's so funny."

He's full of boundless energy, until they reach the doorknob of his room, and he opens it slowly and silently, the hallway's darkness almost threatening to leak into this one sunny spot.

"Ready?"

\---

Tadpoles. Burrowing. Burrowing tadpoles. Holes for warm wet bodies in hands but don’t hurt them let them try.

Martin squeezes Michael’s hand, and he follows. Follows into the dark maw of a mother’s den with the promise of something is about to go wrong. Has he always been this low to the ground? Has—

Martin covers his nose and mouth with one hand, not to stifle laughter but to keep out the rotting smell of old house as they pass through.

You should warn him, Martin, that he’s stepping right into a dark and lightless hole and his fingers are getting too long and his arm is stretching into the black and all the things you wish you would’ve said if you knew it could happen at any time but O, you didn’t.

“You deserve better.”

He says it to an empty hallway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>   
> Art by the lovely Wawek! <3


	44. Trip, Stumble, and Fall

“Of course it hurts,” Martin starts fresh, with a body that’s just the right size. A mind clear in the sense that it’s been sprayed all over with water, not the way that helps him think. “You’re stuck in walls you hated.”

He lets go of the idea that this place is a maze he can navigate if he takes all the right turns. The truth is, there are no turns at all. It’s a narrow line, cutting right through the foundations of a place he hopes is burnt to ash. The dog is quiet, but Martin isn’t.

As he passes down the gloomy passage of ancestral history he lifts a hand to stroke the wall and as he walks the paintings portraits people clatter to the floor and shatter. They’re not held by nails or strings, they’re memories, maybe some of them are moving. Victims looking at a door too long just to be swallowed up and eaten, mixed with Shelleys long forgotten. They don’t cry out in pain as Martin talks they know it’s better to be quiet.

“You get to go to all the cities, any time you want to.” Glass. “You get to have friends.” Wood. “You get to play games in all the mud and clay you asked for.” Paper. “You get to have a choice.”

This time he has a door, made of all the splintered wood chips left behind from lonely tables.

“You just have to die first.”

Martin twists the knob with force, glad that Michael taught him not to  _ waffle. _

\---

The Door opens to suffocating sunlight. A rare, blindingly hot day, and students mill about the parking lot after a long, agonizingly slow day of classes, the first true day of schoolwork since the beginning of the fall semester just several days prior.

Athletes, late for practice, have to tear their gaze away from their friends, their girlfriends. Blazers are pulled off and ties loosened, pants rolled up to escape the heat, but more importantly to teenage minds, to posture and pose.

Michael leans against his car-- some fancy Porsche he'd half-blindingly picked out based on the looks alone-- and smokes a spliff. He's far back at the end of the parking lot; he knows better than to get in trouble, now. He's waiting for the parking lot to thin; he wants to grab a few of his half-finished canvases from the art classrooms, and also wants to give time for the thick smell of grass and tobacco to fade from his presence.

Even if she won't notice, anymore. Old habits die hard.

\---

Martin sucks in a long, overjoyed inhale at the fresh air Michael greets him with. Somehow with the hallways all straightened out back there, he’d traveled so much farther. But now he’s somewhere... somewhere so unlike the part of town he’d ever spend a day in.

He wonders if the air of confidence that follows him is born from Michael’s mind or his own wishes. Maybe this is who Martin is, in the darkest corners of his own mind. Someone well-spoken, well-dressed, well-liked, well-well.

“Well, well, well. Someone’s upgraded from cigarettes.”

He says it smugly, jokingly, but mostly it’s a little _ rowdy  _ as he moves around the car to step into Michael’s vision.

\---

Michael jumps, and moves to hide the joint behind his back, like it'll do anything, pressing the lit end against the car door to try and smudge it out. Who the hell wants to mess with him  _ now,  _ and--

He blinks. Clearly it's not someone from his school, but it  _ sounds _ like someone his age, and it's. That sweater looks so familiar. And--

A chill runs through him, fear and apprehension mingling sweetly to mix with the smell of pot and cigarette in the air.

From where he had one of his hands in the pocket of his slacks as he leaned on the car, he pulls it out and it meets the hand behind his back, and then he says fuck it and drops the thing on the ground, his hands running through his hair. "Uh-- Are you. Are you  _ real?"  _ His eyes are wide as can be.

\---

"Oh,  _ don't _ wa-- What? Yes?" Shit. Shit. Shit. "Look."

Panicking for reasons he can't even find in him to explain to himself, Martin bends forward and grabs the spliff from the concrete. He puts it between his teeth and it stays there.

\---

"...Okay. Okay, okay, okay. Shit. It's happening to me. _ Fuck.  _ I knew it." He pulls himself entirely from the car to start briskly walking to the other side, pulling his key out to unlock the driver's side door.

\---

Martin stands there with the thing hanging from his mouth dejectedly. "Is-- Is  _ what  _ happening? Sorry, I thought you'd think it was funny." Michael's trying to leave. He's afraid of what might happen if he gets stuck here without him. "I-- I'm real, I thought picking something up off the ground would-- I thought it would  _ prove _ that."

\---

"If you're not real, how could I trust  _ that _ is? It can't be--" He shakes his head and squints. "Okay. Say you are. Say you are. Where the hell did you come from? You're not-- You're--"

He doesn't want to say, _ 'is it odd to say that I knew you once, in a dream?’ _ Because that's too much. It's acknowledging it. It's acknowledging something that he's had to quantify for the last few months, that one of his favorite days ever was probably either a  _ dream  _ or-- Or something much worse. The early signals of something he knows to be terrified of, now.

Michael angles a sharp look towards the rest of the students, but no one's looking. No one really cares to, anymore. Just that  _ Michael  _ girl being weird again. Ignore her and move on. Poor lass, can't even keep a crazy friend. He turns back, and is all but hiding behind the frame of the driver's side now.  _ "How?" _

\---

"Okay. Okay. Let's calm down. I screwed up." Is he running through all of these in  _ sequence? _ He doesn't go back? That's not fair. That's years. Why would Michael-- Ugh.

Easy answer. He's traumatized. Obviously. Leave it at that. Oh, he wants that day back. There's no door to go through that'll let him start over.

Martin wants to ask for a lighter, first.

Then he notices the car. "Wait. You can  _ drive?" _

\---

His eyes flick around for a few seconds before he dumbly lands on, "Maybe," And continues to stare from behind his barricade.

"...You're either in my head. Or a ghost. Or-- I mean. You look different. But it's--" he laughs, hoarse and a little hysterical. "I mean. I mean what are the odds?"

\---

Martin picks the spliff up off from the ground again. He dropped it at some point while he was talking. Now he just gestures with it between two fingers. "Right. Okay. First, I'm not in your  _ head.  _ Second, definitely not a ghost. Third, is that an insult? F-Fourth, that depends on the numbers you're working with."

\---

"I saw you-- o-once, and you were-- I was *fourteen, of course you look.... Different." He's stammering and he sounds so frantic and he's slurring through the words as they tumble out and he thinks he hates himself.

\---

"...It's called puberty?" He fidgets from across the car, afraid to get closer. "Look, just-- Just breathe. Slowly. Please?"

\---

"Is this, like, some weird long winded stalking situation?" Michael's head peers over the top of the car, his eyes squinting.

\---

"Um,  _ no." _ Martin snorts. It's like reverse-stalking. He's the one getting dragged in here. "Why do you think you're  _ seeing _ things?"

\---

"Because I--" Michael swallows and then shakes his head. "No, no, no. You're telling me why you're here first. You came here for me. I'm not telling you  _ shit _ about Ryan until you say something first."

\---

Martin sighs loudly before he swivels to lean against the car. Almost like Michael had, but not really. "If you don't want someone to ask about, you know, certain  _ people,  _ don't bring them up  _ first. _ Can you throw me a lighter if you won't come over, and I can-- I can explain?"

\---

His eyes flick to the parking lot once more and then back, and he finally grimaces in deliberation. Fishing the lighter from his pocket, he tosses it over the top of the car, almost half expecting it to clatter to the ground, instead of land solidly anywhere near a real person.  _ "Fine,  _ but if-- if you're a liar, then everyone's gonna think I'm just talking to myself, and I'll be quite cross."

\---

Martin doesn’t catch it, he’s facing the other direction, but it does hit the back of his head. He mutters a pathetic ‘ow’ and finds it again, then lights.

At least the Hunt has decided it’s not about to complain about the smell. “Okay.”

How does he explain this without ruining everything? “Have you... ever heard of... um, Doctor... Doctor Who?”

\---

"Uh...yeah? Duh. Who hasn't?" This is getting more and more perplexing. Maybe he should just drive off.

\---

“I think I’m— I’m some kind of, Christ. Wait— I don’t mean I’m some kind of  _ Christ, _ that’s- That’s an expression. I mean I think—“

Martin makes a frustrated sound at the back of this throat and turns around. “—You’re not crazy, I-I mean I’m kind of, it’s sort of— I’m a time traveler, I... think.”

\---

Michael stares flatly at him from over the hood of the car, and then promptly opens the car door and slips inside. He unlocks the passenger side door with a solid click, and refuses to see if Martin gets in, staring straight ahead out the windshield.

\---

Mortified with himself, Martin sucks in several deep breaths from the spliff, thinking he might need it. If it affects him. Guess he’ll find out. Then he drops it, heel crushes, and opens the door.

He holds back any excitement he has about sitting anywhere but the driver’s seat and sits very still, very embarrassed, very polite except the way he fidgets with his thumbs in his lap. Shameful puppy. He’s already fucked this up bad, and he joins Michael in staring straight ahead.

\---

Michael doesn't speak for a while. He doesn't want to stutter over himself, and mix up his words, and jumble his sentences like he  _ always _ does, and make it even more obvious that he's crazy.

"You're a time traveler. Okay. Then why are you older? Like-- like the same age as me. Except that first time, in the church. That was you, wasn't in? When I a kid? A-and I just  _ knew  _ your name, and--" He makes a frustrated noise, because he's lost the control, and his tongue is all twisted up. He's always twisted up.

\---

“I don’t _ know  _ how it works. I just— I pop out places, and then I start to f-forget the things that came  _ before,  _ and it’s all pretty stressful for me, too.”

Martin sighs, again, and finds the control to tilt his seat back so he can lounge back sadly. “Sorry. I got— I got excited, when I saw you. I can’t control where I spit out. I-I’m a failure of a time traveler.”

\---

"... This isn't convincing me I'm not crazy." Yes it is, but Michael's always told he's too trusting, and he's gullible, and people pull pranks on him all the time, and-- "If you're some time traveling.... Weird person, are you going to kill me?"

\---

“Well, you wanted the truth, and— And sometimes the truth is crazier than a lie. So, so there. I’m not—  _ No, _ I’m not  _ killing  _ you. Oh. Shit.”

Martin leans his head back against the seat. “My tolerance. Is so low.”

\---

Despite the horror pooling on his gut, Michael snorts out a laugh, and he has to hide the smile growing behind the back of his hand. "Wow. My hallucination-Martin has the tolerance of a narc. How delightful."

\---

“I’m the opposite of a  _ narc,  _ and I’m not a hallucination. Could— Could a hallucination do this?”

He reaches for the window controls, and tries to click it up and down. The car isn’t on. “Oh. The car isn’t on.”

\---

"Yeah. The car isn't on," Michael repeats, and as if in a daze, he pushes the key into the start, and air conditioning blasts at both of them. "Say you're not. Why me?"

\---

Martin glares in Michael’s direction as he moves the car window down and up. Then he stops. “I don’t know. Seems to happen a lot around people with weird controlling mothers.”

\---

Michael twitches, and it's his turn to glare at him. "What do you know about my mother. Awful rude."

\---

Martin kicks his legs up on the dash and shuts his eyes, humming softly. “Not much. Did you ever figure out how to go feral?”

\---

"Oh, yeah, suuuure did. Wasn't under house arrest for that whole summer or anything because of some weird definition that amounted to splashing about in mud. Nope." He scowls. His voice always goes lofty when he's repeating phrases, giving his voice this constant up and down motion, breathy and then firm and back again, undulating.

\---

“I’m sorry.”  He means it, but he’s not sure if that matters. “Did you have fun, though?”

\---

Michael shrugs. "Probably. Who cares!" He laughs, and it's kind of hollow. "You can't go-- go feral here anyways! It's too tied to money, and history, and blood, and being  _ normal!  _ Oh, I love it!"

\---

“What, school? Now I’m concerned about rich people school having blood in it.” Martin cracks one eye open. “You sound like a lot happened since last time.”

\---

"I meant the town. Ugh." He glances over at Martin and grimaces. "Yeah, well, a lot has, Time Traveller. You're not the only weird thing I've seen."

\---

“Okay, you clearly want to talk about it. What’s been  _ weird?” _

\---

"Maybe it's 'cause you might actually believe me." He fishes through the middle console compartment and fishes out a cigarette for him and Martin, rolling the windows down all the way. He hands Martin his, sticks his unlit one between his lips, and starts to pull out of the parking space.

"I, uh, I had a friend. For once. Ryan. He went--something happened to him. I... I  _ saw _ it. I saw it, and I didn't even believe him until it took him into, into this fucked up  _ door, _ because everyone thought he was... Was just schizophrenic and I don't even know what that really means, but I started to believe it too, and now he's  _ gone. _ It's been weeks, and I know he's dead." It comes out fast, fast, like it's a race.

\---

Martin clips his seatbelt as Michael pulls out, suddenly in charge of his very own cigarette. Teens in the audience, look away. He flicks the lighter on. Wow, he’s actually never done this in a car.

“So it was easier for people to believe he was mentally unwell than maybe the world might be  _ strange _ and  _ scary _ sometimes. It was real to him. It was real to you. But— I really— I wish I knew how to help. I wish I’d been here.”

\---

"He was probably-- I mean, he  _ was _ a little crazy before that, but I mean.... So am I! So am I. And it didn't take me. It just. It just made him worse, for months, and months, and I could barely talk to him anymore, and then--" He shakes his head, and holds his hand out for the lighter.

They leave the school grounds, and he turns deftly onto the highway." So you've got to see why I would think you might be. You know. Something similar. You don't feel evil, like it did, though."

\---

“I think— I think sometimes bad things pick people that others already don’t like to believe. Makes it easier, maybe.” He places the lighter in Michael’s hand, moving the seat back up to full height.

“I guess I am something similar. In the— In the feeling crazy part. I don’t really know who I am. But— If you let it spiral into being afraid all the time, of— Of what took your friend, that probably just feeds into it more. You know?”

\---

Michael shrugs. "Who knows. I certainly don't." He laughs. "Just figures, is all. And I'm so scared. All the time. A-and I want to find out what it  _ was." _ He slows down to light the cigarette as he drives, using his elbows to steer.

\---

Martin sniffs. This is all very cruel. If he tells him too much he might make it worse. Too little and— These are memories. It won’t change what he does. Just how he feels, maybe.

He doesn’t want to be hated, by the end of this. “Maybe I was sent here to help you. I never— I don’t think I ever got to be a normal teenager. Well— Normal, as in, have a life. I—“

His eyes flick to the window. “Am I allowed...” No, that’s selfish. “Never mind.”

\---

"Are you allowed  _ what? _ It's not like I'm in charge of you." He laughs, and returns his hand to the wheel while exhaling, tapping ash out the window. "that's funny. Me being in charge of something."

\---

“I think it’s cool you can drive with your elbows.” Martin stalls. “I wanted to ask if— If you’d tell me what you’ve been up to. Also— If you’d make fun of me if I stuck my head out the window.”

\---

"Why would I make fun of you for that? It's fun. I like doing that." He shrugs and takes another drag, shifting a look over at Martin, like he's deliberating.

It's not a very fun story, is the thing. Mostly because of how  _ boring _ it is. How often his life is spent dazed and out of it, and no one's ever been able to tell him why, but it's most definitely one of the reasons no one ever wants to talk to him.

"Uhm. Hm. I saw you last, what, grade eight? So a lot, I suppose. Better, in some ways. Mostly alone. That's alright. I d-do art, and the teacher, she says it's 'Quite Promising, Michael.' But I won't go to uni for it.

"School's co-ed, now, because mum preferred a classy private school to a catholic one, which surprised me, even, but I didn't reaaaaaally wanna complain, because they let me wear slacks. She doesn't like it, but she's gone quite mad and keeps in her room usually, so it's fine. Everyone thinks I'm a lesbian. That's also fine. My marks are better, 'cause I thought' maybe uni is the way out of here.' Think I'm right on that front."

He takes another desperate drag when he runs out of breath.

\---

Martin’s heart rises into his throat. He stares, and stares, and wishes with every part of him - except the one he knows he needs to keep miserable enough to leave again - that he could stay here with Michael forever.

“You have to show me your art, I bet it’s good, and I’m glad your teachers are nicer, and— And it’s okay, I know somebody that thought he was a lesbian in university but he’s not and he’s a he and - and I’m glad your grades are better, I think you’re right, too.”

His own words get faster until he takes his own hurried drag and goes for it, hooking his arm over the side of the car. He doesn’t want to turn away from Michael, or risk not hearing him, though. “Can I—“ Shit, are those tears? Shit. Shoot. “Can I tell you something?”

\---

Michael watches him and his face crumples into a confused smile, cocking his head. He glances back at the road. "Yeah? Sure."

\---

“I had a friend, when I was a few years younger, but it was a lot longer than that, and you said something that just made me—“

Martin turns to the side so he’s not distracted, head cocked just slightly out of the window. He has to raise his voice, they’re on the highway. “Long story short, I got to leave home and spend time with him and his family on their farm, and on the way there I felt free— Really, really free, and I did this, in their truck, and it wasn’t quite the same but—  _ I like doing that. _ Almost what he said. I felt normal, for something I never got to do. I got home and— And she saw how happy I was, and... I stopped getting to go places with him, and he disappeared the way people disappear over time. I didn’t try making friends again. But you— You should.”

\---

"... I should, what? Try making friends?" Michael snorts. "Maybe when I leave." He's quiet for a long moment, and then he flaps an idle hand towards him. "Go on. Out the window you get."

\---

Martin decides to go against one of his little rules and undoes the seatbelt so he’s free to get both hands on the bottom of the window. He hoists both his legs up onto the seat so he’s sitting on his knees, and braves the wind until he’s out to his shoulder blades.

There’s an obvious smile to his voice as he yells from the outside so Michael can hear. “Yeah! You’d be good at it! I’d always thought I was bad at making friends, but— Weird is good! We like  _ weird!  _ It likes us! I’m not nearly the only one on earth who believes you.”

\---

"You sound so sure of yourself!" Michael yells back, fighting the wind. "I really doubt you, but it's fun to pretend, I guess!" He doesn't want to believe him, because it's way too easy to. So easy. It'd be so easy to give in to the delusion that the world can be kind to him, or that he's allowed something as sentimental as 'friends'.

\---

“You can pretend until it’s real, I think that’s how it works!” Martin laughs, free and unafraid of doors that can’t get him here. “Where are we going?”

\---

"Um--" Michael blinks, and realizes he's taken roads far from home, way out in the country, and he starts laughing nervously. Of course. For once, the blunder doesn't upset him, though.

Martin makes everything feel quite alright. Even when Michael is Acting Up and being rude, or disrespectful, or daft. "I don't, uh, I dunno! Is that okay?"

\---

Martin tilts back into the car, just enough that he doesn’t have to scream. “If it’s okay with you, yeah. Just pull over when you feel like it, or something! I’m just your passenger.”

\---

He drives in silence for a while. By the time he flicks the cigarette butt out the window, he turns to Martin and he says, "So say I think you're real. How long are you staying?" Pause. "Is _ that  _ why you refused to tell me where you were from, last time?"

\---

“I have no idea. I didn’t choose to leave last time, and I didn’t  _ refuse,  _ we just— We sort of moved on. I got excited when I showed up here again and, um.”

He giggles nervously. “I keep popping out whatever age you are. Which makes it hard. My brain’s not caught up.”

\---

"... Is that normal? Like-- what are you normally? I'd love to be able to do _ that." _

\---

"I--"

What does that mean?  _ Normally? _ What is he? A who? A what? A name? Is it a number?

"I... I don't think I remember. I think when-- When I come here, whatever this is, I think I forget. I start to. I hope that doesn't-- I hope that doesn't sound scary."

\---

"Just something else for my eventual mid-30s breakdown, I guess," He laughs, blinking a little. He's very much in a situation of 'this might as well Happen.'

Maybe Martin is real. Maybe Michael is just trying so desperately to cope with the loss of his first true friend that he's concocting an imaginary friend from his youth. He supposes it doesn't matter.  _ You can pretend it's real.  _ Better than nothing.

"I don't know how to help you. I-- I don't know how to help anyone."

\---

"Michael, you don't have to help me. I'm-- Honestly, I'm  _ happy." _ His ears are freezing from the wind, but that's just about the worst of it. "What would help you feel better, just for-- It won't fix it all, but just, you know, company? Right now?"

\---

He glances out the driver’s side window, and back to the front, and after a moment's deliberations, he jerks the wheel and pulls off to the side roughly, coming to an abrupt stop.

The highway levels into a field, and in the field, are hills. He feels... He feels something. Something he doesn't know the name for, but it's a feeling nonetheless, and it's the kind of feeling that Michael has a hard time just _ ignoring. _

The sun is still high in the sky, but it's starting to dip in preparation for a September evening. He leans out of the window and points to a hill. "I want to watch the sunset," He says breathlessly, and when he looks back to Martin, his eyes are wide, impulsive.

\---

Martin is still gripping the side of the car fearfully tight by the time they're stopped, and yes, this is  _ exactly  _ why you're supposed to wear a seatbelt. Fields. Another field? Endless empty plains of grass and bugs and fevers and--

Michael wants to watch the sunset. "That's easily managed." He reaches for the door and opens it up, climbing out. No getting rattled. "You can always count on the sun, right?"

\---

"No," Michael says, and he doesn't know why. He uncurls his tall form out of the car, and closes the driver's door softly. "Just usually."

He starts to walk. "Have you ever seen an eclipse?"

\---

Martin steps back from the car, watching after Michael with a confused tilt of his head. "Um, no-- No, I don't think so, why?"

\---

"Just wondering. I always wanted to see a solar eclipse. I heard, the, the, the shadows, they get all wrong, 'cause when the sun's covered, there's a, a flatness? To everything? And it squashes down and elongates all the shadows. It seems... I bet it would be quite the sight. Y'know?"

He turns to beam at Martin.

\---

Martin's own face is blank, though he's not sure why. He should be excited for something so unusual. "The sun's... covered? By... what, by the moon-- Michael, Is there one of those today?"

\---

"N-no? I don't think so." He keeps walking, and then he flits a look to Martin. He feels so childish today. With him. Martin makes anything seem possible. "We could pretend, though."

\---

The Moon will eat the Sun but does it matter does it really--

Martin smiles, burying those thoughts before they can fully form. Michael wants an eclipse. He should have an eclipse. "We could pretend. Today's the first time in twenty years, and we don't get to see another one until, um, what's a good year,  _ 2016? _ It's a long ways away, so we're lucky."

\---

Michael's expression splits into a relieved grin, and he tucks his hair behind his ears. It feels important that Martin plays along. He doesn't know why. It doesn't matter. There's something in the air, and he's getting an  _ eclipse. _ Thoughts of 'is this real?' have escaped him.

It is and it isn't and that's fine and dandy.

"Grand to have my very own Astronomer with me, eh? Can tell me all the facts." He laughs again.

\---

Martin huffs as he catches up to Michael, and he wants to know. He wants to see. He wants it to be real, and the fear starts to go away. "There are eclipses all the time, you know, and total ones happen every few years, but-- ," he says as he grips loosely at Michael's shirt so he won't walk ahead too fast in his frantic excitement. "But this one's really rare-- Like, it takes almost two decades to get the same exact one to happen again. Today's a-a total one, so you can look right at the sun."

\---

Michael starts to walk up the hill, his long legs carrying him a stride that's just naturally too fast for Martin. So he slows down, and let's him hold on. "Excellent. Perfect."

He crests the and slips away, opening his arms wide like he saw that beautiful woman in that movie about world War II once. It really was a pretty movie. "When does it start?" He shouts.

\---

"It already has," Martin shouts back up at him from where he's stopped. "It goes slowly, over a couple of minutes!"

When did he learn  _ any  _ of this?

His eyes move down to where Michael touches the ground, where his shadow is warping just so slightly, where the blades of untrimmed grass wave in the wind and darkness plays at all the corners. "Michael, you-- Y-you--" No. Martin Blackwood does not stutter. "You don't ever have to be scared, alright? You're going to learn a lot at university, and you'll keep making art, and people will help you find what you're good at!"

\---

Michael plops to the grassy ground, and pats a hand to the space next to him. He looks up, up at him, and his smile is gentle. "You're a kind man, Martin. Generous. I hope your timeline goes alright."

\---

Martin approaches cautiously, afraid, afraid like a wild animal to a hand filled with food that he's not sure he can trust. He sits down, and then leans back, back until he's looking up at Michael, who's head is shielding the moon shielding the sun. "I don't... I don't want to leave. What if it's years, again? What if I make you think you're crazy?"

\---

Michael shrugs and slowly, slowly leans back, until his hair splays out on the grass and he can look up at the sun, mesmerized. It washes out the color of his eyes, blue turned to ice, ice, ice.

"I already think I'm crazy. You just caught me at a bad time, I guess. Or a good time. Don't you think you have your own place to be?"

\---

"I don't know if I have one, Michael," Martin exhales, shaky and suddenly scared. "I thought I did, but I don't know if it'll be mine when I get back. You're not crazy. You're not crazy at all."

\---

"Well, you're very good at making things." He points up. "See? You did that. You swallowed the sun! Just with your mind."

He looks away, to Martin, and his smile is vague, pleased and dazed. "I'm sure you could make it yours again."

\---

Everything is getting dark. It’s not just the sun. Martin tilts his head to face Michael. “You can do that, too. I— I can try, I don’t— I’m just a _ teenager.” _

But he’s not alone, this time. “Can you promise you’ll keep doing something that makes you happy?”

\---

Michael chews on the inside of his cheek, and slowly, he nods. And then gets this look in his eye, and props himself up on his elbow, hovering slightly over Martin.

He holds out a pinkie. " Okay, but: You too. Do something that makes you happy. Pinkie promise?"

\---

The sun is almost blotted out completely. Martin’s eyes are wide as he looks up at a Michael’s waiting hand, but this time they’re not filled with moons.

He’s always wanted to have something worth promising over. “Promise.” He bridges the gap. “Able Abstract Artist Adapts Aptly and, Anxieties Aside, is Always Absolutely Aces.”

\---

Michael shakes on it. And promptly falls into hysterics, so utterly enamored that he falls back onto the grass and stares up at the blanketed sun with wonder.

His voice, too, is almost blanketed, something spoken half from instinct and half from wonder. "Always an Amazing Avenue for Adventure and Acceptance, our Astronomer."

\---

It's all rituals, isn't it? All he does is play, and joke, and love, and care, and every time it turns out that what he's done and found joy in is something powerful. Something he can use to control, and manipulate, and hurt, and-- And-- And Michael's finger is melting like wax.

How was he supposed to know the Doors could get him here? Michael's home-that-isn't swallows up joy like the moon blots out the sun. One second he's smiling brightly up at alliteration he's happy to oblige, the next he's falling from the roof and smashing hard against the old wood flooring of a hallway he's not ruined yet. And he's  _ old. _

_ "Time traveler,  _ Martin, great start." He groans, picking himself up off the floor. "Back in the hallways again. Doubt a  _ straight line  _ will work twice."

Martin starts his aimless walk, and while he's not able to make it straight again, there  _ does  _ happen to be a nice little pedestal with a vase on it that he gets to kick over, which is nice for his bad mood. He shoves his hands in the pockets of his cardigan and shuts his eyes, yelling up to whatever might listen."Why don't you give me a door in the _ floor, _ since you thought that was so funny?"

It's only natural that, this time, the vase he'd shattered decides to silently  _ un-shatter _ itself, just so it can roll down an incline that doesn't exist. Only natural, that he trips right on it into the next door.


	45. Rooms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter:  
> \- Dated LGBT terminology/gender discussion ~2008 between two characters who really aren't great at explaining  
> \- Drug use (Alcohol, weed)  
> \- Mentions of other substance abuse/implied substance abuse

There's a bass thumping deep, deep, reverberations through the chest and heart and spine and ribs. The kind that leaves phantom beats behind, hours later, a heavy reminder of what sound can do to memory. At least the swirling, strobing lights aren't tearing fingernails through his skull right now.

_ "Fuck,"  _ Michael grinds out, and the word floats down his trail of thick spit and into the club's toilet, and he rubs the back of his hand across the bottom of his mouth to break the connection. His knees are pressed bare against nasty cold tiles he refuses to think about, or else he'll vomit more from disgust. It's a fine balance, keeping the disgust at bay.

He'll be right as rain soon, he thinks. Right as Righteous Rain in Remembrance. His vision swims, and it's probably a good thing he's emptied his stomach. Vodka gone, just leaves room for more. Overdid it tonight. Doesn't matter. He can barely think. That's the goal. 

Rubbing away the only tears he'll allow himself tonight-- all vomit-induced, he assures himself, nothing pathetic-- he slowly and shakily makes his way to his feet, and shakes out his hair from where he had it haphazardly tied up for what he knew was coming, flushes, and exits the stall. 

In the mirror, Michael practices his pout. Of course, only once he splashes water on his face and rubs as much of the redness from his cheeks and eyes as he can. He thanks God or Creatures or Evil Things That Roil and Toil and Steal that he doesn't get veins popping from it. His mother did, when she vomited. A few eye drops don't hurt, either. 

He hums, low in his throat, and the bass doesn't sound like alarms anymore, and it doesn't sound like Hell, so he can leave soon. He can return. He will. But he gives himself a few quiet moments in the cool air of the grungy bathroom.

\---

Martin, many years in the future but certainly less than before, had started his descent falling headfirst into the floor. It's likely both a blessing and a curse that he ends up all twisted around instead, where he's violently spat out from a door that's already fading from existence by the time he's halfway through it. The deep black momentum of a door he couldn't possibly prepare for turns into-- Is that a public toilet? -- a harsh crack of the back of his skull against an unlocked stall that screeches on its hinges. 

It doesn't catch his fall at all, and he accepts fate and tumbles squarely onto his back in the walkway of the public bathroom with a wheeze. "Oh,  _ Christ."  _ Yep, he's in pain. He's in so much pain. His teeth rattle with the vibrations of sound he's too disoriented to pick out while stars flicker in and out of his vision. That wasn't very nice at all. 

Stupid Doors. Stupid Michael.

\---

Michael jumps back the moment a-- Was that man there before? God, like he would know, honestly-- man falls to the floor. Despite himself, a hand slaps to his mouth, and he giggles, nervous and high and the kind that people don't really like that much, or like too much and creep him out. 

The man on the floor is swimming, swimming in a sea of Michael's own vision. "Wow. Took too much tonight, huh, mate?"

\---

Martin blinks dumbly, trying and failing to shoot a glare in the direction of a voice he knows must be Michael’s. Different. Definitely the future. Still the past. 

He deadpans, “I am completely sober.” Then lifts his torso up off the floor. “This is— Um, unrelated, but... what year is it?”

\---

"...Uh-huh. Totally sober." He grins, and it's a shitty, nasty grin. "2008. Wow. What if I lied to you just now? Are you so fucked up I could just, say some random year and you'd believe me? Wow. That's so fucked up."

\---

“Don’t be such a— Oooh.”

Martin jolts, running a hand over his mouth. “Wow, no, I don’t say that. Just hit my head. I-I  _ hate _ 2008, so even if that’s true, lie to me anyway.”

\---

Michael rolls his eyes. "2008 is 2008. Deal with it. We're all living it. What's  _ your _ problem?"

\---

Martin reluctantly rises up from the ground, quickly realizing he might want to be less reluctant if it happens again. “You’re grumpy. Where are we, a rave? A club?”

\---

"Uh, duh, a club. Did you not-- Oh my god. You look  _ familiar. _ This is awkward. Have we hooked up?" He laughs nervously.

\---

Martin barks out a laugh. “No. You’d know if we had. You really—“ Nope. Not this time. Time traveling and clubbing do not mix. “Guess I have one of those faces. Is it a... nice club? Or is it...”

He gestures uncomfortably at the bathroom’s general existence.

\---

Michael rolls his eyes, and denies the nausea a chance to reign supreme. "Are you like, being homophobic in that question? Or, like, classist, or? Dunno what your qualifications are. Hey-- Then why do you look so familiar? Did we make out then? God, that'd be embarrassing." He giggles again.

\---

“What? Neither— I’m not straight, o-or rich, no— No, again, stop—“ 

Martin scowls. “I had a really good joke about my gay card there, and you went too quick!”

\---

Michael grimaces. "Well, I'd assume you aren't straight if you've been into me. Hey! what's the gay card joke? I'm here. See--" He holds his elbow over the sink. "Captive audience."

\---

Martin stands awkwardly beside the stalls, and then heaves a heavy sigh. Like this pains him. "I'd show you my gay card, but I don't-- I don't have one. They give all the bi men bus passes."

\---

"uh-huh. Pathetic. So you haven't made out, then? You know it's like, Saturday, right?”

\---

Jesus Christ. "I'm... sober. And... new here? Well-- Sober, as in, haven't-- Not don't. I-I-I promise I'm better at talking when I haven't just hit the floor of an awful bathroom."

\---

"Riiiight." Michael snorts, and pulls himself back into the mirror, checking to make sure his face isn't too red. Too puffy. Too obvious. "Wash your face. It'll clear up some. If you're that confused." He pauses. "Why are you in here?"

\---

Martin moves to the sink, bending down just enough to get both elbows on the edge. He splashes water over his face and tries to think, think, connect the pieces. He knows his name. Who is he? "Okay. I'm... Figuring this out. I think I was having a panic attack in the stalls because I've never been in a club like this before and this is sort of, way more than I bargained for. And then I hit my head."

\---

"Oh," and then he laughs again, and steps a little closer. "I mean. It's just music. Are you with someone? That helps. But if you're lonely, I guess there's no curing that."

\---

Martin hiccups, almost, wiping away at the corner of one eye with water. “No, I-I guess I’m not. I’m— I’ve been traveling alone. Is that different from being lonely?”

\---

"No," Michael says, and leans back in the mirror to start fixing his hair, fixing wayward strands that got tangled up the moment he pulled it back. "Not really. 'S why you go to a place like this. Duh. To forget that."

\---

“Right. I— I guess I’m doing a great job so far. Going about it all the wrong ways, though— Don’t need a concussion that bad.” Martin shakes his head to rid himself of any lingering water, and turns to Michael. 

He tentatively reaches out to Michael’s shoulder to try and pinch something away. “Sorry, you’ve got— fuzz, or something.”

\---

"'M all fuzz," Michael mumbles, and pulls away from the mirror to equally look back at him. He squints, and says, "It's just, you like, look so familiar."

He pulls off the edge of the counter and sways slightly-- whoa-- but it stabilizes itself after a moment and he's righted. Stupid, silly Michael. There's nothing in his stomach now. "Hey! Your bi card joke was funny. Just caught up to me Riiiight now. Ha-ha.”

\---

Martin grips the porcelain of the sink with one hand to force himself not to touch Michael more. Something tells him he shouldn’t do it too much. In a weird, weird place. “Thank you. I like to think I’m reasonably funny.”

He hates the noise of the outside that’s going to burst right in the second that door opens up a single crack. “F—Sorry if this is, um, too forward, but do you want to get dinner somewhere? Maybe you’ll remember and we’ll have a laugh about you seeing me trip on the street, once.”

\---

Michael glances to the bathroom door, and while he'd love nothing more than to have a mindless night that he absolutely does not remember and wake up in a bed that is absolutely not his, he also isn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Especially a handsome one who’s pinging off his deja vu line nothing else.

"As long as you're paying, sure," He says, and shrugs. "Hopefully nothing weird kicks in halfway through." He giggles again.

\---

With a fond smile, Martin pulls away from the sink entirely. “If it does, at least you’ll be somewhere that’s less—“

The bass. The lights. The noise. The sounds that twist and wind around your throat and eyes and sink deep into your chest to coil over arteries and tighten on your heart to make it hard to beat. “—Panic-inducing. I can pay. Lead the way?”

\---

"Grab my hand so you don't get lost." Michael presses one hand to the door and holds the other out. Why this man got into a club and immediately decided 'no thank you! Not for me!' is beyond him, but it's fine. A different adventure for tonight.

\---

_ Don’t you dare send me back, _ is a thought that crosses Martin’s mind. He’s not sure what that means, but he’s serious about it. 

He reaches out for Michael’s hand and squeezes. “Thank you.”

\---

Michael beams at him and pushes the door open, and the pounding music crescendos to a mind-numbing auditory level. He weaves them through the crowd fluidly, bobbing in and out of people's spaces.

They pause a few times to say yes, yes, hullo, and he steals a shot or two from someone's hand on the way to the front of the club, but other than that, he's rather proud of himself that he manages to stay mostly on track. Only takes five minutes to weave them through to the front door.

The second they're outside in the cold, cloudy night, he lets out a high,  _ Whew!, _ and drops Martin's hand.

\---

Martin’s near-giggling by the time they reach the front of the building, having assimilated the pounding noises into his present reality. Which is to say, it threatens to consume him several times, but he starts to like it. He can drown it out, now. But the problem wasn’t really that to begin with. Martin isn’t actually socially anxious, here. What a concept. 

“You’re a social butterfly,” he starts, fondness plain as day on his face. “What are we in the mood for?”

\---

"People are nice when they think you think they're sexy," He says. "Hm. Thai. Since I've shot my shot at getting fucked tonight."

\---

“Well, I’m just unconventional. I like to fall on the floor like a kicked puppy. Works every time.” Martin snorts, swiveling around a few times to catch the scenery outside. “Here’s hoping your night turns around.”

\---

In the far more forgiving natural light of the night, Michael spends a few moments regarding him, and though his eyes are a little wavery, bouncing, that strange deja vu doesn't dissipate.

And then it hits him, and he cracks up, pressing his hands excitedly to the back of his shoulders in glee. "I know! You look just like, like, okay this is so dumb. But I used to have an 'imaginary friend', right." He says the word with this lilt, like that isn't what it actually was, but he's not going to overtly out himself as crazy right here and now and get left on the side of the road. "Well you look like him! Ha!"

\---

Why does this hurt so bad? 

“I’ll take that as a compliment about my stunning good looks,” he says with an upward turn of his chin, to quell that unplaceable pain. “Right out of a dream.”

He likes this one. “We don’t have to get Thai if you don’t want. I didn’t buy any drinks, so! Heart’s content— Oh, I never caught your name.”

\---

"Oh! Hah. Michael. Do you want drinks?"

\---

“Kelsie.”

He hopes he won’t get in trouble with that one. Wait, why does he not want to say Martin? God, he feels crazy. 

“I just said that so— Budget wasn’t an issue, for dinner, but— Yeah? Not on an empty stomach, though.”

\---

Michael makes a dramatic flourish, and says, "Then a place with drinks and food. Lead the way, Kelsie!" He grins, moving on from the deja vu of it all easily. Much different pace than he was expecting, but it's not bad. Not at all. Not often he gets dinner out of a night out.

\---

“Didn’t I just tell you I was new here? Look—“ He starts walking backwards, facing Michael. “Here’s a game. I’ll just keep going in one direction, and you’ll stop us when you find somewhere nice.”

\---

Michael blinks at him dubiously, but gives an unsure nod. "Okay..." So he does; he keeps an eye out for what's open at this time of night, what'll be a shit hole, what'll be too fancy, et all. "You just in town for-- for the weekend, or?"

\---

“For a bit, don’t know how long. I’m— Honestly, new to cities. I’m trying it all out. Finally got away from a few things I needed a break from. Just be a young adult,  _ explooore.”  _ Martin holds up his hands and wiggles his fingers in some woo-woo magical gesture.

\---

"Exploring London's best and brightest, I see. Ha! Oh, hey, here-- not getting much better than a pub tonight." He gestures to a bar across the street.

\---

“Down a step from Saturday night clubbing to Saturday night pubbing. Thank you for— For giving me someone to talk to. New faces everywhere, and— Well, I mean, if you’re pretty like we are, hard to find nice ones.”

He shoots a conspiratorial grin behind his shoulder one he’s turned to face the street and cross.

\---

He snorts and rolls his eyes, crossing with Martin as he says, "But of course. Pretty Michael Shelley, at your service. Honestly, this is preferable to what I was going to do tonight, so, uh, thanks back at you?"

\---

“Hmm. Is snorting cocaine in the public bathroom less classy in a club, or a pub? That’s a question for the ages, isn’t it?” 

Martin gets there first, naturally, and props the door open with one foot. “After you, sir.”

\---

"If you're snorting coke, I think class has exited the building entirely. Gone! Bye!" His grin turns slightly soft as he walks into the pub, still slightly unused to...  _ that. _ Being read correctly.

\---

“Fwoosh. Bar or booth or table? Pubs I’m used to, those are everywhere.”

\---

"Dealer’s choice. I'm not picky." He likes this one. Nice. Funny.

\---

“Bar it is.” Martin nods once, like he’s made a gravely serious decision. It’s not packed in here, but it’s loud enough that no one’s watching. 

He doesn’t want to watch them, either. Once they’re seated, he taps on the counter. “They’ve got the stools that spin around, too. Five-star rating for me.”

\---

"Oh, yes," Michael says deadly seriously, as he folds his legs under him, and spins a couple times, acting as though he's testing out the hardware. "Competent. I approve." He waves a hand on the bar top to get the bartender's attention, and leans back up off it, looking at Martin again. 

"Now, tell me this. What were you doing in a club that was clearly freaking you out?"

\---

Martin stifles his laughter, but he doesn’t do a very good job of it. “I don’t know, what were you doing wiping your face off in the mirror?” He sticks one eyebrow up, but he’s not that mean. 

“I... guess I wasn’t up for it, yet, but— I try everything. Can’t help myself, given my  _ ways.”  _ He blinks dumbly at his own words. “Is— Is that problematic? I hope not.”

\---

"If it is, I'm probably not the one to clock you on it," Michael laughs. "But given my  _ ways, _ what would I know!" He fields a look out of the corner of his eye to Kelsie. "And for the record, I was powdering my face. In the pow-- actually, no, that bit's too stupid to finish."

\---

“Were you really about to say powder room?” He tries to deadpan it, but it’s cracking. “I’ll forgive that. I need something with fruit in it, and it has to be alcoholic, and I also need, just, like, something that has both potatoes and cheese. I feel like I haven’t eaten in years.”

\---

"Ooohhh, hasn't eaten in years. Anorexic, or a vampire?" He snickers, and when the bartender comes over, he politely and sweetly requests a menu and a drink special run-down.

\---

Kelsie orders what he wants, which is really rather simple, and is grateful the bartender’s eyes aren’t dead or avoidant of him. He’s not sure why he expected that. New town jitters, all the people are zombies. 

“Vampire, for sure. Even got the teeth to prove it. So— What does Michael Shelley do in his spare time?”

\---

Michael orders some vodka concoction and drums his fingers on the laminate of the menu idly. "Oh, y'know. Uni, just about finishing that up, and uh, starting an internship next week. Very, very boring life I lead."

\---

“What— No, that’s fantastic! Getting a degree. What’s the internship for?”

\---

"The Magnus Institute," He waggles his eyebrows. Very lofty. He's still amazed he got in. "I'm..." His voice gets quiet, sincere. "I'm honestly really rather excited."

\---

Something twitches and dies in Kelsie’s throat before he can even find out what it is. “Institute. That’s attractive. Big mouthful. Er— That’s not a segue. Just true.” He looks at Michael properly, then, one of those painfully open, smiley faces he’s quickly making habit. “I hope it’s good for you.”

\---

"I sure hope so. Interesting, at least. All the-- the paranormal investigations. Maybe I'll get to investigate  _ ghosts. _ Dunno. The lady what interviewed me was certainly shrewd for someone in the business of the Unexplained." He smiles right back.

\---

It twitches back into life. He doesn’t like that feeling. It’s a feeling that makes him feel like he has to skip town. “Sometimes the way people are in interviews isn’t who they really are. Just have to get to the bottom of it.” He nudges Michael’s side with his elbow. “And, hey— You’ve already got a vampire to investigate right here. Or maybe I’m a werewolf. Grr.”

\---

"Grr." Michael repeats, and mockingly wrinkles up his face in the cutest approximation of a snarling face. "Pretty tame for a werewolf."

\---

“You’re cute. I’m on my best behavior.” He leans in like he’s about to tell a particularly heavy secret. “My mother used to say I was half dog. Makes sense.”

\---

"Well what do mothers know." He snorts. "Little to nothing, frankly." Michael leans in to, and whispers, "But did she realize she was saying she fucked a dog when she told you that?"

\---

That’s what kills him. He erupts into laughter, the kind that says no one’s ever turned it back around like that. Caught completely off-guard. “Shit. That’s good. Guess not.” He pauses briefly to catch his breath. “I really needed someone like you tonight.”

\---

Michael does another flourish and performatively throws his hair behind one of his shoulders. "I do so try." The bartender returns with their drinks, and Michael takes an eager sip.

\---

He lifts his own to his mouth. He can’t remember the last time he drank, so he’ll have to be careful here. After a brief gathering of his thoughts, Kelsie speaks up. “So, does that all mean you live near here, Michael?”

\---

"Hm? Oh, yes. A nice flat. Not a terrible price either. Not that it matters, the price, really, but it's rather nice to know I'm not being overcharged."

\---

“Wow, so  _ you’re _ the rich one, aren’t you?” He waves a hand. “A million of your finest flats, please. No, no, don’t bother sending me the bill.”

\---

Michael snorts. "Just whatever savings I've left. Not exactly loaded. Not exactly, hm, getting money from home anymore."

\---

That gets a head tilt. “Me neither. But— Well— I was the one making it, so.” Kelsie swirls his drink around in front of him. “I mostly brought it up to ask if you wanted... company?”

\---

Michael wrinkles his nose. "Oh, yeah, 'cause you're not from the city. Ha! I mean, I assumed, just not-- yeah. Yeah we'll go to my place."

\---

Kelsie brings an elbow up to the table so he can press the side of his face into one hand. “Just not... what? I-I didn’t offer mine up because it’s a motel and we don’t have to, um, y’know. Not why I’m here. More things to do at a flat.” He tries to recover with a dramatic wink. “Got any board games?”

\---

Michael makes this half-surprised noise that's between a laugh and a yip, and shakes his head. "No... I could--"

Something jostles in his memory, and he leans forward, grinning, and takes a fistful of Kelsie's sweater. "Hey! You know-- I've painted a sweater sooo close to this. Isn't that weird? Maybe I'll paint you."

\---

Kelsie’s immediate response to being grabbed is a confused but not unhappy noise. “You paint? I’d— Yeah. Yeah! I’d like that. That would be—“ Ah. The first tipsy giggle of the night. “—Really cool.”

\---

Michael stays close for a long moment, still holding him and looking up at him from where he's hunched under his face to give him a beaming, loaded smile. "Awesome." He pulls back, and takes another drink.

"Yeah, yeah. I paint. It's my way, of uh, writing, because it's like. Uh.... Visual words? And I'm so bad at words sometimes."

\---

Visual words. Yes, he understands that. “I write, sometimes. Been doing it less lately, haven’t really had the time or— Or things to write about that make me happy. I should get back into it.”

What was the last thing he wrote? It wasn’t years ago, it was... he was older. That doesn’t make sense. More drinking it is.

\---

"Oooooooo, a writer. I can picture you, all, lounged out with your, your whiskey glass and your, like, readers on just pouring everything out with your fingers all over some old typewriter. Hah! Titillating Tomes to Type."

\---

“That’s— Thats actually kind of sexy. I hope I get a cigarette or, or a pipe or something. Smoke clouds make it all thoughtful and mysterious.” 

He likes alliteration. Why does he never do it? Kelsie visibly thinks, thinks so hard it’s almost audible. “Tending Towards Toting Tokes— Oh, wait. There’s so many awful sex jokes you can make with T’s.”

\---

"Why hold back?" Michael giggles. "And you are all thoughtful and mysterious. I mean-- you swindled me into dinner and drinks literally seconds after I puked my guts out. What a mysterious, uh, accomplishment. Who does that!"

\---

“I didn’t swindle you, and I was too busy having my own meltdown to notice!” 

He rubs the back of his head with one hand, but he refuses to be shy. “Tremendous Taints Tell Tales of Tantalizing Tits. Tools Tame Tarts. Tops are Twats. Taste—“ More giggles. “—Tenting Tips.”

\---

Michael's hands fly to cover his nose and mouth as he laughs, leaning back in the barstool and very nearly tipping it over. Somehow he's got good enough balance for it to just come back to the ground in full force, graceful.

"People get  _ mad _ when I do that. I can't believe you--you just do it too."

\---

“Careful! I, um, I don’t! Usually. It’s like a drug. Alliteration. It’s crazy how much you can make with one letter.” 

His head is buzzing, but in a very nice way. “I like you.”

\---

Michael's smile grows soft. "I like you, too. You're sweet. Nicer than most of the guys I hook up with."

\---

Kelsie fidgets with the edges of his sweater. “Yeah. Me too. Don’t really have a good history, um— I had a really bad habit of getting scared and running off, but— I don’t know if that was a me problem, or, or just picking the wrong people.”

\---

"Probably both, in my experience." He takes another drink.

\---

“Ouch. It stings, but it’s true.” Kelsie swivels on the bar stool a little, now that he’s good and ready. “Would you— Want to abandon the food and get some at - at your place, maybe?”

\---

"Okay." He doubts they'll actually get any food, but Kelsie's very into this game, which he can respect. He dishes out some cash and puts it on the bar, throwing up a thankful hand when the bartender glances their way.

\---

Kelsie huffs. Please have money please have money please have m—  _ Yes. _ No wallet, but he does have a small wad in one of his back pockets. He finishes off his drink quicker than might be wise, and places money on the counter. 

He also takes Michael’s back, trying to hand it off to him. “We had a deal, and I— I make good on my promises.”

\---

Michael blinks at him, vaguely shocked as he slowly takes the money and holds it like he doesn't know what to do with it. He  _ always _ pays. It's not that he shouldn't, he has the means, but he's.... Flattered nonetheless. That M--  _ Kelsie _ knows and nonetheless wanted to pay him back.

"T- thank you. Um. That was kind."

He takes them outside and hails a cab. Never hard for him to, considering how much he sticks out, on the street he hums with nervous enegy. He doesn't really take people home. Mostly because he sucks at choosing people and doesn't want to get ax murdered in his own bed.

\---

M— Kelsie is having a fantastic off-color night to break an endless cycle of nights so bland or boring or depressing he’s let them weave together into something barely comprehensible. He even holds the door open for him, and no one’s encouraged him to be a gentleman in quite some time. 

He most certainly won’t be ax or hatchet murdering anyone anytime soon, especially not Michael. 

“Oh— Just a quick question, but— Do you... Do you have any pets?”

\---

Michael shakes his head. "Allergic? Don't worry. I don't have any. I'm a bit too busy for a dog." The cab pulls up, and Michael returns the favor, opening the door up for Martin and offering him to climb in first.

\---

Martin has his own moment of playful feigned swooning, hand over his chest as the car door is opened. As he gets in, he shakes his head. “No, I like animals. Never had any I actually owned. I’ve had— I mean, admittedly several times I’ve been invited over somewhere and paid more attention to - to their dog.”

\---

Michael laughs as he ducks into the car, folding around himself and pulling the door tight behind him. "If be lying if I said I haven't done the same," He says. "Always wanted one. And-- cats. They're such assholes. Always wanted two."

\---

“Two cats,” Martin says distantly. “They’d keep each other company, though. Probably just sleep all day.” 

Something about that feels weird, but he’s not in a place to inspect it.

\---

"Yes! Post pictures of them cuddling all over MySpace!" He grins.

\---

“People really still use that? Hm.” 

Martin glances out the window, and he wonders how familiar all of this should be to him. What all of it should mean. If it’s supposed to mean anything at all. “I— Wait, before I forget. You’ll be, what, investigating ghosts, right?”

\---

"Still? I mean, I think I heard of people using, like.... That Twitter thing now? I don't quite get it, though." He shrugs.

"And-- yeah. Stuff like that. Monsters. Paranormal. Ghosts. I mean. It probably won't be as interesting as it sounds."

\---

“So you believe in that stuff, then— or, what, just studying it? Like getting first...hand...”

Martin’s words slow to a crawl. “Whoa. Weird deja vu.”

\---

Michael gives a very, very careful shrug and looks out the window. He busies himself in telling the cabbie where to go, and they pull away from the curb.

"Yeah, I believe in it." He filters a look to Kelsie and blinks. "I've been getting deja vu all night."

\---

“I wouldn’t bring it up if I didn’t believe it, too. I’ve had— Bit of a weird life.” Kelsie squints. “Oh, no. I can’t unlock my tragic backstory yet, whiskey keep your mouth shut.”

\---

He snorts, and leans across the cab, fluttering his lashes. "well, well, well. I told you my life trajectory. You could return the favor."

\---

“Okay. Sure. Finally told my mother I couldn’t pay her medical bills, started roaming, bit of baggage there— but I’m thinking of trying out therapy.” 

He pauses, and then tilts sideways to rest his head against Michael’s shoulder. He’s not sure why he thinks this is perfectly acceptable for him to do. “And I believe in weird things ‘cause I’ve seen things. Not necessarily bad things. Ghosts, ghosts can be... nice. I— Huh. Get me just a smidge more drunk and I’ll tell you about the farm.”

\---

"I've never seen a ghost before," Michael says, and looks so very, very curious. "So you're one up on me." He shifts his eyes, thinking, and then lets out an involuntary giggle; the sudden changes in environment have helped sober him up, but he's still loose-lipped, and for some reason, he thinks he can tell this man anything. Weird. Naive, probably. Everyone would tell him so. 

"But I did see a monster once. It-- Hah!-- It ate my friend."

\---

Kelsie’s nose crinkles. “I believe you. I—“

The cab starts to slow down. “I don’t think I can talk about it in a cab. Hand me a glass of something that’s not roofied and you can paint me and— “ He breaks into a lazy smile, all practice calmness. “And we can compare sizes.”

\---

"Hah! Sounds like a plan. You're so peculiar." He says it in a good way, his smile curling upwards in a fondness that feels like years and years and years of practice and comfortability, which makes no sense, considering he's just met Kelsie. 

The cab stops, and Michael leans forward to pay the fellow, and slides back out into the night air. He stretches, bones creaking, and he thinks he needs to either take something else to keep his buzz going, or he might actually fall asleep on his guest. His  _ guest. _ He doesn't have many of those very often. 

His building is definitely nice. Nice, but standard in such a cookie-cutter, lifeless way that he's more than once strolled to the wrong apartment building. Flat's a flat a flat. "No roofies," He says, once the car door is closed. "Maybe other stuff. Ever been roofied before? it sucks."

\---

Kelsie shadows after him, basking in the praise. He likes being peculiar. There’s no bad connotation, it just is. Strange, yes. Fun, yes. Sweet, yes. He likes that. 

“Other stuff? I’ve, um— No. Back before I really started figuring out the, the sexuality thing, I have— I have this knack for not being noticed. Straight pubs... I’ve switched a few drinks. And helped a few girls. It’s not... not really pretty.”

\---

"Oh, it's really not. It's, like, slightly easier now, now that people mostly see a tall as fuck man. Before that..." He cocks his head. And then slides a look towards Martin like he's gauging a reaction. Always good to get it in early, rather than have a freakout later, and a cold bed populated only by vicious slurs and his lonesome body.

\---

"Right. Then you get the new crowd that thinks you're some exotic unicorn." Well. Someone's blasé about that. Oh, our little Astronomer warping time and space to use the admittedly little amount of information he's gleaned from his weird friend-partner-ghost-lovers and random passing flings to breeze his way through this. They'd all be so proud of him.

\---

Michael lets out a truly surprised laugh, and fishes his keys from his pocket. "Wow, yeah, I mean-- Yeah." Nothing to add there. Guess he found the perfect fucking person ever. He uses the first key to get them into the lobby and starts guiding them towards the elevator. 

He takes the time while waiting for the lift to find them to give Martin a look over. Like he could clock him. He doesn't think so, though. But what does he know?

\---

Martin waits until they're in the lifts alone before he says anything else, hands shoved into his pockets and a sly smile preceding a gag he's already got on his tongue. "Isn't it a little problematic to stare like you're trying to guess what I am?"

\---

It startles Michael into a near jump. And then he's grinning sharp at him, unleashed and ecstatic that he's clearly receptive to these kinds of jokes. "Ooooho, Martin! Calling the faggot... What was that?  _ Problematic? _ Hah. How progressive."

\---

Martin shrinks a little-- Not literally, obviously, but it's a physical body reaction he can't control. Martin does. Oh, Martin, Martin, Martin. "Oh-- Well. I mean--" He laughs, nervous and jittery and disoriented. "I dunno, give me a guess. What do you think I am? Be as p-problematic as possible."

\---

"Hm." Michael likes this game. No one let's him play this game. Because he's  _ baaaaaad _ about it. He openly looks him up and down, and when the lift doors open, he takes Martin by the hand and marches him across the hallways, still looking back. "You're a man. Like-- whatever, male. But that--" He giggles, "-- that cock would love to be she'd at some point."

\---

Martin spirals on the lead, but not in the cosmic sense of the term. He's flustered. That makes him nervous. That makes him stutter and say stupid things and get himself in trouble. That's who Martin is. It-- Does it have to be, or is that self-enforced? He's only getting every other word in his own thought processes to begin with. 

His hand is hot in Michael's and his face gets flushed and he can't blame this momentary blip on any alcohol inside his system. "P--" Christ. He sounds so small. "Please tell me what that means?"

\---

Michael snorts, and says, "You asked. Anyways," He lets go of Martin's hand and inserts the key to his door. He turns to give him a look. "Jokes aside. Anyways. I heard from some guy. Girl? Neither? I dunno. Fluidity. Sometimes people are weird and fluid, or like, fixed to one but it's just off and not either or, and what I'm saying is, you should explore your feminine side." He opens the door and steps in.

\---

"Yeah-- I-- Michael, I get that part, but you just brought up my  _ dick. _ I don't know if it has an op-- An opinion? On that?" Another nervous giggle. He's full of those now. Like he's finally made it to a stranger's door who he actually likes and it's sinking in that he might just be out of Martin's league, or something. "How... uh, does that work?"

\---

"Ah, the male dichotomy of both being guided by his dick’s opinion, and also no, no, no sir, it has nothing to do with me at all. I swear!" He crackles, and turns on the lights.

The flat is sparse. Pre-furnished in some kind of modern shtick that Michael doesn't really get and doesn't really care about. One day he'll get an apartment and he'll buy his own furniture and it'll be retro. And from the 70s. Maybe the 60s. Gaudy, but flowery, and fun. For now? This is what he's working with. A dreary white living room.

"I don't know, by the way. Just-- just try stuff out! You think I knew I was gay for like, real, until I sucked a tit or two? I mean-- at least go to a drag show or two."

\---

This reminds him of a flat he hasn’t had yet. It sucks. He trusts Michael will really get into it once his life isn’t cut...

Short. “I mean, I’ve had a couple one night stands where I— Er. It doesn’t matter.” He is curious. That’s the problem. Ever since some prick made him all nervous about his sex life. Bring the old one back. You can switch them out, you know. Wear them like a second skin. “Doubt you’d have any relics of the past that might fit me, then?”

\---

"Hm." Wow. Does  _ he _ get to do this? Ceaseless wonders with Kelsie. He drops his keys on the counter and tries to stay.... Well. Tries not to look ridiculously over ecstatic. But it's a hard thing.

"Nothing from the past. Gross. Catholic isn't your style. I have some new stuff, though. Do you like dresses? I've got this-- this red number that'll look splendid on your frame, I think."

\---

Kelsie waits at the door to untie his shoes while Michael talks, and it gives him a good enough outlet for his nervous energy that he’s ready to just go with whatever insanity is about to happen in this completely normal flat. “I’ve never worn—“ 

Yep. Sure. Might as well happen. “Okay - please tell me you have hard liquor - red’s sort of my favorite color. Not just saying that.”

\---

Michael nods, stepping around the island and into the kitchen, and starts to pull a couple glasses down from the cabinet. From a cupboard down towards the floor, he pulls out an expensive bottle of scotch and pours them four fingers each, sliding Kelsie's across the counter.

"It'll look good with your hair. Nice compliment to you. Very femme fatale. C'mon." He grabs his glass and starts down the hallway.

\---

God, here we go. Kelsie grabs it and follows with little hesitation on his part, because he’s nothing if not an explorer, an inquisitive little smile on his face. 

“Michael, you really are a very interesting person.”

\---

"Oh, you mean it's not normal to bring home a hookup and make him crossdress? Who would have thought." He takes him to the end of the hallway, into a large bedroom. It's slightly unkempt in so much as the vanity has makeup and face products strewn about haphazardly, and the hamper in the corner is overflowing with clothes being tossed clumsily in them, and the bed isn't made, but sue him. He wasn't expecting anyone to be over tonight. 

The closet is a modest walk-in by Michael's estimations, and he sets his glass of scotch on the tall dresser just on the inside of it. He doesn't have the most feminine clothes, but he's gotten a few; wonders galore what actually having facial hair and no tits will do for your desires to rekindle a mid-twenties love of dresses. 

The dress itself is cute, but short; a bit too short for Michael, and the reason he hasn't worn it more than once, for a very specific night out where he wanted to go to fancy lounges and play the high-class whore. It's not a slutty dress, it's just... suggestive. Beautiful. Soft. He runs his hands over it for a moment before pulling it off the hanger and draping it over his arm, stepping back out to the main room. 

"Good?"

\---

"I don't know enough about dresses to say anything, but-- Yes?" There's an upward tilt to his yes that's not just a voice crack, but says something along the lines of 'I am completely out of my depth but I'm having fun and have no clue where this is going to go but indulging it is certainly entertaining'. Kelsie follows it up with a swallow of scotch and a grimace at the taste, because he's not refined in any way.

\---

"Excellent!" Michael comes to the bed and pulls up the sheets and blankets to make an approximation of a flat surface, and lays the dress down with reverence. "Got her at some boutique. The lass wanted nearly 4,000 pounds, and I said 'madam, it's clearly from last fall, I won't pay a cent more than 2,' and, cheeky girl, she took it immediately, because she knew it was still a good 500 more than it was worth." 

He steps back and claps his hands together. "Now! Off with the boy-clothes."

\---

"Two thousand... pounds." 

Kelsie lets that sit there, because that's completely absurd, he forgot Michael had money. "What, right here? Strip tease for a dress that costs more than rent?"

\---

"Not more than this rent! And it's-- It's just the story. It-- The money isn't important." He colors slightly. People take him to be a braggart. He forgets, sometimes. That his material reality has been different. "I'll look away if you want."

\---

Kelsie doesn't care. "Seeing me in my boxers is more decent than-- Ooh, wait, I'm getting into--" He laughs as he pulls the cardigan off. "--Territory that might be a landmine, here. You'll have to let me know if I'm being..." 

He tilts his head, shooting Michael a lopsided little grin while he starts unlooping his belt. "Problematic."

\---

Michael groans. "You and that word. I don't care. You don't even say anything bad." He laughs. "I've got you crossdressing and you think  _ you're _ the, the problematic one."

\---

"I keep it all in, that's why you think I'm not problematic. If I say-- Oh, no, I sure hope this isn't problematic, you-- People are more gentle. I can get away with things." 

He pulls his pants down, and the Spiral gets to decide what's on them, because at this point it's Michael's choice. Martin gets to make eclipses, Michael gets to choose his favorite boxers for Martin. 

He grips his shirt from the back and pulls it over his head. "Sorry, I'm not making this very sexy. Feel like you'd rather, um, have me in that."

\---

"However you want to do it, it's still sexy as fuck. And I guarantee anything you say is half as bad as the shit I say slurring into some bear's ear to get him to let me ride him. Literally guarantee." 

He steps to the bed and takes the dress back into his hands, unzipping the back, and then eyeing down the dimensions of Martin's hips to gauge the best way about this. Michael ends up scrunching the fabric, so he can throw it over his head. Masculine hips, but on a much wider frame than Michael's skinny own, so it evens out. 

"C'mon then. Here we are."

\---

Martin has quite a few things to say about everything Michael just threw at him, but he's astoundingly distracting and this is all very new for him and shit why does this keep happening? Flipping back and forth, there's just--

It's the world's most infuriating light switch in his head that somebody keeps flicking up and down every few minutes. He's not got much of a choice except to help make this process easier, pulling it down over his head and smoothing the fabric out as gently as he can. Like he's afraid of breaking it. It's worth more than he is. 

He's shy all over again. He should not be getting this shy. It's just a dress. Plenty of people wear them. "Um-- Could you-- The zipper?"

\---

"Of course,  _ dear,"  _ Michael purrs, and he dances behind him, zipping up as far as he can go and then pressing a cool hand to the back of Kelsie's spine to get him to arch a bit so he can get it the rest of the way. It takes a moment, but once it's up, he pulls back to the front and beams at him, raking his eyes over his form. 

"Here." He closes the closet door so Martin can see himself in a full-length mirror.

\---

“Oh.” 

It’s a soft sigh. Soft as the way he grips one wrist in the other hand and twists it gently against his chest to keep himself grounded here. Not that he wants to go anywhere, that’s not what it is, but that’s the thing, really. He  _ wants _ to stay here. He’s warm here. Despite the oppressive blankness of this flat, it’s warm. He’s warm. Existing in a liminal space that’s closer to reality than the actual world could ever hope to be. 

One where he doesn’t run away. Where he’s not worried about losing control. Hurting people. Hurting himself. Where he wants to be seen, looked at, listened to, loved. Where he’s trying desperately to be honest, to be present. Where he’s recognized for who he is and not just what he does. There’s this uncanny, distorted truth here— He’s in control, yet he’s spiraled completely, and he’s here for someone else, but he’s here for himself, too. 

It’s selfish. Maybe that’s not a bad thing, here. It’s not always. It’s a neutral human capability. It’s not even about the dress. 

“Can I stay here tonight?” 

He’s asking Michael, but he’s asking the world, too.

\---

Michael sits on the bed while he watches, criss-crossed and beaming at the way Kelsie regards himself in the mirror. What a lovely lad.

"Yes, yes, I, uh, would like you to," He responds, and something fills his chest and fills his lungs, and he repeats it, no hesitation. "I'd like you to."

\---

Martin Kelsie Blackwood whips around with renewed energy, bright-eyed and relieved. It’s real. This is their space. He gestures with two open palms and the tiniest of play bows. “Well then, sir, I’m—I’m all yours.”

\---

Michael giggles, and says, "You're so intense,” and falls backwards on the bed, letting his brain catch up to his body for a second. Ok. He's got a man-- or, well, close enough-- home, he's near to wasted, and he's got him in a dress. What's next? He knows what he would normally do, but for once he doesn't want to be classless and messy about this.

\---

“Oh,  _ I’m _ intense?” Martin scoffs, picking up his drink again and waving it about. “You’re— You’re the one calling me  _ dear _ and putting me in fancy clothes and making me question—“ He clicks his tongue, opting instead to drink. It’s not any easier on his throat. 

“Things.”

\---

"Oh, pah.  _ Making _ you question things. Dramatic." He sits back up, and then stands, and comes behind Martin and presses his hands to Martin's waist, smiling softly. He'll show him intense.

"It curves nicely on your hips," He murmurs.  _ "Darling." _

\---

“Ah.” Martin jolts slightly, but it’s not a bad jump. It’s the kind that takes a turn into soft, flustered laughter. “Okay. Did I, um, did I already say you were right?”

\---

"About what?" Mark your calandars, Michael Shelley was right about something.

\---

“About...” He squints as he tries to think on the right words. “This. The dress. I think, I-I’m never on— On this end?”

\---

"Ah." He holds onto Martin for a few more moments, looking at them both in the mirror, and then he pulls back. "Well! Now I want to dress up. I'm putting one on, too, and then I'm showing you the art studio." He pulls the closet door open and shuts it behind him.

\---

“Cockblocked by the art studio, working title of my next erotic novel. It’ll be a hit, I can promise you that!” He announces it loud enough he’s sure Michael can hear it from the other side, taking a cautious glance at his own reflection no less than a few separate times.

\---

"It's like, two in the morning!" Michael yells through the door. "There's plenty of time!" He finds something flowy and soft and yellow, the kind of long, draping dress that suits his height and frame. It's not nearly as fancy as what Martin's wearing, the cocktail whore, more like something you'd wear to a park. But let Martin be the more feminine one tonight.

He steps back out, and tweaks Martin's side on his way to the vanity, so he can pick out a necklace for himself and Martin.

\---

Martin smiles warmly at him as he comes back out, refusing to let fear take hold at the idea that he wouldn’t. “It’s very nice, b-both of them, but I’m imagining the vaguest concept of those sexy Halloween costumes, like, for things that aren’t sexy? Like—“ Ah, the drunk rambling begins. “—Ketchup and mustard.”

\---

Michael wrinkles his nose and looks to him in amusement. "Bad aesthetics," He says, and strings something simple and gold around his neck. "I think it's more like a sunrise."

\---

“It is, it is,” Martin reassures. “Just popped into my head and if I don’t get them out now, well— They come out at really bad times. Wow. This is really happening, and I’m having fun. Are you having fun?”

\---

Michael actually takes a moment to pause and think. Not just mindlessly agree yes, yes, having fun, of course, let's move on. But-- he  _ is.  _ "A blast. Come here. I'll put your necklace on." His voice turns lofty and high. "'Collarbones are meant to be adorned with jewels.'"

\---

Martin steps over, clearly unused to the motions of actually moving in a dress. He’s never this exposed - he barely even wears t-shirts outside - but Michael seems to know exactly how to handle him. This. He likes this one. He didn’t know he was getting jewelry, too. Christ, no heels. That’s his line. He’d break his neck on Michael’s bad flat furniture. 

“Are you quoting something?”

\---

"Uh-- oh! Guess I am. Probably my mother, or something." He laughs and pulls Martin back by the shoulder, spinning him 'round so he can place a simple gold chain, with a decently sized diamond pendant, over Martin's neck. He clasps it, and spins him again, giving an approved hum at how it matches the dress. "Perfect."

\---

Martin sits quietly through Michael’s work. He thinks, any other time, this might leave him feeling like a doll in the degrading, dehumanizing way. It has before, he’s done a few things he’s not proud of or particularly wants to remember because he thought the surface level praise was worth it at the time. And each time, he slipped out before morning, or sometimes right after, sometimes without even finishing up. 

He moves several fingers of one hand over the necklace, and he doesn’t feel like a thing. An object of control. He’s opted out of that. There is no fight for an upper hand here, and all he has to do to earn praise is exist. 

Martin sniffs, but he doesn’t cry. “Well.” He tries to recover from that one, but he’s turned a few shades darker and he can’t really hide that. “Quite a bit of examining to do, then, huh?” 

He moves away to pick up his clothes, completely uncaring of the state of Michael’s room as a whole as he folds up his pants. He doesn’t like leaving messes behind.

\---

"Never a bad thing." Michael says, and steps back. "It should feel, ah, like, liberating, if it’s right. Like you're an, um, a snake who's been too tight in the skin and you finally pulled it off to fresh new iridescence."

\---

Martin pauses halfway through folding his cardigan to let out a surprised laugh. “You— You mean comfortable? It is, I— It’s not bad, I’m— Just a little flustered.” He puts the cardigan down on the edge of the bed and hums. 

“You’re— attractive. And nice. And you keep saying things that make me go  _ Oh!  _ but in, like, like three different ways. And I still have my boxers on. And I’m afraid of ruining your dress. It’s a nice dress.”

\---

Michael shrugs. "You won't ruin it. You're giving it more love than I have." He pauses. "Besides. I lost some weight. It doesn't fit. You can have it, if you really like it."

\---

“Guess we’ll find out if I’m taking it home in the morning, then. Don’t you have an art studio to show me?”

\---

"Ha! Good memory. C'mon." He grabs Martin's hand and marches him down the hall, to another door. He opens it and flicks the light on, and sure enough, a modest art studio, strategically placed to get the most natural lighting in the flat, dwells inside.

He drops Martin's hand and finds a chair for him, while he goes to start rummaging through canvases. "I wanted to-- your sweater, remember? It reminds me of someone I painted. Dunno who it is, really just-- old memory. Ghost, maybe."

\---

Martin takes the seat gladly, crossing his legs off to the side and leaning one elbow behind the chair to rest a hand over the back. “I found it at a thrift store, once. Didn’t have any tags, so I— Honestly, have no idea where it came from. When did you start painting?”

\---

"Summer I was going into secondary school. 9th grade, thereabouts." His expression slips, as the thought process gets him zoned out, trying to chase a thought, a memory, a feeling. It takes him a while to come back, shaking his head and continuing his search. "Guess I can't remember why, just... Just did.

\---

Martin tries not to think about basically anything more complicated than what it takes to feel nice. He hasn’t had a day like this in... ever, actually. Definitely never. “That’s a long time! Bet you’re good at it. Oh! Do you— Wow, I was really about to say ‘do you like music’. Fantastic intro, Martin. We could play something if it helps you work.”

\---

Michael peeks his head up, and then points to a table near the window. "Record player. Pick your poison. I thrifted a bunch of records when I first came to London. There's a lot."

\---

Martin uncrosses his legs to stand up, smoothing out the front of the dress as he does. He spends a few minutes carding through the records and finally settles on one he recognizes with a soft ‘oh!’. 

“I know, like, half of what’s on here. It’s— Hold on.”

He’s gentle with it. He’s never owned a record player, but he’s used them before, and he starts it up. Nothing like the greatest hits of the Mamas and the Papas. Real mood setter, there. 

“This fine?”

\---

Michael perks up, and he doesn't turn, but he does hum, saying, "Oh yes. One of my favorites. I like old music. Good ear."

The gorgeous harmonies powerhoused by Mama Cass are a balm to the room. There's good acoustics in here, and he likes the record player for painting, considering it gives him a proverbial alarm to get up and stretch every twenty minutes while skipping over to the other side of the record.

It's not until the first song ends that he finds what he's looking for, the flash of oil paint bright fish scales. He'd painted it right before he graduated high school. He remembers it, but vaguely. It came from a dream.

"Found it!" He says, and pulls it fully out to show Martin. A man on a hill, covered in iridescent scales, his hair pressed to the grass as he looks above him. He looks troubled, and Michael can't remember why he painted such a colorful man so troubled. He doesn't look too closely at it; the second he saw the scales, he pulled it around to Kelsie. "See? Just like yours."

\---

"Oh, wow." 

Martin's eyes are wide as he takes in every detail he'll allow himself, and it has something clawing from deep inside his chest. Something that makes him feel like he's about to fall into the ground.

"It's-- It's the same one. Weird."

\---

"I know! I know. Weird, huh? I've been thinking about it all night. It's like. It's like, that's how I knew I could trust you."

\---

"I mean, I don't think-- You can't be evil with a sweater like that. I hope." 

Martin blinks, and blinks again, and finally tears his eyes from the canvas. "Guess I'm just destined to be your muse."

\---

"Maybe so. Speaking of. I'm gonna get the paints ready. There's a box? In my bedroom. It's got weed. Roll your painter a joint?" He grins, shit-eating, and let's it fade to a plaintive pout. Sweater done and over with. He's got Martin in a _ dress. _

\---

"You put me in a dress, and you make me your housewife. Chores. Fantastic." Martin shoots back a similarly shit-eating grin. "Where, exactly, in the bedroom, Michael?"

\---

"We were just in it! Just backtrack! And, duh, you can roll your own, I share, I share." He pauses. "I'm painting you. The labor involved... Tsk tsk."

\---

"Right, right. I guess I can do that." Martin sighs, and as he stands up again he has to fight the vaguest sense of impending doom as he looks down the hallway to the open door. 

They're all open. Nothing closed. The music is loud enough that he can still hear it as he goes, but he still treads cautiously outside the general stilted gait from the unfamiliar clothes. No doors. No doors. He's not sure why that keeps coming to mind, why he flinches as he enters the bedroom.

It won't happen. What it is, he's not sure. It won't. Martin, alone, scans the bedroom like he's on some sort of timer, even though he's not, he knows he's not, and finds the box he wants. He tries not to hurry, tries not to let the barren walls breathe down his neck, because they aren't doing that. It's a perfectly normal flat. The music helps. Vibrating a completely different way than the damn club, that's for sure.

He takes the box with him back into the room and sighs heavily when he makes it back, going to his knees by the chair he'd been sitting on to pull out what he needs to do this on the seat. "All set up?"

\---

"Just about." He's got several tubes of acrylic; easier for an impromptu nightly paint, and a fresh canvas, and he's crossing his legs on a nice plush stool covered in splatters of dried paint.

"I've never done this, before." He says, as he's thinking of hues and creating small mixtures on a pallet board for easy access. "Painted someone I brought home. I feel like you're getting a classier picture of me than most people get." He turns and grins at Martin. "Next thing you know, we'll be singing kumbaya and you'll be braiding my hair."

\---

"I can braid hair, but not-- Ineeeebriated." Martin bites down on his bottom lip as he rolls up the first joint, and it's not the best joint ever, but it's not laughably pathetic. He knows weed. Especially back when he was this age.

Which is... right now. He finishes it up and passes it off to Michael where he's sitting, eyeing over his set-up. "And you'll have to think of a pose you want. I'm not good at... that."

\---

"Do whatever feels sexy. How do you want me to remember you?" Michael rakes his eyes over his body. "Y'know? You're already sexy. I bet you can think of something, dear."

\---

Martin continues to worry his bottom lip as he thinks, moving back to the chair so he can roll one for himself. He's less careful about it, since it's for him, but that's just who he is, isn't it? 

"I-I think I have an idea." There's another lighter in the box, so at least he doesn't have to get up again. He waits until he's lit the thing to climb back into the chair. Christ, he's really about to ham it up, isn't he? "You've got this way about you that makes pet names not condescending. I like that." 

He maneuvers himself sideways and takes off his boxers without being too revealing about it, just about the only classy act here, and kicks one leg over an arm of the chair. His other foot settles on the same arm, and he rests one elbow on the other. Joint in his free hand and leaning back slightly on that elbow, he looks to Michael. Very much a look of 'please be gentle, the mortifying ordeal of doing, like, six things I've never done before at once is making me very sensitive'.

\---

Michael rakes his eyes over Martin once and then nods. "*Perfect," He says, and turns to the canvas to begin testing things out.

"I don't do condescension." He says, idly. "I'm condescended every day of my life for being too genuine. So fuck that."

\---

“So fuck that,” Martin repeats, smiling around the joint as he lifts it up to his mouth. On his exhale, the smile is wider. “Not exactly how we pictured it earlier, is it? Whiskey glasses and typewriters. Now I’m- I’m in a dress, getting crossfaded in your art studio. I think this one’s better.”

\---

"Much more Romantic, for sure." He pauses in painting to light his joint, letting it hang from his lips as he works, glancing back and forth between Martin and the canvas. "Less-- oh, what's his name. Hemingway! Yes. Curmudgedy. This is far better."

\---

“Bit more chaotic, in a modern way. ‘I sit, and am utterly still; in mine eyes is my fathomless lust.’” He glances over to Michael with another drag, not moving his head, eyes squinted against the way his smile pushes up on his cheeks.

\---

"That's gorgeous," Michael mumbles, and makes a few fine strokes on the canvas. "Did you write that? Are you  _ lustful?" _ He snorts.

\---

Martin blanches, and has to remind himself not to shake his head. “Oh, no. It’s part of a Crowley poem. My memory is bad, but - but not with lyrics and poems. I used to read a lot of, erm, gothic stuff way back when.”

\---

"Crowley..." He hums. "I dunno poets well. Ugh. I lived in a big gothic house. They're ugly."

\---

“It’s not all the same— I don’t know much about the aesthetics. It’s the wording.” Martin gestures the hand he’s holding the joint with. “Very out there, lots about feeling isolated. Like Mary Shelley. Wrote Frankenstein?”

\---

"I know her." He glances back to rake his eyes over Martin again and then concentrates back on the canvas. "Book's okay. Bit dense."

\---

“She wrote poems, too. Or, well— Debatable, I think, but they’re not all dense.” Martin clears his throat as he tries to remember. He makes sure he has the start in his head before he opens his mouth. ”‘Then come to me in dreams, my love, I will not ask a dearer bliss; come with the starry beams, my love, and press mine eyelids with thy kiss‘. Wow, this is  _ much  _ easier high.”

\---

"Oh, you're  _ good  _ at that. That's gorgeous. Wow. Hey! Maybe she was a relative of mine. Ha!"

\---

"I believe it. Talented poet genetics." Martin hums softly, tilting his head up to the ceiling. Almost immediately, he remembers where he is, and moves back into place. "Oh. Is-- Am I allowed to move my head? I never asked."

\---

"Sure. Just need the general pose." Michael turns back to smile at him. "Don't strain yourself." He takes another drag, and his eyes grow half-lidded. "Something about you just... Ah! Sorry. I get excited when a face speaks to me."

\---

"Me? Strain myself? I wouldn't-- Wouldn't dream of it, Michael. I'm just a layabout housewife who--" 

He can't stifle his uneven laughter without a free hand to do it. "Wears this around the house."

\---

Michael's grin grows, mischief filtering through him, his eyes growing comically large as though to capture all the light. "Oh? A classy housewife, then. Are you someone's  _ arm candy?" _

\---

"You're the one giving me gifts. What do you think the answer is?"

\---

The corners of Michael's lips curl in utter glee.  _ "Excellent."  _ he turns back to the canvas. "Well, then it's only fitting that she gets her painting in the foyer."

\---

Martin debates it before putting it to spoken word, but there's not really a functional filter in this flat anymore. Sadly, it's been replaced by freakish behavior and recreational drugs. "Are you talking about me or my dick, here?"

\---

Michael has to lean back so he doesn't splatter paint on the canvas, his body wracked with a laugh that overtakes him. When he recovers, he filters a look to Martin and winks. "Guess that's up to you, Kelsie, isn't it?"

\---

"The second one is much funnier. Not to mention easier for my fragile psyche to handle." Kelsie idly kicks his leg where it hangs off the side of the chair, since the only thing he's really done to keep himself mostly still in one spot has been taking hits, and if he keeps doing that he'll lose any sense of coherence. Not the goal, tonight.

\---

"Oooooh, so  _ problemaaatic," _ He teases, and gets back to the painting. He's coasting right now; the perfect mix of alcohol and weed, and most of whatever else was floating around in his system has mostly faded to the back, leaving him just pleasantly cross-faded.

\---

"That's me. But I'm classy. The nudes are for seeing with your own eyes, not for millions in some art museum when you inevitably go big. I'm only a whore in the house." He shifts in the chair. "Please tell me I can move soon. I feel like I've been here for ages. Centuries, even."

\---

"Hm." He quickly fills in that last of the underlying shapes, and pulls his brush up and nods. "Okay. Yeah. You're good. It's been, like, hardly a half an hour."

\---

"Minutes for you, years for me. You know, you could always just take a picture. Can't expect you to finish it all in one night." He thinks on that. "Unless you can. I don't know how crazy you are."

\---

"Probably not," He says. "But I guess it gives us an excuse to meet up again?" The tail end of his question rises up, in hope. "I don't have a nice camera, you know. And it's not like the phone camera is any good."

\---

Right. 2008 remains the worst year in all of history. "Oh. Handy. That's as good an excuse as any. Better than 'I enjoy your company' or 'I can stand being around you longer than it takes to finish'."

\---

"'Ta ta! Would degrade myself for you again!'" He snickers. His voice sobers slightly, and God, how pathetic he sounds. Such a wanting creature he is. "You're just staying for the weekend?"

\---

He'd love to continue that game, but there's a question. There's something so loathsome about saying what comes out of his mouth next. "I don't think I have an answer for that, yet. Just-- Depends, I guess. On a lot of things. Not just the clubs, thankfully."

\---

Michael turns back to the canvas, and says, "Of course! Of course." A no, then. It's alright. His fault for assuming. Just a good night; that's all he has, now. He can work with that. And even if Kelsie never comes back, he'll finish this painting and be left with a memory. Sometimes it seems that's all he is. Memories, never present.

\---

"Just got cold in here," Martin mumbles, not so Michael won't hear but because he doesn't like it. "I make good on my promises and-- I-I mean. Worst case scenario, we have a great night of whoring around by various definitions of the word, we stay in touch, and meet up. Not like I'm leaving the country."

\---

"Oh! Yes. For sure." He doesn't believe him, but that's alright. He can pretend. He's good at pretending. Michael squashes it all down, deep, deep. It's a silly notion, anyways.

So he pretends. 

"We'll figure it out. Now c'mere. I want to get your face right. The last one didn't have your face detailed." He finds a smaller brush.

\---

Martin stands, wobbling for a moment as he reorients himself. Ah, gravity. 

It's not until he makes his way over and has his knees to the ground beside the canvas in front of Michael that the wording hits him. It's cutting, but he doesn't know why, it's confusing and he doesn't know why, either. It just plain hurts. 

He wants to tell himself he just heard that wrong, but he knows he didn't. Someone is pretending. He's not sure who it is, but someone is.

He spends a long, lonesome moment drowning in his own thoughts before he finds the words. "Are you... Are you upset with me?"

\---

Michael frowns, and looks down at him, shaking his head. "What? No. Of course not. I wouldn't paint you if I was." He snorts. He's upset with himself, maybe. For cutting through the cynicism and trusting. It's alright. 

It's got his brain doing weird loops, though. Words he doesn't mean to come out coming out in strange orders, and there's something weird, but maybe he just picked up some skunk weed. Possible. Maybe he had too much coke earlier. Maybe, maybe, maybe. 

Besides, now's his favorite part. You can't just stare at someone, usually. But when it comes to painting, all bets are lost, and Michael is able to look, and look, and look. He wants to capture Martin's likeness, his colors, his rhythm. The dress will be red, but he wants to edge the lines of Martin's face in deep, emerald green, and line his hair with veins of gold, and when he gets to it, he'll shade his hands with purple and red and black and all of them. He's a man of many colors. Michael likes that. 

But his eyes, his eyes will be his own. By this point, he's mostly forgotten the train of conversation, but he remembers just a hint of it, and mumbles, his eyes trained on him while his brush hits canvas, "Quite the opposite. You're beautiful."

\---

Martin copes with the attention by doing a bit of his own soul-searching in the details of Michael’s body. He wants to write about this. Why doesn’t he write, anymore? Is he too busy? Did he stop finding things worth writing about? Is he really so easily caught up in his own emotional turmoil that writing them down is too much? He wants to write again, very badly. Maybe about this. God, he’s a sap. 

Eventually his head gets heavy, but not because he’s tired. He never lets people look this long. Never gives them the chance. That’s the thing: people try. People try and he won’t let them. Right now, though, it’s intense. 

He rests his chin on Michael’s knee. “Thank you. I usually don’t— People say that, but it makes my stomach hurt and then I want to leave. Not here, though.”

\---

"...I'm glad," Michael says, and reaches out a hand to brush against his cheek, his long fingers sliding into his hairline. He smiles, and returns to painting, keeping his hand there. "You're really, ah, nice to me. Most men aren't. You're something special, aren't you."

\---

Martin tries not to lean into his hand. Michael’s painting him and that’s extremely rude. Ultimately, he fails, creature of instinct with little environmental awareness taking over. He’s even forgotten what he’s wearing. How he looks. 

“You deserve better. I’m—“ His shoulders hike up slightly, and then sink back down soon after. He’s not brushing off the compliment. He smiles instead. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s me.”

\---

"Tonight," Michael says, and there's a small smile on his face. He turns to Martin, and there's a glimmer of mischief, a glimmer of sadness, all rolling together into one, and his voice is just above a whisper, conspiratorial. "Tonight, let's believe every single nice thing that gets said about each other. It's a-- a game. Nothing negative. Out the window. Whoosh-- Right through the door and locked out." Even if it's pretend. Even if. He can play the game.

He can't have a man he'll probably never see again talk in words such as 'deserve'; there's too much expectation, too much implied future in that, that dries Michael's tongue. It's too easy to run with those emotions.

\---

“Right through the door and locked out.” Sighed out, it becomes reality. “You’re very comfortable. Can’t say I’ve been on my knees like this longer than a minute without something in my mouth. World record.”

\---

Michael snorts. "Another world record; I'm the one in the chair for once. Woo-hoo." He keeps painting, glancing every now and again at him. His hand smooths along his cheek, his hair, almost petting him, with a sleepiness to it that's almost subconscious. "I love your eyes. They're so pretty, when you relax."

\---

The tension centered between his eyebrows eases, unaware he’d even been looking up like that until the pressure ebbs away. “You get the chair once, instant ego trip.” He hums. “I don’t let most people touch my hair much, either. Makes me like them.”

\---

"Oh? Like a magic spell?" He laughs and presses his hand further into the curls. He wrinkles his nose around a smile and says, "Are you under my  _ speeeeeellllll?" _

\---

That gets some noise that’s not quite a growl but comes from deep in his throat just the same, a quiet groan muffled behind closed lips. His eyes are barely open, but he does manage to keep them from shutting completely. Can’t go doing that right after a compliment aimed his way. Goes against his code of ethics. “Charmed.”

\---

"Precious," He purrs, and continues to work. He could sit here forever, Kelsie in his hands, brush to canvas. He's not certain his brain has been this quiet in a long, long time. Not in any way that wasn't completely blacking out to the point of no recollection. This is better, he thinks. Far better alternative. 

He finishes his joint and stabs the roach into the small lip of the easel, where a few other dead joints sit squashed from the past few weeks. Michael hums along to the record playing beneath them, and it keeps his head floating, the rounded, woody sounds that so often accompany 60's records penetrating him deep into a comfort that he rarely has anymore. If ever.

\---

Martin shivers, just barely, at the only word that leaves Michael’s mouth. It’s been happening all night, little casual remarks that just make him feel wanted. Wanted in a way he wants but wouldn’t ever ask for. 

“I like records. There’s this, er, lo-fi charm, to them? Makes me feel like I’m floating in a pool.”

\---

"Yes... Fills a room up. Like an auditory hot box. And it gives me an, uh, excuse to go to like, thrift shops. See all the bright and sunny vintage furniture from the 70s."

\---

“You don’t need an excuse to do that. Fill your flat with the fun kind of old stuff. Run a record shop. You could, you know. Maaaaagic.”

\---

"Quite a downgrade, if this internship goes anywhere," Michael snorts. "But I can-- I should, maybe. Have this place seem lived in."

\---

“Downgrade? You can hunt ghosts  _ and _ run a record shop. Actually, that would be— That would make for the coolest introduction.” He brushes the knuckles of one hand fondly up and down just above Michael’s ankle for the pattern of it.

\---

There is an intimacy here that Michael is so rarely, rarely allowed, and to say he's basking in the sun would be an understatement. Whatever spell he pulled into the air is doing it’s magic; he feels content, and happy, and confident, and it's Martin, of course, though he doesn't know what that means, but the nice thing is, he doesn't feel a pull to question it. 

"I don't know nearly enough about music, though the idea is very romantic." He cocks his head, thinking. "Nah. I think I'd be traveling too much, I mean, if she takes me on as an assistant. I wouldn't mind traveling. That's the introduction there, too... Someone who travels."

\---

“You’ll get to travel, I’m sure. Just be careful if you go to America. Ghosts and werewolves running around everywhere.” 

He lowers his head to laugh, forehead pressed to Michael’s knee. Not at his own comment, about something else. God, he’s an idiot.

\---

"Ghosts, I can handle. But werewolves? You think those are real?" He peers around the canvas to look down at him.

\---

Martin lifts his gaze, one eyebrow cocked. “I am one, Michael. I’m just domesticated, remember?”

\---

"I said you were _ tame, _ not domesticated," He says, raising a finger around the paintbrush as though to illustrate his point with professor pragmatism. "Howl at the moon when it's out? Is that it?"

\---

Martin’s half-constructed thoughts turn to dust at Michael’s words that don’t flow the usual path of auditory processing most words tend to take. 

His pupils blow as something sharp and cold blows through him, a physical sensation of skin that’s spent too long in the sand. A song from the Hunt. Moonlight Sonata. Martin’s breath hitches, and then it’s gone and over before he can comprehend the gravity of it. 

“Among other things, yeah.”

\---

Michael leans back a little, his brows knit together as he watches Martin. Was it something he said? Maybe he took the werewolf joke too far. "Are you-- Are you okay?"

\---

“What? Yes?” 

Martin lifts his head slightly, his own face reflecting Michael’s worry. “Did I do something wrong?”

\---

"I just--" Perhaps it's not his business. He twitches slightly, and then shakes his head, letting out a small huff. "Never mind. You just had this look for a second. Reading into things. Don't worry." And he pulls back and begins to paint again.

Even so, he feels a pang of  _ something. _ Like there's something he saw, and remembered, and promptly forgot. Maybe he'll remember in the morning, when he's sober and Martin leaves his doorstep.

\---

“Oh! No. I’m okay.” Beat of silence. “Hey, if we have sex, do you think it’ll be the worst sex, or the best sex?”

\---

"The-- Oh, well, my heart says best, and yet I think reality says... Middle of the road?" He laughs. "It'll be fun, at least."

\---

“Wow. I don’t even get to be the worst? Just mediocre?” 

Martin sighs, all painful dramatics. “Sad. I’d say I don’t disappoint, but I don’t know how good my dick is at being a she yet.”

\---

"Well, women are known to be good performers," Michael says. "Just a little more of the face and we can be done for the night."

\---

“I was about to say you should take a break. Get tense sitting like that too long.” He sounds way, way too happy about saying this, for someone he’s just met. “I do like watching, though.”

\---

"Just a few more things..." He just needs to get this part right. He doesn't know why. Something tells him he needs to have this face to remember. Who is he to deny it? He's nearly done, anyways, and he sticks his tongue out to get a few more strokes in, before pulling back and smiling.

"Okay. All done. Promise."

\---

Oh. Right! Michael was painting him. That’s what all this was. “Done done? Or done for the night? Should I not look yet?”

\---

Michael shakes his head. "You don't get to see it until you come back. I only have your face done." He sets his brushes down. He'll clean up the excess paint tomorrow, when he doesn't have a beautiful guest sitting patiently in front of him. "But it's enough for tonight."

\---

“Fair enough.” Martin rises up off the ground, and the first thing he notices is that his knees don’t hate him for it. Right. Being younger, and all. God, he wasn’t even that old in the future. 

Whatever the fuck that means, Martin. Jesus. “We could always get finger-paints some time. Takes away all the pressure of making something not completely childish. Oh, wow. Shit, I didn’t realize how much I wanted finger-paints until I thought it.”

Definitely not high.

\---

"Mm. Body painting. You ever done that? It's very, ah, sensual. It's like a weird massage, almost." Michael stands and stretches, and the dress falls to his ankles after he brushes off the cinches it had formed from his sitting with his hands.

\---

“No, but I’m starting to think about trying more than a few new things, now. You’ve made me bold.” Right. Yeah. He’s wearing a dress. That was real. “What incredibly engaging activity is on your schedule next,  _ sir?”  _

Said facetiously, but also. But also.

\---

Michael shivers. Okay. Brain officially reverting to a different mode entirely. He runs his hand down the slope of Martin's bare arm on his way out of the studio. "Hm. So many exciting possibilities. Where to even start."

\---

Martin follows at his heel, skin buzzing at the phantom sensation of touch. Guess it’s been a while since he’s been touched at all, in any way, where they are now. 2008? Sounds about right. “Do tell,” he starts, clearing his throat. He’s careful to keep his tone light. “Maybe next time I’ll be your maid. Organize whatever’s happening in your bedroom.”

\---

Michael let's out a surprised bark of a laugh.  _ "You  _ find that sexy because you've never had a maid.”

\---

“Just teasing. I was the maid. And the cook. And the errands-runner. I like doing it, just might be nice to get appreciated some time for the effort.”

\---

"I can only imagine," He says, and filters him a vaguely confused, but amused, look. "I can just call, ah, Eliza off that week. Really prepare it for you." He giggles nervously. Maybe he's not used to being on this side of an arrangement.

\---

“Mm-hm!” Martin stops in the doorway to Michael’s bedroom. No more maid talk, then. “I’ve yet to be enlightened on all the possibilities for wearing a dress here. I’m— I’m honestly out of my— Okay.” 

He inhales. “This is new for me. And I’m a very shy person in- in general. I am also coasting. What do you want?”

\---

"Well I assumed you were going to fuck me," Michael says, and starts to pick up a little. Just a bit. Just to clear the week's clutter. He turns and eyes Martin up and down, purring, "But I'm open to negotiation."

\---

Martin bursts into helpless laughter. He can’t even appreciate the look. “I thought you were going to fuck  _ me!  _ I’m just the cocktail lounge whore who’d do whatever you told me to!"

\---

"'Ah yes, this skinny stereotype of a twink will surely be the one doing the fucking tonight!' that's you. By the way." Michael laughs too, amused. "I have to find, like, stuff for that. Somewhere."

\---

“‘Let’s give the man an identity crisis and dress him up all fancy and—‘ Wait, no. I’m not mean enough to keep that game going. We’ll figure this out. I—“ Martin squints his eyes, deliberating. “We don’t need anything. Let me, uh, sit in your lap?”

\---

"I could probably find it, but, uh, that works." He's a little blushy. Normally, he's not shy in the least bit. Unless someone wants that. But this is a bit different than most hookups and it's got him a bit unbalanced, all in all. He sits on the edge of the bed.

\---

“I think that’s a bit beyond us, right now.” Honestly, he’s not sure he could coordinate all that right now. He can do kissing, though. 

Martin braces a hand on Michael’s shoulder for balance and gets one knee on the bed. He ends up needing both hands to stay upright initially, but he settles without falling, thank God for small miracles. “Still okay?”

\---

"Still excellent," He says, and this, this he can do. He reaches out to wrap his hands around Martin's waist, where the cut of the dress gives way to bare skin, digging his fingers in under the fabric and pulling him closer.

\---

Martin shifts until he’s comfortably near-flush to Michael’s chest. “Wow. We’re really doing this.” Like he’s some dumbstruck teenager. “Okay. Right. Business.” His hands stay fixed at Michael’s shoulders as he closes the distance, lips brushing over Michael’s and parting out of sheer surprise for how warm he is.

\---

Michael gives a delighted sound, halfway through a hum and a laugh, and meets him where he is, squeezing his side as he explores Martin with a slightly-too desperate ferocity.

\---

Martin jumps, one hand reflexively flying down over one of Michael’s where it touches his side. “Ah— Can’t tell if I’m just, just way over sensitive or between now and my last hookup I got ticklish.” 

He laughs right up against Michael’s mouth. “Orrr, thinking about it, maybe you just touch me different. Magic hands.”

\---

Michael pouts into his mouth and asks, "Do you want me to stop?" He clearly does not. He's not above making his wants known very clearly.

\---

“No, I’m just having revelations. I open my mouth and words just come out.” Easy solution handy right there, though. Now that he’s confident he can stay upright with just the one hand to stabilize, Martin pushes forward into the next kiss, sliding his free hand up into Michael’s hair. He gets to explore, too.

\---

"Mm," Michael says and leans into the touch immediately, his eyes fluttering from the contact. "Hopefully not the biblical sense."

\---

"No. Definitely not." Martin cards his fingers through Michael's hair, pausing their kiss for what feels like the hundredth time already to make some insane comment or another. "What, are you under my  _ speeellll?" _

\---

"Positively hypnotized," Michael purrs, and then pushes in again.


	46. I Saw Her Again Last Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if we were both boys and the stairs to the institute were melting into thick, multicolored paint? 😳

There are several working theories as to why, exactly, every good thing in here is wrenched from him. Martin wants to analyze none of them. Can’t, at-present, regardless of how much he’d like to get to the bottom of things. He’ll get there no matter what he does, and it will not be a pleasant place. He’s not looking for the lulling falsehood of record players and warm beds and people with kindness at the very core of their beings. 

His first waking breath is trailed by cold mist from lungs that struggle to pull anything back in. Martin wakes in a locked freezer where no meat hangs from the ceiling, just dead portraits, distorted history frosted over of people who stopped begging for someone to save them a long, long time ago. Fitting, that the natural end to a night he wishes he could remain in forever is wrenched from him without control, where every other time he’s run away it has been with purpose. Every window climbed out of and every door knob slowly turned to avoid a waking sound from the person he leaves behind. His memories come back, his reality sets in, he is no longer the grand person who can solve his own problems with confidence he never had. Lonely, lonely Martin, in a hell that is not his but is very, very close. 

Of course these memories are as much of a torture for him as they are for Michael Shelley. How could he possibly find himself face-to-face with Michael’s greatest pains, if he doesn’t become one of them? If he doesn’t play a part in a story he already knows the ending to, but can’t say? If he doesn’t lose himself in the inherent wrongness of a living lie only to be choked back into reality-that-isn’t the second he forgets it’s not the truth? If it doesn’t matter how much he tries, and tries, and tries to tell the truth out of want and not coercion or magical obligation, the worlds he falls into are inherently lies themselves?

That’s the trick. He gets to see who he could be, had he not screwed up his own life, he gets to be that. All this is, is a chance to see how easy it could have been to stop. To avoid all of these pains he’s spent years curating to perfection. Carving the space for every entity of fear second after his own self-inflicted torture. How a few simple meetings could have made him grow up. Oh, how things could have been, but simply are not and never will be again! 

Very positive. 

The heart of the Spiral is frozen, locked up by trauma it never asked for. He’s torn between pity and acceptance. He’s been allowed a look at the world the Spiral would create undeterred. Would the Eye’s be worse? Would anyone even know, if it won? Living simply in hysteric, blissful pain, turning over and over without need for up or down or sideways in total sensate vertigo. Free of decision or indecision. Martin guesses most people wouldn’t like it half as much as he does. But that’s the trouble. He likes it because it consumes him, likes it because it gives that aching, self-inflicting pain so great it has names a home. He likes it from the parts that keep him from being that person. He likes that it gives him an excuse.

Martin stands, though it takes several minutes. Gravity has him by the throat, fighting him every inch of the way and he can’t cry out with air that refuses to exist. He knows he can’t walk when his knees lock in place, so all he can do with the limited energy he has is grab the nearest door handle and twist. It doesn’t budge. There’s frost lining the hinges. He pushes up against it with his shoulder, leaning his full weight as he can, and eventually the ice snaps. He knows he’s not there yet, but he’s close, close enough to know that he might not remember any of this pain the second he steps in. Close enough to know that there will be pain regardless of whether he remembers.

\---

It's been weeks, and weeks, and weeks of mind-numbing paperwork and filing, and Michael Shelley is officially excited for Miss Gertrude's vague, mysterious trip coming in the tail end of the autumn. The other trips have been boring, too; conferences that went nowhere, leads that gave them very, very little. Ghosts and a run-in with MUFON, and other meaningless, fake, underfunded paranormal groups. At least for this one, he gets to brush up on Russian.

He's just leaving for the day. Mr. Bouchard had been poking around the Archives, so Michael hadn't taken the normal time to organize the files he's taking home, just shoving them in his bag to sort through later. Mr. Bouchard, as of late, gives him the creeps. It's the look he's given, like he's in on a joke Michael won't and never will understand.

He's never liked that kind of condescension.

So, now, he's leaning against the wall of the Institute's grand stairs, the evening breeze blowing through him comfortably as he pulls everything out to sort through it. Otherwise he'll get home, and forget how it was supposed to be ordered in the first place.

He works quickly; he wants to get home, and order food, and smoke, and to calm down, and pretend that he doesn't want to do worse things to his body even though he does. But Michael is strung up by lies, and that's alright. So is everyone around him. He's doing good. He's doing good. Miss Gertrude says so.

\---

London is a tropical beach compared to what Martin leaves behind in the hallways. The temperature shift hurts, the sudden ability to breathe makes his lungs sting, threatening to collapse at the new atmosphere. It wasn't a freezer, it was the moon. The door slams shut and leaks into the brick wall he was ejected from. The Spiral is no longer kind to him. It can't be, not this deep. This is ancient work. 

But, as is the nature of the Spiral's juxtapositions, it's also the most modern he's experienced so far. Martin barely makes it a few feet forward before he has to sit back on the nearest stair, parts of his cardigan still coated with melting frost. It's all he can do to lift both hands numb with cold up into his hair and stay perfectly still, taking short, shallow breaths to get his faculties about him. He doesn't see Michael, this time. He's here, very, very close, but Martin isn't looking now.

\---

There's the sudden sound of something slamming, and it's a sound that has Michael's blood turning cold. He jerks up from his crouched position. Looking. Looking. Where is It? He knows what happens next.

But there's no door. There's no creature. There is.... Someone on the stairs that wasn't there a moment before, and pickling paranoia runs up his arms in frosted goosebumps.

"Are you-- are you okay?" He calls, standing and scared but not willing to come closer yet. He knows the Institute is safe. Knowing is different than instinct.

\---

Martin stops breathing. 

If only he could keep that up longer than a few seconds like all the rest of his friends can. But if he doesn’t pick it back up again he’ll go unconscious. That brings a very uncomfortable thought with it. Hopefully he can’t die here. Probably not. He sure can feel pain, though. 

_ “No.”  _ It’s a harsh wheeze, and he immediately regrets it, because that’s not how he wants to set this one up. Setting up... this isn’t a  _ stage play. _ “Sorry.”

\---

Well, that's-- huh. He wasn't expecting that. The paranoia slides away to worry and empathy, and he pulls off the wall and takes a few long strides over to where the man sits, and--

Oh. He recognizes that sweater.

Michael's head spins, like it hurts, like there's an aura around-- Oh. Fuck. What's his name? He knows him. Of course he does. But it's...  _ Oh! _

"K-Kelsie? Is that-- you?"

\---

And there he is. 

“Martin.” He doesn’t want to play games. No Gamemaster. He’s not a master of anything. Not fair to Michael. What is? “‘S my... middle name. Kelsie. I didn’t t-try to leave.”

\---

Michael blinks. He's too surprised to be angry right now. He was only angry for a week, anyways. Easy to fuck yourself up for a week straight to forget the details. Ugh. He hates thinking about that period.

"Um. Okay? I don't know what that means." He pauses. And the name doesn't sound foreign in his mouth at all. It sounds familiar. "Martin."

\---

Already his vision is spinning, and up along with it are his own memories. “Martin.” That’s who he is. His lungs are catching up to him. “Time traveler. Shit. What year is it now?”

\---

Oh. This is his dream. This is-- Michael pales and takes a step back. Suddenly a few different memories come flowing back in, like thick, suffocating molasses.

"What are you? No bullshit. No-- no fake words like that, that  _ Time Traveller _ shit. I know better."

\---

“Time traveler. Stuck on you.” As if he could explain this in a way that makes sense. As if he could explain without talking Doors. Doors. Doors. Doors. “Where—“

He turns around. Not to look at Michael, but up behind him, up at the building. The Institute. His Institute. Before Gertrude’s corpse is in the walls. Before Jon does the same thing to him and brings pain and love crashing into his life. His office job. “When I come here I start forgetting where I’m from. I’m human. I’m sorry I keep hurting you.”

\---

"I don't believe you." He looks behind him, up at the Institute, and he grimaces. "But whatever you are, you're just going to hurt yourself here. There's-- there's something protecting this place." He lifts his chin and looks at Martin down the slope of his nose. "What do you want?"

\---

“I know. I  _ know. _ I don’t want anything. From 2016. You don’t die. Don’t know if that helps.” Martin doesn’t try to stand. “You ask for my help later. It barely makes sense to me. Later on you mention a coat you got for Russia. The way this is going, I’ll get to see it. Can— I can explain everything then. And I won’t keep disappearing. I think I’m close.”

\---

Michael squints. "I'm going to Russia next month. I don't--" All of this is concerning. He takes a few steps back to grab his bag, and shoves what he hasn't sorted through in again, clasping the latches and slinging it over his shoulder.

He comes back, stabbing his hands in the pockets of his coat. "I've seen you more than once. That wasn't-- the hill wasn't a dream, after all."

\---

"Sorry. Bit of a strained relationship with the Moon." Martin pauses, running both hands across his face. "Thank you for trusting me. I-I-I'm learning a lot, from you. I hope-- Sorry. I'm probably just scaring you. Sorry. Christ, did I say sorry this much back then?"

\---

"I  _ don't _ trust you. And no." He pauses. "Either you didn't remember, or you were pretending." He's trying to stay firm. His head wants to go with this. His heart wants to go with this. Everything about him wants to listen enraptured to something that knows, knows everything. But he stays firm. At least for now.

\---

"I meant back then, back-- Not with you. This time. My world. I wasn't pretending. That was me." No, no panic attacks. His heart is breaking and he's ruined everything. That's his fault. All him. Slipped out of another bed and hurt another person, if only for a minute. But you still did, didn't you, Martin? "I-- I've always had a...a stutter. M-makes it hard to talk. Takes a while to... to stop." 

Looks like he's ruined this one. He's so, so good at that. "I can't stay here. I don't want to. You don't want to."

\---

Michael lets out a heavy sigh. "I just don't understand, is all. You came... You came at a terrible time." His skin itches. He'd love to not remember right now. Horrible, horrible urges.

He fidgets the bag on his shoulder. "How does it normally happen? You coming to me. Can you choose to leave, or....?"

\---

"I don't know. I've never wanted to  _ leave. _ It always comes-- I-I mean, at a terrible time. I'm afraid to mess anything up, and-- I don't know. None of it makes sense." Martin sniffs, eyes stinging with the bitter tears gathering there. "I just show up. Random points of your life. But I'm going in order. Deeper."

\---

"Why? Why  _ me? _ Why--" He's scared. Hah. What a feeling. He doesn't often feel scared, just out of his depth and pathetic. But something washes over him and he knows this feeling, knows it intimately.

\---

"Because you're worth saving, and I can't usually save anyone. I wouldn't if you didn't-- If you didn't want that, but you do, or-or think you do." 

Michael is not your personal therapist, Martin. "Maybe I'm selfish. I don't know what for. I'll remember later, again, and I'll hate myself for it, but that's not-- It's not-- I'm not your problem to fix. I didn't know this would happen."

\---

_ "Saving?!"  _ He hates how high his voice gets, incredulous and offended and scared depending on what that means.

He throws his hands up at the sky, blinking against the sun like 'are you kidding me!' Of course this is happening. He's stable. He's fine. He's been doing good, and Miss Gertrude trusts him, and now all he wants to do is sprint home and bury himself into whatever will make him forget the quickest.

\---

"Forget I said anything. You'll do it no matter what I do. I can't-- I can't change my past, I can't change yours. I just-- I tried, anyway, and-- And now I'm not helping anything." Martin stands up, looking left and right for some way that can help him get out of this without adding more trauma to someone else's life. "Of course. Why did I think giving-- Giving positive affirmations that you're not crazy and then disappearing like a ghost for several years in between-- Of course that didn't help! I'm a complete-- I'm an idiot." 

He's not talking to Michael anymore. He makes it a few steps down before he has to grab at the nearest railing. He can't live in the past, he can't do anything to help, he can't put pieces together, can't turn around and tell Michael to run. He knows, now, that the Institute doesn't let people go. That Gertrude Robinson is going to sacrifice one of the kindest people he's ever met. It's already happened. It's already going to happen. Now it's just going to happen to a Michael just slightly more hurt, who paints things. Great impact there, Martin.

\---

Michael stares after him, and he remembers how much this man has been a comfort to his life. In all his forms. The experience two and a half years ago is freshest, and it hurts the most, and it's ridiculous to entertain-- "So you didn't just. Just. Leave. You-- something took you away. From me."

He hates the way hope colors his voice. It sickens him. It sickens him, how much he wants to believe.

\---

That's when Martin breaks. 

"Every. Single.  _ Time _ . Every time, I tried not to leave. I-- If I could've stayed, if I could've grown up the way you made me feel, I might be a better person." Martin rubs at both his eyes, trusting himself to go down just a few more steps. He won't look at Michael. He can't. He just raises his voice, lungs functioning just enough that he's out of breath with each pause. "If I stay, I think I'll just be taken permanently. I almost want it to. But then people-- People will still be hurting, there in the present, because of me, and-- I have to fix that. Or make it worse, I guess! Probably worse!"

\---

Michael doesn't understand. But Martin is hurting, and he finds himself following behind him without thought. He reaches a hand out to take his shoulder, thinks better of it, and drops it heavily to his side. He's a swirl of emotions, and it's overwhelming; a migraine is blooming just looking at him.

"I thought I was crazy, for those memories. Because it-- it was insane to have happiness. But I did. I don't-- I don't know if it helps, but those memories bring me happiness."

\---

"Yeah. I know. Me too. But I'm not here to be happy. I made a promise and I have to see it through and I don't go back on promises. That's why I barely ever make them." Martin scowls as he looks up, since he's not finding any Doors and it's not like he can ask Michael to find one. It's not quite night but the moon is still there, and he sticks a middle finger out to it. "I wish I could blame this on you, stupid moon!"

\---

"You made a promise to... Me. In the future." Michael says, and he's squinting, his gaze slowly lifting to the moon. He remembers  _ do you howl at the moon,  _ and he wonders. He wonders. But his wondering always ends badly.

"How can I, erm, help?"

\---

The question makes Martin stop on the concrete. He knows the answer to that. He knows it. "You already did, Michael. That's why I'm here. I don't remember what, exactly, but I know that much. Oh-- Here's an idea." 

He turns on his heel and beams over at Michael. It's a terrible look, makes him look quite deranged considering he's just cried through all of this. "See if you can banish me!"

\---

Michael leans back, and he looks terrified. He chews on the inside of his cheek and presses his nails to his palm and he thinks about how it's all as easy as pretending. But that's not how the world works. It isn't.

"Banish you to- to what? With what? I don't--" He moves his hands and starts to run his hands nervously through his hair.

\---

"Out of-- Out of the past? This memory? It's all just, just intentions, I think. Maybe? Sometimes I can make money show up in my back pockets by wishing."

\---

Michael ticks his jaw. "I dunno. It sounds. That sounds crazy.  _ You _ sound crazy. I don't want you here. I don't... but I can't just... Will you away. This isn’t a memory." He's babbling. It sucks. He hates this.

\---

O-kay. They're getting nowhere. "Right. Let's see. Maybe it's a bubble. Don't think I'll be able to conjure up hatchets, anymore." He's going to regret this so, so much. Invoking it all in a way that's not pleasant. Martin turns around, yelling up at the sky. "Come on, Shelley! Don't you want to get out?"

\---

Michael takes another step back, and something in him is angry. He feels a shudder wrack through him.

This man has come to him throughout his life and disappeared. Always. Has left profound insight that left him feeling all the more lonely when his presence was gone, inevitably. Has made him crazy. Has made him feel loved, and that's the cruelest of them all. Michael Shelley isn't something to be loved. He knows that now. He's something to pity. And Martin shatters it, those shields, every, single, fucking time he's managed to pretend to be normal.

And now he's screaming his own name at the sky like it means anything.

"Shut UP! Shut up.  _ Shut up!”  _ He screams, and something fills him like a ghost, and when he looks at Martin all he can see is thick acrylic streaks of red and gold and green and black and it hurts his head.

And the stairs shake with his anger, and he can feel it. It's not coming from him. It is. It isn't. Reality is so thin, sometimes, isn't it? It makes him want to giggle. What's wrong with him?

\---

Martin doesn't like this pain. Lonely, lonely Martin, getting all the lonely, lonely people together. Gerry died twice, in another world. Seemed pretty content with ending it that way. Michael died, twice, with Helen at his heels. Jon's died twice, and now he's struggling with some thing inside of him that they've just barely scratched the surface of understanding. Something that commanded him to come back, once this was all through. 

But there's paint falling from the sky. 

Technically, it's just everywhere. Maybe it's coming from him. Maybe that's just how Michael sees him, as some fantasy to paint out from his dreams. Maybe that's what Martin is, someone who gives people hope, and dreams, and when everything falls short of the expectation they're left wanting. Maybe that's it. He's as two-dimensional as his own portrait on a canvas, but oh, the ways he can meddle. That's what gives him character.

"Let me find you. You can show me Russia, if that's what you need someone to see, but let me find you."

\---

"I don't understand why this is happening to me," Michael whispers, because that's the crux of it. All of it. Any of it. Nothing is ever him, it's what happens to him. He's the sum of everyone's misdeeds. He's the sum of what happens when you're not enough.

His hands pull in his hair, and the paint spreads, because it's easier this way. He isn't a writer. But his paint is a story, and the jagged, thick crowns of paint upon Martin's flesh aren't stylistic choices, but some reality leaking through the canvas. Leaking from beneath the veneer.

And oh, O, wouldn't that just be the kicker. The real world was there all along and it was just under a piece of fabric all along.

Maybe Martin is an alien, or some fae creature, or a psychic projection, or all of those. Something reaching in and cutting through the dimensions to whisper something real to him. Wouldn't that be silly? Wouldn't it? Would it not be hilarious? 

Mocking heads of cruel pansies upon the tall, tall grass, and once he was short, and small, and he's still scrawny and he's still tiny in the grand schemes of things, but he can crush blossoms now.

He sits on the stairs, and he leans back, and he looks up at the sun, and he asks, his fingers shaking and the paint dripping down his fingers in red, red streaks, "What happens if you find me?"

\---

"It's not happening because you deserve it, I can tell you that," Martin near-mutters with sheer wonder, but he knows Michael will hear him no matter how loud he is. Martin chooses not to add another stroke of his own brush to this. This is Michael's place, this is closer to Michael's heart than he's been so far. He's at the mercy of the Spiral, but more importantly Michael only exists if he wants to. Martin finds the memories, broken shards that didn't quite fit with the rest of the pieces from every other victim the Spiral ever took. 

Martin's picked them up with his bare hands, and Shelley has let him, and that's why he's not covered in cuts. 

"If I find you, you don't have to hurt this way anymore. I can't-- I can't promise you won't hurt, but not-- Not this way. You get to live."

\---

He doesn't know what that means. He does. He feels like ice is creeping into his heart and he sits up, looking at Martin mutely. He is Michael Shelley. Part of him isn't. He wants to be.

"It's going to hurt you," He says, and he doesn't know why or what or who or where. But he does. And he doesn't, and his world is Van Gogh insanity. There's yellow seeped into his veins, brilliant as the sun, and the ice wants to dull it all the way through. Sun-bleached corpse white.

He curls over himself, and he presses his hands to the pavement. But it's not. It's just canvas. And he rips, and for a moment, he remembers, and he understands, and he knows who he is, and he feels so very, very sad for the boy he was. For the girl. But it falls away because ripping up the canvas means ripping up this part of himself, too. To memories he retreats.

\---

"I don't need to know what you're referring to, I'm--" He snorts, despite it all. "--I'm sure you're right, Michael."

Us and our multitudes. A broken thing for a broken thing. Things. Martin thinks all of this is beautiful, this cascading emotional breakdown of color and light, warm and eccentric and nothing like cold space rocks out of touch from above, but he keeps that to himself. It can't feel beautiful like this, for Michael. Martin comes closer, and as he does the thick strings of paint drip and drool and add splotches of new colors to Michael's canvas. He's just the pawprint over the pan of dough that begs the question you already know the answer to, what happened here?

"Come on. You don't have to stay here."

\---

"I do. This is my memory," Michael says, and he's older, and he isn't. And he's young, and he isn't. He gives Martin a tired smile. "I have to go to Russia."

He points to the jagged, wet, cold, icy nothingness beneath the tear in the canvas. "But there's a door for you. Sorry it's so messy. I'm not him yet, I don't think."

\---

Martin crouches down next to him, and he supposes that's true. This is certainly going better now that Michael's thrown a fit and ripped up the veil. "Don't apologize. I'll see you there." 

He's about to climb in, when he freezes. Ha-ha. There's unfinished business. "Ice. Imagine ice is inching inward, impaling inert idols; impute illogic imperfection, it's injuring itself."

\---

Michael leans back against the stairs, and there's tears in his eyes. Joy and fear and sadness and madness. O my! "Interspacial Intimacy Irrevocably Intermingles our Identities."

\---

Michael doesn't laugh, but Martin remembers in a single moment how infectious his laughter is, and that ignites through him just the same. Interspatial intimacy. Isn't that just the truth?

Martin reaches up to wipe one of Michael's tears away as it glides down his cheek, and it sort of works except for the aftereffect of leaving a bright smear of yellow paint behind. That's better, though. And, as though possessed by some confident part of him that can now come in part by will, he blows a parting kiss in his direction. 

And then he's off into their hole in the world.


	47. Too Late

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *opens door* *closes door* *opens door* *closes door* *opens another door* *becomes someone else*

The hallway is thin. Ventricles of the heart and thin capillaries that pump blood but do not want to be entered. Everything is frozen. At one point, it wasn't; the deleriyes magic of Sannikov land was that the impossible island was a warm, green, lush jungle in the middle of the arctic.

But Michael Shelley remembers it differently, and so the heart is ice. How frigid. How numbing. How awful. How  _ horrid. _

The heart is a locked thing. The heart has been transformed from the man of many names's influence. That's alright. The being known as Michael accepts this. Martin Blackwood wants to help.

There's only one way now. The maze is easy. It's been easy the whole time; except for instinctual twitches of the spiral, it's been so easy. Laid out for him. They all want out of this hell.

Someone else is here, and she's important, but for now, this is Michael Shelley's story.

The final door is a dark, wooden door to a ship. The ship's name is the Tundra. How fitting, for a journey like this. How fitting, for a lonely boy's final journey. It lies open for Martin; they're all eager for this to end.

\---

An astounding oversight, but his lack of layers shields Martin from  _ none _ of the cold. None of it is real, but could kill him just the same. 

No, that’s not true. Could kill him worse. Worse than the bodily death he’s starting to wonder if he’ll get, in this world of monsters and misery. There is muscle memory to this place Martin can’t quite comprehend, lacking the foresight of something that can breach beyond this realm. He’s still human, compared to the people he’s kept closest. Maybe that’s the greatest appeal of having inhuman creatures to bed with. It makes him look quite normal. The least assuming one in the room. 

Martin thinks he likes that. He doesn’t like this ship, but he won’t dwell on what he does and doesn’t like. His breath turns to fog, clouding up his vision, but at least he’s allowed the comfort of air. 

Passing the threshold, Martin won’t let himself be lost here. His voice shudders in this space, as though the currents carrying it along don’t abide by any rule of nature. “Michael?”

\---

Michael stands by one of the railings, looking out over the frigid sea. He can't see the island yet, but Mr. Lukas said he could, and he's not going to ignore the words of a seasoned captain.

He twists at the mention of his name, and his breath, panicked, comes out in a cloud of cold fog.

"Hello?" He asks, and steps forward through the fog.

\---

Martin wonders, briefly, if this is what Michael's self-inflicted punishment is, at the center of the Spiral. Some endless trek that never ends. Spiraling. Spiraling. Spiraling. 

He's careful about stepping forward. This isn't London. This isn't anywhere he knows, anywhere normal. It's still a memory, though. He can tell that much. "Do-- Do you remember me? Martin."

\---

"Oh," Michael says, and when he steps through the fog, his eyes go a little unfocused, as though remembering something. "This next part isn't very fun."

The look clears from his eyes, and he scrutinizes Martin, and says, "Martin! It-- Oh. I'm going to defeat a great evil here." He looks back out towards the balcony. "Miss Gertrude says so, at least. It's very cold."

\---

Martin shadows him to the balcony. He waits until he's gripping the railing with both hands to speak, but even when he's ready he's not sure he's actually ready. 

His voice is barely a whisper above the waves. "She lied to you, Michael. You know what happens there, right?"

\---

"She was trying to save the world," He says, and he stares out at the horizon. The island will come soon. The map will be given soon.

"No doubt, she's charting a way back with Mr. Lukas by now. Certain it will be just them returning. The world safe. It's alright. What else could she have done?"

\---

Martin scoffs. "She could have told you what the  _ plan _ was, for starters. You might've had ideas, you could have worked together." 

He won't get angry. It already happened. Gertrude Robinson is dead. "She used you, your trust, like-- Like a thing, Michael. You're not a thing."

\---

Michael sighs, and deflates against the railing, his gaze still fixated forward towards a spot he knows will become visible soon. The past and the present and the future live together in this place. In this memory. Zemlya Sannikova is a place that can not exist; this memory is a thing that can not exist. And yet it does. 

"I'm going to go willingly," He says, and finally filters a dark look to Martin, and his expression is sad. "I remember this moment. I looked to her, and she looked-- cold. And I realized I'd projected. And the chill set in. I should have died from frost-bite. I won't. I'll show you the heart."

\---

Their eyes meet in the middle, and Martin feels like he's grieving. He's been in here for ages, he's forgotten himself, he's gotten it back. Admittedly, it's in pieces, but he still found them all. Michael, included. Between this, his experiences with the Spiral as a whole over several months, their ritual, there's a piece of the other in each of their Doors, if one could be represented by such a thing. One splinter of a different wood. 

He holds out a hand. "Are you coming back with me?"

\---

Michael turns and watches the waves fold over one another as the Tundra makes her journey, and finally, finally, he can see the shadow of a shape upon the horizon. He glances back, and his hand is soft, and it's human, and it isn't cold and wet and leathery. 

"If you'll have me. I don't know if you do."

\---

“Like I’d give up after all  _ that.”  _ Martin laces their fingers together properly. “I think you’ll get along just fine. We have some things to sort out, but... Well. I’ll make sure you’re safe.”

\---

"You know by now that I want to trust you," He says, and looks ahead. "But I guess I'll see if I can, in the end. I hope so. Stupid hope."

\---

“You don’t owe me any trust. You’re allowed to go wherever you want to, after this— doesn’t have to be with us.”

Martin hesitates, but he drums fingers over the railing and gives in. “How much do you remember about our meetings, after this happened?”

\---

Michael shrugs. "It hasn't happened yet. I'm still there."

Gertrude calls his name; Michael turns to see her poking her head from the main quarters of Mr. Lukas, and he glances back to Martin. "Meet me on the shore. I have to live this part."

There's still a map to be given. There's still the crushing acceptance of death to occur. There's still, yet, the awareness that his life is expendable and yet, important in some cosmic sense. He exists to fail. He exists to throw a rock into a cog. He exists to die and not die and die and not die, and all at once to swirl, to spiral, to torture.

He's glad Martin can see this part first-hand. But he follows through with Miss Gertrude and gets his map and forgets about him, and then he's pressed upon a shore as hot as a jungle. He thinks of old war movies; is this his Full Metal Jacket? Good Morning, Vietnam? He does not remove his jacket. Russia is cold, and the hallways are ice, but the beginning of this journey is hot, hot, hot. His hair sticks to his face in sweaty clumps.

\---

Time flows by with Martin as a captive audience. Face to the name with Mr. Lukas, but there’s no dwelling on that. As he brought Gerry to oversee his own commitment to madness, so Martin watches Michael’s with rapt attention. 

The railing melts beneath them, the foam bubbling up from the sea turns to wet leaves in a place that could not exist. A ritual site Martin could never dream of crafting. No wonder Michael hates it, reduced to childish games. The Spiral is an architect who’s honed this skill long before Martin can conceptualize with time. 

There are no beautiful paintings, here. As a spectator, it’s not his job to feel, but he can see the sweltering misery plain as day. A real fly on the wall, he is, opting out of the physical pain to feel something much worse. 

Helpless. 

He wonders about the map, though. Did Gertrude Robinson do what he did? Draw it up, commit to the intent, feed it? It’s not just about wanting, though, there’s a price that Martin’s becoming more and more aware of every day, but...

Well, she did die. She didn’t come back. They have so much unfinished business back home. Martin stands on the island, and Michael’s fear is thicker than the air around him.

\---

Michael walks into the thicket leading up to the impossible structure. It hurts his eyes, his ears, his mouth, his head, but he's smiling, grinning, some preternatural music in his ears. He turns to Martin as they walk. "This is when I realized she'd betrayed me," He says, and despite his words, his expression is ecstatic. Unhinged. 

"It wasn't about stopping an evil, by then. It was about the hope that it would die with me. Do you understand?" They reach stone that is ancient and new. Neo. Archaic. He presses a hand to the stone and it falls away beneath him, leaving the entry doorway to his beholding. He peers inside, wide eyed and rapt, still grinning. 

"She wanted a murder. I made it a murder-suicide. And we failed as we succeeded. Funny how that works."

\---

Martin keeps pace. Dog chasing after the sun with his mouth open and ready to drag him out of the sky, back down to earth. 

“As well as I can from down here,” Martin replies with his own soft reverence, pushing through the leaves. “It worked, in a way. I don’t think you’ll have to worry about it becoming this for a long time. There’s someone else in here, somewhere, isn’t there?”

\---

The cold returns in the depths of the tomb. The Worker of Clay did his job well. Michael shivers, despite the coat, and he says, "I can't possibly know that." 

He walks. And after a while, he says, "Yes. I think there is. What even is there for me, on the outside? I've seen it, seen you. And the others. Not through my eyes, not really."

\---

“That’s up to you. You can— You can do anything. You’re smart, and, and I think the world is better with you in it, Michael. If you’re allowed to be you.”

\---

Michael shrugs, and takes a left. "I don't know about that." His grin hurts his face.

\---

Martin is having trouble keeping up with him, but he doesn’t think they’re going fast at all. “I do. When we first made our deal, I wanted to know about the Watcher’s Crown, but I don’t think I care much, anymore. Not the way I just want you to be able to... to heal. To not be used.”

\---

"How can that possibly be possible!" He screams it into tunnels that can't exist. "How could you possibly want  _ me?  _ You've seen it all. My failures. My misery. My twisting, now."

\---

“You’re more than that. Each time we met— I don’t think of you in terms of failures, Michael. You’ve seen mine, you’re still letting me see. You’re a good person, even when things have— When they’ve gone wrong.” Martin’s voice is gentle, gentle in a way that’s almost foreign to him.

\---

"I guess we'll see! After you see my heart get eaten!" His hands trail the walls, and he follows the map, and this has already all happened, hasn't it? He knows where this goes. This reality is new and old, all at once.

"And now the Beholding gets it’s share of the pie, too!"

The tunnels turn icy. They weren't, in real life. They are now. Who can blame him, for turning things as cold as ice?

\---

“Not on purpose,” Martin mutters. The Eye is going to be a problem soon. Maybe Michael already knows. “I’m looking for me.”

\---

"Eye, web, spiral, hunt, you," Michael murmurs, sing-songy, as he takes turn after turn in the endless fractal maze, "No difference. Different names."

He shivers. It's always cold, in the heart of the Distortion. It wasn't once. It is now. They're getting closer.

\---

“I’ll argue with you about that one later.” He’s not about to go into name philosophy here. Not so close to this. “Were you still scared, by this point?”

\---

"No. I just hoped I'd die. Guess I didn't get my wish."

\---

“Do you still want to?” That might not be the best way to phrase it. “I— Do you have any other wishes?”

\---

"I guess we'll see." Michael says, and turns to him, his grin wide and painful, the muscles of his mouth hurting from the strain. It's alright. Soon his mouth will be able to handle the distortion. "Michael Shelley has not existed in five years. Who knows what he is, after this."

\---

“I don’t know who I’ll be after this, either. I’m existing for the first time.” Martin reaches one hand out, like he’s going to comfort him, but thinks better of it. “You don’t need to have it all figured out just yet.”

\---

Michael looks at him, and there's clarity there, for a moment, something beyond this memory, and he gives a very slow nod of affirmation. "Alright, Martin."

His breath catches, as he looks straight ahead. "Here it is. Just as the map says. Always wondered how she did that. The map. Maybe she willed the spiral into bending to her will. Crafty woman of many faces. Not unlike you. You're nicer, though." His hands are shaking now.

\---

“Maybe she handed it to you and you both made it real,” Martin murmurs, and doesn’t argue about levels of niceness. There’s a healthy amount of fear in his voice, though he knows it’s already happened. “Should I do anything? Michael?”

\---

Michael shrugs. "Save me. Get me out. Feed the Spiral." He grins. "Figure it out, He-Of-Many-Names."

A deep breath. And then he pushes open the final door, and the Twisting begins.

This, too, isn't how it went. Martin is here now. And he's the Distortion. Memory leaks into truth leaks into lie, and there's someone else here, too, and at the center of the altar is a corpse, white as snow.

\---

Behind them, the door is cracked open. This place is and is not the center of a maze housing a prize that is not a reward but a manufactured reality built on--

A voice echoes from behind, while Martin stands over the half-illusory body of Michael Shelley. It makes him jump. 

_ “Hello?”  _

He swivels around as a set of human fingers grip the side of the door, cautiously pushing it open. There is no time to feel dread, to prepare for anything at all, but there... really is nothing to be worried about, here. An untouchable space in the impossible. 

A head peeks in. She’s not quite as tall as Michael, but, like most people, is taller than Martin. Funny, Martin can’t quite pin down the exact difference, like each angle has him re-evaluating every detail he’d already assimilated into his memory. Her hair is dark, curly, curlier than Michael’s by far. Eyes impossibly wide, impossibly alive with redness that betray a long bout of crying until the well grew permanently dry, as her body threatens to cave in on itself. In her other hand she holds a pad of paper, pen nicely tucked into the loops at the very top. 

“It is a very strange house.” She muses, moving her hand over the frame of the door once it’s swung all the way open. “Not like the others. This one makes sense-- No marble columns in bathrooms, no ancient floral wallpapers to take down, there’s no space for a dreary foyer…” 

She glances about the walls of the room, unperturbed by the deepset chill that does not exist. “Oh, the  _ kitchens-- _ Once you’ve seen one beige laminate countertop, you’ve seen them all. I don’t have to pitch another bad  _ kitchen.” _ She laughs, delightfully free and bitterly aware all at once. “Nothing a splash of color won’t fix. Just needs a little love. Isn’t that right?”

Martin bends down low, tucking an arm under the knees of a body he hopes is more than just a body. “You’re-- You’re Helen? Helen Richardson?”

She glances down at him from feet away, her smile warm in a way that penetrates this space. She balances with the practiced calmness of a person oh, so very skilled at twisting the details of something unpleasant to present them in her favor. She lacks the volatile, seeping emotion of Michael, the unbridled, turbulent rage of an existence beyond pain. Her smile isn’t jagged, but sharp, as she winks. Fear that aches through a body she can no longer feel is, just the same, no longer felt by her own mind. “Just the one.” 

He wants to ask her if she’s okay, here. He has a feeling she’s already made her own choice. “Can you-- Can you give us a tour, maybe? Back to the start?”

“Oh, you’re in luck. I’ve just about finished my map. Hm.” She squints up at something Martin doesn’t see, something that exists to her beyond Michael’s heart. Her own core, perhaps. She takes the pen and scribbles down another note. Martin is close enough to see that she’s writing backwards, as quick as he can write forwards. 

She sighs. “So many ideas. Come on, then.”

\---

The Archivist has been breathing, to pass the time. He sits on the roof and presses his chin to his knees, and though he does not sleep, when his being hums with the greater Beholding beyond this plane, a sort of meditative experience, he can feel the twitchings of Jonathan's consciousness far below him, dreaming. It is the one gift he gives to him; Jonathan's dreams are stressless, and kind, perhaps the only time his sleep could be described with such adjectives.

His Gospel tries to speak, the first couple of days. The Archivist gives patience to his questions, and comments, and snide remarks, until he doesn't, and he takes the Spirit's tongue from him for three days, until he learns to behave.

Now, he sits in much the same way as the Archivist, a mirrored position that he chooses to perceive as worship. That silly locket dangles from his fist, but he lets Gerard Keay keep it; sometimes creatures of mortal background need object comfort. He does not tell him it's childish; he does not say anything at all.

The Beholding is patient, and even though he is one part of it, wrapped into the skin of something on the mortal plane, he can wait. And wait. And wait. But even his patience is wearing thin, by the final day.

This is a vigil, but his Messenger takes his, as Gerard mumbled that morning, 'sweet ass time.'

The sun, now, sits high in the sky, and the Archivist shields his eyes beneath the curtain of hair Jonathan possesses; he knows it's soon. But with the Spiral, knowing is never, ever enough. It's an approximation, more than an exact knowledge. So he waits longer.

\---

Helen is exceptionally impressive. She allows Martin to see her incomprehensible map, and Martin can only make out a thousand cubes of slightly different angles. As marked as he is, this aspect of the Spiral is one he feels without conscious comprehension. He feels, as they walk, a striking calmness to the Spiral’s walls that didn’t exist before.

They part for her, not him, and in many ways he’s grateful. He’d like to not be eaten, but it seems the Spiral needs time to heal, as it can. They performed surgery, in a way, and Helen seems out of it despite her vague pockets of knowing things she should not know about things that do not exist. 

There are more mirrors already, Martin notices. Mirrors without cracks, reflecting the bright colors of his cardigan along one another, the curls of Michael’s hair as it drapes over his shoulder. Portraits once covered in dust are dusted off, and while the place is not without agony it seems to be pulsing with something alive, not in stasis, not somewhere between such a violent Schrodinger’s conundrum. The more distance they put between the center and themselves, Michael’s body grows warmer. Part of the way, too, he even starts to breathe. Martin starts to breathe, though he’s not sure when, exactly, he stopped.

Helen explains some of her ideas, but she seems to fade in and out of understanding about where, exactly, she is. What she is. Why she is. At one point, she tries to pitch him the house, but Martin thinks she might be joking. There are several striking moments of fear, there, but they’re few and far between, over in an instant. She is confident with this, in a way Michael never was. She doesn’t fit exactly into the Spiral, but exists alongside it for now, parts of her weaving in and out. She focuses more on the halls than he or Michael, and that’s okay. 

Martin has a feeling they’ll be seeing much more of her, with some time. He’s still marked by the Spiral, but part of that mark exists within Michael Shelley that once existed inside the Spiral, and it’s less intense. He’s too tired for spiraling, right now, anyway. Seems everyone is. 

They walk for miles, but only minutes, or maybe years, or a hundred feet, but Helen checks the map along the way. None of it looks familiar. He couldn’t possibly have made his way out of this alone. The Spiral would have swallowed him whole. He might be the next Michael, distorted and twisting and many-faced. 

But no, Martin’s will stay tucked away beneath the surface that is very much a physical barrier, not an illusion. And the closer they get, the more Martin feels a tug at the center of his heart, some disquieting palpitation to help him along the last few turns. He knows, but only once they’re close, that a compulsion from the highest order is a need. To not follow it would be to stop his own heart. It’s a choice he could make, technically, disobey the order and die, but he won’t. Not for this.

They make it to the one door he recognizes, the one they came from. Red. Red, like the dress. Like the paint. Like scales on his sweater. Not like blood. There was no blood shed today. Or whichever day it is. 

Helen opens the door for him, but she seems to have no inclination towards going out. Maybe she doesn’t know, but the Spiral does, and the Spiral seems to whisper beneath and over and around and through her, and it seems intent on keeping her cradled there without opening up to danger longer than necessary. Martin steps through to the roof on unsteady legs, and somehow reality is the part of this that’s wrong. 

Just before the door shuts, Helen places a piece of paper in one of Martin’s pockets. She tells him it’s one of her business cards, but he’ll have to see later. The brightness of the sun forces his eyes shut, forces the Eye out, if only for a moment.

\---

The Archivist and Gerard Keay both jump to their feet, the Eye standing to attention to witness such a momentous occasion. A strange occasion, but what else is new for the Spiral? It's always something new with this one.

The Distortion-That-Was sits in Martin Blackwood's arms, a living corpse, something that is more human than its been in years, but not quite. Not fully. Can never again be fully unmarked. His dreams are peaceful, and quiet, and easy to ignore. 

The Archivist's eyes catch on the new Distortion, and he smiles at her as she retreats. If nothing else, she returned what was not hers to him. It wasn't in her nature. Or, at least, it won't be.

And then, finally, he looks to his Martin. His tilts his chin at him, and regards him. He's changed. He's the same. He hates all the redundancies and wrap around twisting truths that cloak the Spiral's reality. Gives him a headache. But he's here, and the balance he foresees is returned.

"Good," He says in greeting. "I could not see you, in there."

\---

Helen doesn’t return the smile, not yet. She will soon. She’ll even have philosophy to discuss. Her own thoughts, her own conclusions. Her own meals. 

The door clicks, and wavers, and in a blink, what was once there is now empty space. Was empty space all along. 

Despite his exhaustion, every interconnected piece of Martin that he owns and owns him in turn scratches at the surface for control. Or, well, a lack of it. A turn at failing to have it. The Archivist calls for the attention of many faces of varying degrees of emotional attachment in different directions. 

That includes the thing that tries to growl in his throat. It’s a pathetic, weak noise, and it gives up after a moment. The air is thicker here than the choking, humid jungle. Much easier to sigh, accept, and offer a cheery, _ “Good.” _

\---

"You're not keeping  _ that _ thing," He says, and steps forward, and is repulsed by the energy that wafts from them both.

The Ghost steps forward, and he hisses in Martin's face, "You were gone for a fucking  _ week," _ and it's a livid note, even as he's desperately pushing the locket into one of his hands, stuffing it solid between where the Spiral's failure's body begins and his palm rests.

\---

Martin wants to step back as the Archivist closes in, but Gerry prevents him. His little Skin-Spirit with a penchant for speaking his mind in a way every part of Martin can understand with clarity. 

“Oh, a week,” he says dramatically. “Try years. Backwards and forwards and all over the place, really.” He takes the ball, clutches it tightly as he holds Michael. He shouldn’t be able to hold Michael, who feels startlingly still, startlingly light. But alive. 

His head whips to the Archivist. “I am! Keeping him. And he’s not a thing. He’s Michael Shelley, and... and, oh. Okay.”

He’s not going to be upright for much longer. He giggles, a tired, hoarse thing. No water. No food. No air. “We need to— To get back, before I pass... pass out. I just got off the teacup ride.”

\---

The Archivist's expression turns livid, and Gerard really doesn't want to see this turn into a fit, or an episode, and he'd rather not have Martin passing out, so he steps back and closes his eyes for a second, letting out a breath. "Okay. We're calling a cab, and getting home. Okay. Um-- you got him, Martin?"

\---

_ “Mmmhm. _ Sure do. Just have to get him through a moooovie theater, I thought this through really, really well. So good. So good at it.”

\---

"I'd help, but..." Gerry shrugs. Still, he hovers close. He feels real, again, in ways that he hasn't, with the Archivist. The Archivist, who views him as something different than a person.

He begins to walk, towards the stairs, and prays that this goes simply.

The Archivist stays rooted in place, looking between the both of them, and Gerard snaps, "You can scream at us when we get  _ home." _

\---

“Our Wizard of Oz behind the curtain at the end of the yellow brick road, miserable  _ Mooooonshine,” _ Martin says dumbly as he follows Gerry. Blood belongs to the arms and legs, not to his brain. 

He’ll be in deep shit for this the second he’s not carrying an unconscious Michael. “Did you know I had problems? I didn’t. I have so many problems. No nouns needed! Nevertheless, needy names need nests.”

\---

"Yes, everyone knew you had problems, Martin. It's the everything about you." He'll be nicer later. Wrangling his family-- oh God, that's a thought--, one of which is possessed, is taking all his concentration.

"Now," Gerard says, conspiratorially quiet, a whisper loud enough for the Archivist to hear. He's gotten at least half-way decent at figuring out what the being wants, and what his fits imply. How they're triggered. The Archivist is a childish prince with way too much power; Henry VIII if Henry VIII was hot. "We're going to be respectful and be silent on the way home, Martin, so that we can give our full attention to The Archivist once we arrive. Hm? Sound good?" 

Before Martin can answer, he walks briskly towards the stairs that lead down into the back halls of the theater, and The Archivist has a smug enough expression on his dour fucking face that Gerard's content that he'll at least follow. 

He opens a door that is a door, and descends into what he hopes is the start of some sort of normalcy. Godspeed, you band of foolish vagabonds. 


	48. Chapter 48

The ride home is blessedly silent. The Archivist, thank God, gets distracted enough by the rush of traffic and thick, angry pain that clogs evening London traffic that he isn't too much of a nuisance, and whenever Martin looks about to speak, Gerard levels him with a curt finger in his face that says 'I fucking dare you. Do it. I dare you. Seriously.' 

All in all, Gerry's fucking exhausted by the time the poor Uber driver drops them off. He's been awake for a week, sustained only by the energy outpouring from the Archivist's very essence, and the occasional press upon Gerry's shoulders whenever he got tired enough to start fading away. And getting them all through the city took the rest of it. 

When the driver had asked about Michael's state, Gerard had stammered something about epilepsy and chronic passing out syndrome and a bunch of other blatantly obvious lies, and The Archivist had glared at him for them, but for once, his pea brain must have put two and two together and realized it would be unwise to start spouting the truth about how Michael was a corpse an hour ago and may or may not still be. Jury's out.

He tipped her handsomely using the card set up to Jon's account. 

And now, finally, the Institute. Blessed be this hallowed, poisonous, deadly earth. Gerard ushers them downstairs, and as the elevator descends, Gerard finally takes stock of what he feels and it's--

Well, frankly, it's pure fucking panic. Fun thing about running on ghostly adrenaline for a week straight, is that once it runs out, the fear sets in, and the realization of what his reality is, and the double realization that there is a monster among them with pure intent to rule over them like a patriarch. 

He swallows as much of it down as he can, but The Archivist looks to him, and he smiles, and it runs a chill down Gerard's spine. 

The second they open the office door and close it behind them, Gerard lets out a soft, "Mother  _ fuck," _ and collapses into the archivist chair with a world weary exhaustion from beyond the grave. 

The Archivist rounds on Martin, and his voice is sugar-sweet, and his expression is soft, and he holds out his arms and he says, "Let me help you settle Michael Shelley in," and officially, Gerard needs two moments to himself before he jumps back in.

\---

Martin was good. He was good on the way home, was good in the ride, was good in keeping his mouth shut. Once he was quiet it got difficult to keep the energy to pipe up again, though, so he can’t take much credit for acting nice. 

One thing that doesn’t change, though, is he doesn’t trust the Archivist an inch. That’s what it takes, for him to speak, the idea that he’s about to undo all of Martin’s struggle in bringing him back over a period of several seconds. 

“I thought he was a  _ thing,”  _ Martin shoots back, trying to put some real malice behind it. It doesn’t work. He’s exhausted down to the bone and thinks he might collapse any second, but he’s not about to trust him with Michael unless he’s given a good reason. “What do  _ you  _ know about— About helping?”

\---

"You ripped the flesh off the Distortion and you call it a man, and think that it is helpful to keep it alive?" The Archivist shakes his head. He has held his tongue for posterity's sake, for truthfully, he does not want overt harm to afflict Martin or Gerard, and getting them 'home', to the belly of the Institute, mitigated the least amount of harm issued possible. 

But now, now this is  _ his  _ domain, once more. 

"You have brought me an abomination; I want to end its misery."

\---

“He’s not  _ flesh,  _ his heart is beating!” He backs up a step, and then another, towards the safe room that isn’t safe. “I’m— I’m letting him— If he wakes up—“

It’s hard to keep the fear at bay, now that he’s back. Hard enough to stop the part of him that wants to snap and knows better from pushing through. Knows he can’t handle it now. Bitter cornered animal, he is. They should’ve taken him to a hospital. Martin just followed. 

He lowers his voice, at the end of his rope. “Please. Not now. Please?”

\---

The Archivist takes a breath and walks forward quickly, standing before Martin. And though he's shorter, he commands a presence, his expression brokering no arguments. Gerard, from the chair, flinches. 

"Will Michael Shelley be loyal?"

\---

Martin whimpers, and immediately regrets the lack of composure. How he moves like that, before he can even have a chance to back away, to keep out of reach, he has no idea. The way his knees threaten to give out doesn't help, either. “I don’t know. I can’t— I can’t ask. He was before. He’s the— He’s the reason the Spiral’s ritual f-failed.”

\---

"Are  _ you _ loyal, Martin Blackwood?"

\---

“Yes,” Martin says, but he doesn’t give specifics.

\---

He's met with a stare that bores into him, and after a long, unblinking moment, he turns, and waves a hand to the air, and says, "Fine. Sleep. I will deal with both of you later."

\---

Martin only grimaces at the back of the Archivist's head --  _ Jon's  _ head -- once he's facing the other direction, but there's still no heat behind it. He's used up all his emotional energy in, well, apparently it's been a week, but it's been much, much longer to him. He opens the door to the safe room, fumbles between the locket and Michael and the knob, but he manages. 

There's a glass of water on the nightstand by the bed, and who knows how old that is, but it's all he's getting, since he's not going back out there. The second his present worries are out of sight, it's not hard to forget about them, doing his best to ensure Michael's temporary safety and serve as a barrier between his body and the door. He also doesn't drink all of the water, he leaves most of it behind in case Michael wakes up, even though he wants to. Even though his body screams for help. 

He just sits up, stoic on the edge of the bed facing the door, until mere seconds pass and he's suddenly out. Hopefully he lands on the bed and not the floor.

\--- --- ---

Waking is painful. Waking is a thousand different shards of glass splintering through his skull at maximum velocity until the pain becomes normal and the absense or such would be weirder. Michael lays in the dark with his eyes staring at the ceiling, and his body is so heavy and his body is so light, and everything is so mundane, and everything hurts.

He can't see in the dark, the way he once could have, when he was... When he was more. Michael jerks, and his cheeks are wet, and whatever dreams he had, he can't remember, but isn't that worse? Not knowing? Not Being able to make it up?

He's in a place that's familiar and not, and he blindly reaches out for anything, anything at all, and he ends up rolling over into an aching side and digging his nails into Martin's upper arm deep.

\---

How long he's been out, Martin's not sure, but he's still not jolted into consciousness. He barely swims to the surface with Michael grabbing him, deeper than it feels, so far away. His eyes don't open, and he knows without looking that there are heavy, sleep-deprived bags beneath them. Every muscle that moves in response sears with pain, and even his "Mmh?" is done suffering. "...Need water?"

\---

A half-choked sob escapes his throat, and his nails dig in deeper, because reality is so heavy. It's so, so heavy. It feels as though the atmosphere is coming down on him, squeezing him, suffocating him, and dear God is this what it felt like to breathe once? An obligation? Is this what it felt like to think once? A linear conclusion that gives the straight and narrow to anything that dares wander? 

"Pathetic, pathetic," He mumbles, and doesn't even realize he's doing it, his mouth moving for him. "All the light in the whole wide world, and poor Michael Shelley wants nothing more than to have his heart torn out from something  _ biiiggger _ than him. Pathetic. Pathetic."

\---

That has Martin's eyes cracking open. He shifts on the bed, finds his legs off the side and his back will especially hate him more than every other part of his body hates him now. He makes a soft noise that's almost a hush, almost a hiss, because pain is jolting up his arm but Michael's talking and Michael's more important than his pain right now. "Hey. Hey, it's okay. Hold--" 

He can't do much like this, and he's not about to jerk away and leave Michael there, so he moves on the bed and tries to bring him close, give him something to hold onto. Safety blanket in the dark. It's either a good idea, or will make the situation ten times worse. "You're safe. I don't-- I don't know what you mean."

\---

"I don't know, either," He whispers, and the tears are riding down his cheeks again, cool in the dark and the cold scares him, it scares him more than anything else in the entire world. He clings to Martin, clings like he'll fall away into dust if he lets go, and well, maybe he will. This world has different rules. This world says the dead stay dead, and this world says, no second chances, and this world says, Michael Shelley is a fool, fool,  _ fool.  _ Who is he to argue the rules of this land? This isn't a Hallway. This is a place. He's been living in a liminal journey for years. 

"I shouldn't be safe, safe, safe," He says, and his eyes are wide in the dark, catching what minuscule light there is to flash ice. "Do you know what I've done?"

\---

"I do. It's not your fault," Martin mutters as he wraps his arm tighter around Michael, around his upper arm, his own face pressed to Michael's chest. "Just breathe. I-I know it's hard. Go slow with it-- Really, really slow. Okay?"

\---

He tries to breathe, and it hurts, and his lungs aren't used to the effort. Was this body the original? Is it? Is it new? Is it-- 

It's too much to question. So he breathes, and the breaths turn to sobs, and he presses his face to Martin's hair and he cries, and cries, and cries, and there's no  _ O _ soft revelations, and there's no laughter, there's just a deep, deep shake that overtakes him, the realization that he's alive, and he's here and his head is alone and it hurts, and it's magical, and he doesn't know what to do.

\---

Martin is glad he's not as awake as he could be. Not as emotionally present. That his hand smooths down and up Michael's back of its own volition. That he can close his eyes here and feel nothing. "There," he sighs, forehead to sternum. "You're doing great." He almost says Michael's name, but thinks against it with what little processing power he has. "You're not pathetic, not at all."

\---

He's going to make Martin's hair wet. Ugh. He hates himself. He pulls back just enough to look at Martin-- really  _ look _ at him as much as he can in the dark-- for the first real time with human eyes. He matches and doesn't match his memory. He's everything and not. It just gets him sobbing again. His head hurts, trying to sort the memories. "How'm I doing great?" He whines, and presses back into the safety of his hair.

\---

"You're breathing, that's how." He grumbles it as he buries his face harder against him. "I'm just happy you're-- You're alive. That's how."

\---

"Praise me for the b-bare. B-bare minim-nimim," He starts hiccuping. Great. Pathetic. "Oh g-god-"

\---

"The bare minimum," he scoffs, like he wouldn't act the same way. He just squeezes Michael harder. His voice is almost comical, cranky half-asleep daze muffled between them. "I will, thank you for permission. Your lungs work. I'll aim... my praise at them next."

\---

"That's-- y-you're.... You're ridiculous. That's-- Ke-- Martin." He's whining into his hair, half coherent, but his breathing evens out some, even as the tears still keep coming. He's scared of this kindness. What if he gets used to it? It'll go away eventually.

\---

"Both are true, and I am. Torture, I know." He eases up a little, not wanting to stifle him. Or himself. He can barely breathe well as it is, let alone with his face shoved up against fabric and the humid warmth of his own exhales. "Would you-- Would you take water, now?"

\---

"I-- Maybe? I haven't. Water. In years." He shivers, and pulls back enough to look at Martin with an utterly water-logged expression.

\---

Martin lifts up with his hands, groaning at the strain of it. He blinks down at Michael without really seeing. "Ow. Can you sit up? I don't want to-- To drown you. Might... defeat the purpose... of bringing you back alive."

\---

Michael starts to sit up, and then hisses in the back of his throat, diving back into the bed, curling around Martin's form and digging his face into whatever nook or cranny he can find. "Too cold. F-fuck water. You're warm."

\---

"I know, but--" Fine. Make him a dirty enabler. They're just a confusing tangle of limbs, one that Martin readily falls back into. "You'll need to eventually. Lucky'm not all awake."

\---

"Stay here forever," Michael mumbles, and he throws an arm over Martin and runs his hand up and down until he finds his cheek, and he gives it a few soft pats. So his fingers are a little wet from the tears. So what. They're probably both gross from Spiral-guts. 

Now that he's cried, he feels a little more content, sleepy again, and thought there's a heavy, deep-set storm in his gut and his head and in this room, it's a little subsided now. Delayed. "Never woken up with you, before," He says.

\---

Martin hums. It's the best he's got. "Don't start. I went to bed that night mentally clicking my heels together trying to wish I could've."

\---

"Wasn't in my nature to let you," He sighs into him. "No one realizes, the Spiral likes to impart lessons."

\---

"Oh, I learned. No more one night stands." That's not even the half of it, but we'll save all those revelations for later. "Your sense of humor needs work."

\---

"Don't blame it just on  _ me,"  _ He groans, and rolls over a little, shielding his eyes with one of his forearms. He makes sure to bury the crook of his elbow against the bridge of his nose, to avoid any scars from showing. "I'm too stupid for all that convoluted shit."

\---

"It's your mind that did it. I don't think the Spiral cares about me... about me whoring out. Which-- I don't do anymore."

Is that a lie? No. It's not. Technically. He's pretty sure what he does now is, is like a step up. At least. "Here's a game. No putting yourself down day one of being back. Okay?"

\---

Michael lifts his head purely to glare at Martin, and he says meanly, "Technically this is the first time we've ever truly met. Demanding prick."

\---

"It sure is." Michael makes him fiery. Bit different then Gerry, way different than Jon, way, way different from-- No, he's not counting the Archivist. He misses Jon. Okay. Bad timing. "Hope they can't hear us out there."

\---

"Out--? O-oh." And all at once he pales, staring at the door to the office in horror. The door that could lead anywhere, really. They're not alone. He could be eaten again.

\---

Martin follows, taking a bit to catch up. "Oh, not-- Not like... Just in the other room, Michael. Friends." Most of the time. "Sorry. That was ominous."

\---

"I know what you meant," Michael hisses, but he's still staring at the door and shaking. "Not  _ that _ daft."

\---

Martin tilts his head to block the door from Michael’s vision. “Well, it sounded...” He yawns against his own will. His teeth are still sharp, which is a funny thing to remember considering Michael’s memories had kept them the whole time. Maybe he’s fond. Martin would believe that. “Sorry. It sounded upset.”

\---

"It is." He sighs, and finally sits up all the way, rubbing his hands at his face. Hands that don't bend and twist and distort and hide and elongate. Just hands, and he spends a few seconds too long moving them against his face, marveling at the normalcy of their weight.

There's a lot to reaccustom himself to.

His hair is wild, pressed flat in some areas, and sticking out to defy gravity in others. He feels pangs of hunger, and thirst, and his entire body aches, and God. He did not miss this part of humanity. "Everything's changed," He mumbles.

\---

Deeply, deeply, Martin prays this wasn’t a mistake. That Michael can get past this pain and be better for it. “Take it in steps. One— One at a time, right? You’ll get there.”

\---

"I'm just-- ach. What's the word. Dis-disoriented." And half asleep. And  _ human. _ "I know you're barely human anymore, but it's weird."

\---

“... Barely?” It’s  _ barely _ a breath at all, more an exhale than a word. Martin rolls over, sparing a glance at the door as he fumbles for the glass of water. He wonders if they’re out there. If Gerry’s still awake. If it’s the Archivist wearing Jon’s body. If Michael will realize this is the Institute and hate him for it. 

He finds the glass and tries to hold it out for Michael instead of running himself into a hole in the ground based off some arbitrary definition of human that nobody can seem to agree on.

\---

"Duh. Half-avatar for just about everything in the book. Impressive, really. Should have seen your colors through my-- his-- it's? Eyes." He takes the glass, now that he's sitting up, and drowns out anything else that he could say by summarily downing the entire glass. He makes a disgusted face, even as he's clearly parched. "Dusty."

\---

“I— It’s a lot less than that, you’re just... you’re just creative,” Martin mumbles with half his face pressed into a pillow. “I didn’t have... I was too tired to get better water. Sorry, Michael.”

\---

Michael shrugs. "Better than no water." He yawns, and stretches, and is properly waking up now. His cheeks sting from tear tracks, but that's okay. Probably did him good to get that out of his system before doing anything else.

Everything else is just a big giant question mark now. But hasn't it always been? It's not like he had much of a purpose beyond parasitic self hatred. Kind of destroyed the original purpose of what he was. And now he's-- well? Pointless. But alive.

He presses a hand to Martin's cheek. "You're all sad when you wake up."

\---

That’s better. Looking on the bright side already. Martin’s eyes fall shut at the touch. “I’m not sad, I’m always like this if I’m woken up too early.”

Conscious enough to backtrack, something twitches in his heart. “Can you reach over— Is there a necklace on the nightstand? Big— Big ball on the end.”

\---

Michael turns the reach into a stretch, arching his back to the side as he fumbles around the nightstand. He brushes against a chain and feeds it into his hand, and when he closes his fist around the metallic ball, he shivers, and the ends of his hair static.

"Oh. Your Skin-Spirit lives in here." He hands it over almost eagerly. Macabre. The End is so very Macabre.

\---

Martin takes it without opening his eyes, tucking his closed fist under his chin. “His name is Gerry, and he’s been doing a lot of work to help you. He’s a good person.”

\---

"A good  _ ghost," _ He corrects, and giggles sleepily. "I remember him. I made him sleep. He was so very tired in the Hallways."

\---

“Good ghost  _ and _ person. You don’t have to go there again.” He doesn’t bring up slamming the door in Gerry’s face, because it  _ was _ kind of funny, and he did bring him back, so.

\---

"Suppose it depends on what Miss Richardson wants to do. I'd make a very easy meal, you know." Easy, in the dark, to talk about this. To dig into the well that was and probably will now always be partially the Distortion, direct link or not. "But who knows. You're the perfect meal. I almost took you, so many times."

\---

“Yeah, and I’m glad you didn’t. I—“ Is he, though? You wanted to stay, Martin. You wanted a re-do. Wanted your own little time travel world where everything would turn out alright. Maybe you could’ve stayed there. 

Maybe. But you left, and the chance is gone, now. “I don’t know. She didn’t— You’ll have to ask Jon, about her. I heard... good things, ish?”

\---

"Ah." He's quiet. "Somehow, it kept that from us. Me. The greater-- whatever, that's out there, that I was the hand of. That I was to be replaced."

He lets out a sullen little sigh and slowly tries to stand. Almost falls, but he rights himself last minute against the bed, and slowly stretches to his full height. "If you weren't there, I would have been erased."

\---

“I know,” Martin sniffs, running his thumb along the grooves of the locket. “Are— Are you sure standing up is a good idea?”

He’s not about to ask cosmic questions, but he’s going to have to ask about that foresight soon. Might answer quite a few questions.

\---

"No. It's an awful idea. But I want new clothes. I wore these to Russia. Bit outdated, hm?" It's slow going, but he eventually makes it over to the dresser and starts rooting around.

\---

“Oh...” He stifles his laugh with his fist against his lips. “Michael, nothing will fit you. I’m sorry. We’ll have to— We had to rush a bit, getting you here.”

\---

"One of the archivist's shirts, surely." He digs and digs until he finds a t-shirt and a hoodie, and fine, he'll keep his awful outdated pants, but only for now. He needs to keep his hands busy or he'll collapse, he thinks.

\---

Martin doesn’t stop him. “Michael, I... Is it okay, that we’re in the Institute right now?”

\---

Michael shrugs. "You live here, don't you? Where  _ should _ we be?"

\---

“Sorry. I think I worry sometimes that— That things are a bigger deal than they are, when it’s for someone else. When I like them.” He finally sits up again, but his body hates him just as much as it did before. “Associations, I guess.”

\---

"I never lived here," Michael says, and starts to strip off the clothes he died in. "But I did enjoy my tenure. Even if... If it was lies, lies, lies. Words to placate." He sighs.

\---

“I know you didn’t live here, Michael, just— I— Okay.” He’s quickly realizing how much of a comfort it is, to press his thumb over ridges in the gold, how grounding it is. Like Gerry is leaking out and smacking him with a newspaper in spirit. “Just... let me know if you need anything. I’m... I’m really tired.”

\---

Michael rolls his eyes and tuts, "You were only in there a week." But it's said with no heat, just a small smile as he squeezes Jon's shirt over his frame. It's a bit short, but it fits him fine, which says some worrying things about Jon's weight. Michael is very aware of his own unfortunate skinniness.

\---

Somehow, that plucks a string in his heart that has him slouching, hands and locket limp in his own lap. It’s a certain kind of cry that starts as a white noise, warm prickling at his fingertips, behind his ribs. He’s not crying yet, but it’s a near thing. Easier to blame it on lack of sleep. “It’s been a lot longer than a week.”

\---

Michael can't help the flat look he levels Martin as he pulls the hoodie over his head. It's too dark to see what it is. Probably some band logo. Who knows. Or cares.

"The Spiral lies, Martin."

\---

Martin can’t explain. Can’t explain that his life has, for weeks, uprooted everything he thought he knew about himself. That he’s afraid to leave the room because something has taken over the person he thought he loved. That he might hurt someone else. That the only people he could talk to about this can’t change anything about it without managing him, out of control. That he’s spent the week before isolated from everything, everyone except the occasional telephone with Gerry as the middleman so he could pull this off. That just before, he was made so terrified that he nearly put his teeth to Jon’s neck.

That he had to be pulled away like a wild animal. That he’s not been in control for quite some time, now. That going into the Spiral only gave confusing names to his feelings, not solutions. That the cruel intimacy of sharing a reality based on memories that could have been if he hadn’t been screwed up doesn’t care about physical time. That he doesn’t know what to do with everything he knows now. That he doesn’t know what to do from here, because part of him hoped he’d never come back out. That this was part self-inflicted punishment. That it was selfish. That he can’t go back, but he wishes. 

Instead, he does cry, disjointed near-silent breaths in the darkness, gripping the sheets loosely with his hands, but he can’t find that comforting.

\---

Michael blinks, and holds his hands together nervously as he realizes what's happening. "Oh," He says, and feels a pang of guilt.

Stupid, selfish Michael. He made it about himself and wasn't paying attention to what Martin went through. He gave him a kindness and a condemnation, but first and foremost, it's the former, and he hasn't even thanked him.

Michael climbs back onto the bed and sits behind him, wrapping his legs around Martin and connecting them at the ankle, so that he's entirely around the man, and he leans forward and presses his face to the back of his shoulder, and he says, "It's okay. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Martin."

\---

If anyone deserves to cry, it’s not  _ him.  _ Michael didn’t get to choose. Gerry didn’t. Jon didn’t, not really, but Martin did. Martin’s always had the choice, and he always picks the one that makes things complicated. Makes them worse. Makes them confusing. And he doesn’t know how to say any of this, so he can’t even verify how much of it is true. 

That doesn’t do anything to stop his ugly tears, though. “It’s not your fault, it’s mine. Don’t be sorry. Sorry. It’ll stop in-in a minute.”

\---

"Nah. Don't need to. Cry as long as you need. I didn't mean--" He swallows, trying to organize his thoughts. "I get it. I know how it is. It's-- it's okay. Do you even know how much I cried when I first went in?"

\---

“It’s— It’s— I’m so, so caught up in the past, and feeling bad about it, but— But  _ I’m _ the past.” He doesn’t want to cry. He doesn’t need to. He is, though. “I just— I wonder whether I was better off... better off not knowing anything. But people should know. But should they, really? I don’t know!”

\---

Michael shrugs against his back. "Woulds, shoulds, coulds, Martin. You do know." He rubs his face against his back like a cat; Martin is warm and burns the cold away. He likes that. "No use what's best, or should be, or shouldn't; you'll spiral into something insane."

He doesn't say that he doesn't know. That his memories are a confusing mess or two lives and two paths and real and fake all intertwined. They can deal with that later.

\---

Martin leans back into it, and— Well, Michael’s right. This is why the Spiral wanted him. All his anxieties twisting together until they’re inseparable, constant, just a mess of episode after episode. 

He has been feeding into it a lot, lately. His tears dry faster than he expects, but he doesn’t have much in him to begin with. “We’ll be okay. Better to focus on basic needs right now, anyway.”

\---

"Right. Which-- ha. Forgotten what those are honestly. I haven't eaten real food in five years."

\---

“Food, water, shelter, mostly.” Martin runs his sleeve across his nose, and then lifts up the locket. “Can you put this on my neck?”

\---

Michael takes it between his fingers and unclasps it, running it over Martin's front and brushing his hands behind his hair to clasp it again. "Put necklaces on you a lot. Though I guess this is the first real time, really." He gives a soft laugh.

\---

“Bet this one’s way cheaper.” Martin smiles tiredly as he tilts his head down. “Hear that, Gerry? I bet this isn’t even real gold.”

\---

"He can hear you, even when he's awake?" Michael asks.

\---

“Is he? I— I don’t know how long we’ve been out. I’m just being a jerk.”

\---

Michael shrugs. "I don't know how long we slept. But I can feel your Skin-Spirit. He tastes like acid and fireplaces."

\---

"I'm sure that's a nice compliment. I-- I should go make sure they're, um, okay. Are you alright, in here? I'll bring more water back."

\---

"Sure. Yeah. I don't want to talk to my... To that thing yet. I might honestly hiss." He shivers. He'll stay right here in bed, thanks. Besides. He's not sure he can do much more walking right now.

\---

"That's fair. I growl." Seems everyone has their own special adverse reaction to their Archivist. He is technically theirs to handle, after all. 

Martin hauls himself out of bed, ignoring the protest igniting along all his joints. Better get this over with while he's too tired to do anything. Already got his cry in, too. He's still wearing the same clothes he's worn for a week, but he's not changing for this. One simple stretch, and he's at the door, shooting what he hopes is a comforting smile at Michael before turning and shutting it behind him.

\---

Oh, thank fucking  _ God.  _ Gerard immediately perks up at the desk when the door opens. He's translucent, exhausted, and each strange little press of Martin's fingers on his necklace makes him all the more exhausted. But he kept his vigil.

Not that the Archivist has done much except sit against the wall and stare at the closed door while the two spiraled out heroes slept. He finally moves and jumps to his feet, and Gerard leans back in the chair to mumble, "My lord, presenting your Messenger-Martin," half mocking, but not enough to actually raise the Archivist's anger.

"Good. You slept," The Archivist says to Martin, and it's much nicer than Gerard expected. What a surprising being that lives within Jon.

\---

Martin struggles to focus on either one of them, at first, unsure who demands it more. He ends up blinking at the Archivist with a confused little grimace, shifting his eyes to Gerry with a look that says 'please tell me you're joking', before finally settling on the Archivist. "...Messenger?"

\---

He nods. "Your title, yes. I will not linger long. It seems the Spiral has not completely overtaken you. I had worried, you do understand, that it would, out of spite for me."

\---

"My title.  _ Right.  _ Right, you'll have to explain that. Um-- No, I knew what I was-- What I was doing, mostly. He wouldn't hurt me." Maybe he should look like this much of a wreck more often. Seems he gets more slack that way.

\---

"It's simple; you deliver my will, as Jonathan's purpose will be... Different, now." He smiles, and it's a gentle smile, soft and pleased and proud. "And I gave you mercy despite your descent into the belly of something I could not follow, and I wanted to illustrate that. You see?"

\---

"Mercy. You...  _ do _ know it's a bit difficult to see you piloting the body of the man I-I love, and only getting to see him once you get bored, right? You realize that's, sort of..." Martin sighs. "Don't be vague. Jon's purpose?"

\---

The Archivist shakes his head, and steps forward, the smile on his face turning knowing and sly. "You can have him back now, though I imagine his body will need rest." He does not ease into it; maybe he still is angry. No matter. The Archivist takes his presence from Jon's body, and all at once Jon collapses where he stands.

\---

"Wh-- Oh, you  _ coward." _ Martin grits it through his teeth, bending down to try and brace Jon's fall. "Gerry, you can-- Get some sleep, okay? I'll... um, I'll take care of this."

\---

"You do  _ not _ need to tell me twice," Gerard replies immediately, and he flashes a tired peace sign at Martin and dissipates in the blinking of sleepy eyes. They'll have time to talk once everyone is rested.

Jon, for his efforts, does not open his eyes. He groans, as he comes back to, and it's slow, slow going, having not been in charge of his body for a week. "Shit," He slurs, and instinctively curls closer to Martin.

\---

"Okay. We're all going to bed." He huffs it out with finality, taking a page from Gerry's book (ha-ha), and does his best to pick Jon up. Somehow, he's heavier than Michael was. Or maybe Martin's just weak right now. He barely manages to open the door again, trying not to do it too slow or too fast. "You can share with Michael, and I'll... I'll be back in a minute."

\---

"Oh! Jon's back," Michael says brightly when they return, blinking in the dark. He's still sitting up, criss- crossed; he was waiting for Martin to come back.

"Share with--?" Jon questions blindly, and finally opens his eyes and recoils as much as he can in Martin's arms. He groans, about as much as he can manage right now, and turns his head to Martin's chest.

\---

"You be quiet. It's a sleepover now, and I'm-- Not asking you to get in bed with the Spiral, it's Shelley." For all his grouchiness, he places Jon onto their bed as gently as he can. "I'm getting water. For all of us. We're drinking water and... I'm... going back to bed."

\---

Jon doesn't even complain. Head hurts too bad. He just wiggles until he can find the edge of the blanket and buries himself under it, curled up on his side.

"Well. Alright." Michael says, and blinks.

\---

"Sorry, Michael. Don't take it personally, he just woke up." Now that he's making demands, it's easier to keep the energy going. He starts to back up out of the room, intent on leaving the door cracked. "Five minutes."

\---

Michael nods. He pulls the hoodie back off and lets it drop to the floor; a three person slumber party is going to get hot with body heat, and quick. And though Michael is glad for it, so, so paralyzed in fear at the thought of being cold right now, he knows better than to end up a sweaty, unattractive lump.

He smooths the blankets as best he can while Martin is out, trying to prime it for him. He can't quite get it right, considering Jon's hogged half the comforter, but he finds a throw blanket up near the corner of the bed that he drapes over the remaining portions left uncovered by Jon's selfishness.

Only then does he lay down, on the other edge, assuming Martin will want the middle.

\---

It takes him much longer than five minutes, in his own head. Lucky it's the middle of the night, which just reminds him they have more explaining to do, to people they should've involved a long, long time ago. Fuck. He wishes he could blame it all on Jon. He wishes. 

No wishing. Only time for plastic cups and tap water. As soon as he comes back in and sees the desk, it's very inviting, but he promised, so he can't pass out there, and Jon would yell at him anyway, so. Back into the room he goes. He doesn't bother hushing his voice anymore. Whatever comes out is what comes out. "Jon, if you're awake, take it. Michael, you too. I'm about to... I'm about to..." 

Oh, he lost it for a second there. His grip still stuck. "Just take it."

\---

Michael reaches forward across the bed and issues a small "thank you, Martin," and it's not the thank you he deserves, yet, but he still has to figure out the best way to issue that one. So a soft, appreciative one for water suffices.

Jon makes a huff in his blanket next and slurs something akin to, "nightstand... Don't need it," but it's largely lost what with the fact that he refuses to enunciate.

\---

Martin places the water down with a bit too much force, but he's not about to take this out on Jon right now. Or take away more of his autonomy. He tries to drink some of his own and gets it down with the passing realization that he's not growling at Jon and that's good. Wouldn't that just be awful, right now? 

His eyelids are getting heavier and heavier, so he forgoes all sense of dignity and climbs over Jon, into the middle where they've left a space. He doesn't say good night so much as sound out a 'mmf' into one of the pillows, out like a light all over again.


	49. Chapter 49

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few productive arguments.

Michael, despite his inner fears of being cold, wakes up all but on the end of the bed, wrapped around, long ways, both Martin and Jon. He's always slept like a jackass; super glad to see that tendency didn't get eaten by the Spiral. He must have taken the throw blanket when he moved in the night, because it's all that covers him.

Though he knows it must be morning-- some instinctive circadian rhythm, the same that used to always allow him to get up early, regardless of the amount of sleep he got-- it's still dark in the room. No windows. That'll be a problem.

Really, the fact that Jon and Martin-- and Gerard?-- live here, is mind-boggling. And stupid. And Franky, dangerous. Doesn't the Archives get  _ attacked? _ Miss Robinson certainly mentioned one or two scary situations before.

Whatever. It's not his place yet. And it's not like he has money. And he's still sleepy, so he just stays laying down, letting his hands run over the blanket and relish in the softness, in the reality of it, in the way it doesn't spiral and morph and deceive. He's just in bed. And despite the odds, he trusts Martin.

\---

Martin balances between this world and his own dreams in stasis. In the night, his unconscious brain decided to get an arm around Jon's waist and pull him tight, face pressed close to the back of his neck. With the Hunt quiet, a moment of repose, he's not afraid of being there. Not afraid of flying off the handle, not afraid of biting him. Seems the rest of his brain hasn't forgotten how right it feels to be slotted up against him, how warm he is, how perfect that is to exist with.

He only knows he's not dreaming and is starting to wake up when he hums over Jon's skin, when he stretches by holding him tighter. Just one big stuffed animal that's actually his person who is, like all of them, going through quite a lot right now. Who he missed very, very much.

\---

"Y'r like a bear," Jon mumbles, very much three quarters of the way asleep still, when Martin pulls him closer. He never wants to leave this moment, this clouded bubble where he doesn't have to think, doesn't have to Know, can just be wrapped up in the arms of Martin. Safer than he's felt in a long, long time. It's been a long time since they've slept together. He's missed him so, so much.

\---

Martin moves his head to nuzzle through Jon’s hair instead, and for a moment the Archivist is forgotten. “That’s me.”

He’s still too out of it to smile, so it comes across very deadpan. Serious business. Surroundings are all the more difficult, so all that exists is Jon’s warmth, and he can’t get him any closer without suffocating him. He opts for shoving a hand up Jon’s shirt instead, resting over his stomach.

\---

Jon hums, and the hand on his stomach is a welcome intrusion. "Missed you. Missed y'so much."

\---

“Missed you,” Martin echoes, glad that he’s slept enough to not snap at anybody. The only part that sucks, is now they have to handle things. 

He moves slightly, and he can tell they’re not alone in bed, still. He tries to make his voice louder than a mumble. “Michael?”

\---

Michael lifts his head, and blinks bleary-eyed at both of them. "Mm? Hi." He squeezes Martin's ankle through the blankets.

Jon twists in bed and watches the display, and then looks to Martin and says, "Oh my God."

\---

“Hi.” Martin lifts up to kiss Jon’s cheek. He has a feeling he’ll get away with it. “It worked. I made it out. Surprised?”

\---

Jon squints at him, and all at once he realizes-- oh. Oh. His expression jumps from a relieved smile to one of abject horror and fear. ".... It happened again. I was. I was supposed to go with you. You--"

He sits up all at once and groans for the effort, staring openly at Michael fucking Shelley, and he swallows thickly as the man-- because that's a man, not some monster-- gives a cautious wave back.

\---

“Oh, yeah. I think, um, maybe it was a good thing. Getting out was... Getting in was... was hard.” Martin moves so his head is sideways in Jon’s lap. “We should... figure out where... we need, like, a base.”

\---

"A base?" Jon blinks down at him, momentarily distracted from his clearly rising panic.

\---

“Jon, now we have  _ four _ people living in the Archives, you— We’ve been too crazy or - or absent to keep Tim and Sasha in on the loop, Elias is skulking around, we need... I don’t know. It’s too early.” 

He deflates in Jon’s lap.

\---

"You mean-- we should leave the Archives." Jon takes a deep breath, and continues, "Martin, we've been over this. It's dangerous and--"

"And you're more than an Avatar, Jon, and Martin can kill people, and is probably crazy enough protective... Whatever, with the Skin-Spirit." Michael says it all very very fast, like he's been thinking about it for a while, because he has, since he woke up. He sits up fully and blinks at them both.

\---

“What?” 

Martin says it like he’s lost all his brain cells in the night, unfocused and confused. “I didn’t say leave, I just mean— a safe house, or something. It’s— I— Well, it wouldn’t matter if you just  _ told _ Tim and Sasha!”

\---

"We'll tell them! We will. I mean, Tim already knows. He just needs to be... Be caught up, and-- I mean, there's been more important things than office politics considering you wanted to go into the Distortion's belly! The Distortion who is here! In  _ our _ bed, by the way! And seems very, very comfortable with you!" So he's yelling by the end. There's just a lot that's happened that they haven't been able to speak about, and he's half asleep, and it all comes pouring out.

\---

“Where else would I put him, Jon? It’s not about office politics, they— They’re... I wanted to go because if I didn’t before the Hunt... “ Martin huffs and turns away to the other side, pouting. “Its all too complicated. I just... have to solve everything.”

\---

_ "You _ have to solve everything?" All at once, he's wide awake, and pointing an accusing finger in Martin's general direction. "That's not a rule I made up."

\---

“I can’t celebrate any of us coming back from the dead or being safe longer than five minutes, b-because we’re trapped in the middle of the Institute, we’re alienated from everyone else who works here, and if I don’t solve it, who else will?” 

He looks in Michael’s direction, and immediately feels guilty for bringing him into this. “We’d be  _ completely _ alone in this if I didn’t... if I didn’t go through hell to get you all back.”

\---

"Would you like to posit an alternate scenario to the one we're currently doing? I'm all ears, Martin." His voice is cold. He's angry, insofar as evidently this isn't good enough for Martin, and he's tired, and half of him genuinely would love to have another opinion on this.

\---

Martin’s voice goes cold. Cold, lonely, bottom of the Hallway floor, halfway wading in salt-spewed waves. “Yeah.  _ You _ tell them.  _ You _ figure out how to find some way to make peace with the person inside of you that wants to hurt all of us.  _ You _ find a way to tell them so we can  _ do _ something about Elias, about the end of the world, about the Crown.” He grimaces down at the locket. “You brought me in, not the other way around. All I did was fall in love with you.”

\---

Jon's eyes widen, and he cycles between guilt, rage, surprise, indignity. All passing through him at once, like gusts of wind. "That isn't fair," he says, and summarily slides out of bed, grabs a cardigan to wrap around his shoulders, and slips out of the room, closing the door behind him.

"... Ok," Michael says to his absence.

\---

“...Okay,” Martin says in turn, because fuck, Jon, you can’t keep doing this. It  _ is _ fair. 

He turns to Michael, and there’s something violent in his eyes that isn’t aimed at him. Too many good people showing him this isn’t fair to him. “Give me a minute.”

He gets out of bed and follows, leaving the safe room behind and standing, for the first time in forever, alone in the office with Jon. “You can’t keep doing that.”

\---

Jon turns, and levels a surprised and livid expression on Martin. "I left for a reason, Martin," He says very, very carefully. He sounds stiff. "We can talk later."

\---

Martin glares, and he doesn't want to. He needs to, and he hates that he needs to for either of them to get better at this. That it's up to him. "Later when, Jon? When I die? When-- When other people die, like they did in your first timeline? There is no later."

\---

"You're not going to die. I'm not letting it happen. It-- we can't do everything, Martin, we're--" He gives an incredulous little laugh-- "I'm trying to stop the end of the world here! Isn't that enough?"

\---

"You can't control whether I live or die all the time, Jon. I put myself in danger, and-- and that's my choice!" He buckles down at the laugh. "We can't do everything, but we-- We can't do nothing. I've been doing things. I've been-- I've been investigating. Learning. Building things. And I-I-I'm proud of it, proud of me, and I can't share that with you, because-- Because I'm scared of this."

\---

"What! Of me wanting to think?! What do you think I do with my time? Twiddle my thumbs up my ass?" He rocks back on his heels. "Fuck, Martin, I've hardly spoken to you for a week because we've both been busy, don't act like I haven't been."

\---

"Jon, it's... we've barely... I was in the Spiral for a week. There was a-a-a whole week before where we couldn't even see each other, and we barely had any time since we got back from the... the America business. I..." Martin lifts both hands protectively around his shoulders. "I feel like what I'm... I...I don't think I'm being unreasonable."

\---

"You were in there for a  _ week?! _ I--" That shuts him up for a second. He lets out a breath, and he seems to deflate. "I don't-- Why does it always have to be up to me?!"

\---

_ "Always?" _ Martin's own voice is low. Affronted, but low. "You  _ chose  _ to tell me everything you've told me. To bring me into this. If it weren't for me making friends with Michael, neither of us would be here. If it weren't for-- For everything Gerry and I worked on together, neither of us... I'm doing my part. I'm doing-- I'm always helping. Do you think I'm-- Do you think I'm not doing anything? Always?"

\---

"That is  _ not  _ what I said." Jon takes a deep, heavy breath. "God. This is why I wanted-- I was going to go get, get coffee for us, so I could be alone, and- and think, and not say something stupid like I keep doing and-- God. I haven't even had control of my own brain for-- a week?! A fucking  _ week?" _

\---

"Well, Jon, when you do that, you can't just  _ leave.  _ You have to-- You have to say that. You can't just storm out and-- Just say you're doing that, otherwise I don't know what's going  _ on."  _ He doesn't want to be petty, this way. But it's the truth. "I haven't been in control of my own brain for a month, now. And-- I'm scared, constantly, and I don't know who I am, and the Spiral was-- For me, it was years. I was in there for years. I don't want to say I-I have it worse than you, but-- But I'm a complete wreck, Jon."

\---

Jon stares at him for a moment. There's so much. It swirls all around him, so much to pick apart, and he wants to just shut down. Shut down and shut up and refuse to speak, or acknowledge anything until the fog in his brain lifts and he can deal with it.

But he's not a kid anymore, and as much as he wants to, to respond in that way, and deal with everything the way his brain wants him to... He can't. He can't. There's too much to deal with, and not enough time. There's too much to deal with, and Martin is here, and he's hurting, too.

"... I don't know what to do, either. I'm-- I'm sorry. Martin, I'm--" He sucks in a breath, and pushes it down, and asks, "What can I do?"

\---

Martin sits down, across from the Archivist's chair. "I think, you need to come up with a way to bring Tim and Sasha in, at least give them the choice, and-- And maybe apologize, for taking so long to do it. _ I  _ know we've been busy, but I don't know what it looks like to them." He sighs. "You and Gerry should talk about the Archivist. I guess they just hung out for a week, and Gerry's nice if you - if you work together. And... we need to figure out where Michael should stay. I don't think-- I don't want him alone. I want him wherever we are. Not..." He snorts. "It doesn't have to be the same bed. That's-- Once we do that, I think we can handle... me."

\---

Jon nods. "All things, mind, I kind of planned on doing. We'll-- I'll sit down and make a schedule today. I have a lot to write anyways. Dreams, it--" He shakes his head. 

"All this was planned, except-- except for the, ah, Michael thing. He--" He grimaces, a little shamefully, and lowers his voice. "Truth be told, I kind of expected him to, well-- once he was freed from the Spiral, you know."

\---

"Okay. A schedule. That-- That's what we need. I know you plan on it, and I-I know we get caught up, so... That's all I want. A plan, in - in concrete terms." 

Thank fuck. He didn't even know that's what they needed. It's so simple. "I think... I have a talent for bringing people back from the dead." He inhales, looking off into nowhere particularly. "Hope that's not foreshadowing."

\---

He sighs, and gives a nod. Okay. A plan. That makes things easier. He brushes his fingers through his hair and grimaces at how greasy it is. Another plan: a shower later.

"Okay. One: maybe that's not a bad thing. Two: can I go get us coffee now?" He doesn't say it testily, but needy.

\---

"I did end up with magic hands, after all," Martin sighs on the edge of a laugh. "Mhm. I'll check on Michael."

\---

"Yes, ah-- I hope he's doing alright." He slips on his shoes, and a jacket and ensures his wallet is in his pants and summarily leaves. He hasn't been alone, in a while, it seems.

\---

With that, Martin leaves the office to find out the answer to that. When he makes it back to the safe room, he's flushed with embarrassment and nervous energy. "Erm. Sorry about... that."

\---

Michael shrugs; he's commandeered the space Martin has left behind, because it's warm, and he slowly sits up. "Um. Seemed important? Like I know how this stuff works."

\---

Martin falls back onto the bad, exhausted all over again. It's much nicer to look up at Michael than down, anyway. "I keep forgetting you've all technically met before. I guess I don't have to come up with... with excuses."

\---

"Yes, well, we certainly found him... Interesting." He snorts.

\---

_ "That's _ the word I'd use. Oh-- Before I forget, would you, um, mind..." He fidgets with his fingers, and then gestures vaguely. "...not calling Gerry a Skin-Spirit? Think it might be good, in the long-run."

\---

Michael raises his eyebrows. "It's what he is. In the-- well, I suppose the Spiral sense."

\---

Martin lowers his. "He's also Gerry. But, I mean, if he wants you to call him that, I guess it doesn't matter. Just trying to figure out all these... dynamics. Lots of-- Differences, here."

\---

"I know what his name is. But he has a-- Hm." He pauses. Maybe it's different now. He's so used to spiraling, to falling down the hole of epithets and titles. God, the entities so love their titles. "Guess you're right. I'll have to ask your Archivist what I am. The names are addicting."

\---

Right, because names we didn’t ask for are so very good for us. If Gerry wants to be called Skin-Spirit, then, well... he wouldn’t, though. “What do you mean, what you are? You’re Michael. Unless you want to be called something else.”

\---

Michael rolls his eyes. "Duh. My  _ name _ is Michael. Oh. That doesn't feel as painful as it was. Wow. That--  _ Oh."  _ He takes a moment to smile to himself.

It hurts, still. But having an identity is less... The burden it was. He's less the burden he was.

"The entities, they have a hard time with identity, right? It's why they love their titles. Avatars. Archivist. Distortion. Hunger. Etcetera. You know? It makes it easier. Titles have roles. Names? Names imply an autonomy they don't-- they don't really have."

\---

Martin would smile at Michael’s new epiphany, but that last bit puts a damper on his mood. “I— Yeah. I think I get it, but... my own way, sort of. I’ve been— I’ve been getting a few titles, lately.”

\---

Michael hums. He can remember a few of them. Not all. It's a chaotic cloud, what he can and can't untangle right now. "You jump around a lot. You're unique. Different roles, different titles." He cocks his head, and as though an idle movement, loosely braids strands of his hair together. He needs to bathe, desperately, but he's not ready to fall out of bed yet. "You make them names, in ways they usually don't."

\---

“I like names. They’re— They have weight to them, and titles can be names.” Martin pauses, trying to mentally walk backwards through it all. It’s murky. “I’ve been thinking a lot, about— About the Web. And I remembered something that- that I didn’t think was relevant, until I went back there. Back when it was more fresh.”

\---

"Oh?" Michael's fingers stop moving, and he looks down at Martin with a questioning look.

\---

“I feel like— I keep thinking about the happiest part of my life, and it only lasted a few weeks. Um, okay—“ He laughs, a little nervous thing that echoes a certain way he doesn’t like. “Related, m-mostly, but you know about Charlotte’s Web?”

\---

"Yeah, yeah, that, uh, book, right?" He looks off to the nightstand, and finds a pack of cigarettes with a lighter emblazoned with a spider's web on it, and his eyes light up. He fishes one out and sticks it between his lips, and says around it, "The, uh-- pig, and the spider, right?"

\---

“Mm. I barely remember any details now, but, but— I’ve always liked animals. They had some, on the farm, I— It’s funny, I can’t even remember my friend’s name. We knew each other for a... a long time, I think.” Here, in the present, Martin doesn’t want any cigarettes. He doesn’t stop Michael, though. “The car window, going there, I remember. And there was a... a spider, in one of the sheds? I remember feeling bad, that she set up there and not, you know, a barn?”

\---

Michael slowly scoots back and piles a few of the pillows back at the headboard so he can lean against it, and then he lights up, and nods to Martin as he does so. "Are spiders even animals?" He asks, and wrinkles his nose. "Dunno if they count."

\---

Martin scoffs, raising a fondly judgmental eyebrow in Michael’s direction. “Amount of legs doesn’t matter. I didn’t see her every time I opened it, but— They’d ask me to get something from the shed, like— Like tools, and I’ve never worked on a farm, but I’d usually grab the right one, so I-I liked when they’d ask. And, there was a-a point where if I found something I thought she might eat, I’d just leave it in the shed? I thought it— I just liked helping.”

\---

"If it was just bugs, I can't imagine it was just the Web, you know? Sometimes spiders just exist." Still. Michael watches Martin, except when he's closing his eyes around the tobacco smoke in some level of early-morning bliss.

\---

“That’s— That’s why I don’t talk about it, Michael. If you don’t... It’s fine.” He watches the ceiling, what he can see of it in the low light, and moves the crook of his elbow over his eyes. “Never mind.”

\---

"Ugh," Michael scoffs, and rolls his eyes. "That's annoying. Don't do that." He raises his hands in the air, cocking his fingers just so, and the smoke from the cigarette floats to the ceiling between one of his fingers. "'Never mind'," He mocks. 

"What am I gonna do? Tell you 'oh no, certainly that wasn't real. You're totally making it up you daft loony.' Duh. No. Bit beyond that, Mr. Gamemaster, tell me your secrets."

\---

Martin makes a noise that’s somehow a fearful whimper and an oxygen-deprived inhale, barely there at all. “I— I don’t know how I feel about that name.”

It’s not a lie, by technicalities. It’s partly true. Partly untrue. Fitting, considering how he got it. “She didn’t always take them, but, I-I mean, eventually they’d be gone. It was like, like a secret, sort of, I didn’t think to tell anyone, I figured— I didn’t need to, they all took care of animals, there, but... but she stopped taking little things, at some point? I got her bigger ones. Grubs, beetles, I’d just be looking out for them. The spider never got bigger.”

\---

"So are you the pig meant for slaughter in this story? Spinning webs like 'don't kill this one! he's a real honest lad!'"

\---

“No, I’m— I’m just explaining why I— I-I just named a spider Charlotte, on a whim, a few months ago.” He flips over on the bed, feeling particularly childish as he turns away to pillow his head with one of his arms. Maybe he should just be quiet and wait for coffee. Maybe this is a bad idea. Maybe he should just tell Gerry, or tell nobody. Maybe it doesn’t matter who he tells.

\---

Michael looks at him somewhat dumbly, and twitches his mouth. "So you named a spider Charlotte because you fed a spider once in a shed and it reminded you of a story. Okay. Alright." He nods. "Got it. Caught up. Bit long winded. But I got it. And the Mother of Puppets?"

\---

Martin flinches, curling in on himself on the edge of the bed. “I’m not done, you’re— You’re not helping. That’s why I said never mind.”

\---

Michael huffs in irritation. "I'm trying. I'm listening. I'm just trying to keep up." He gives Martin a slightly childish glare. "Trying to- to keep on track. You know how hard it is not to make us spiral right now? Just-- just continue."

\---

It made so much sense, back then, to want to talk about it. Maybe he should’ve brought it up, there, in the past. Past-present. “I don’t want to,” he says quietly to the bed, to the walls, to the dark. “I’m too tired to spiral, anyway.”

\---

"Well I don't, either," Michael says. "Spiral, that is." Now he feels like he did something wrong. He twists his lips, and pulls the cigarette from its perch on his fingers and holds it by the butt.

"I was just trying to listen. Whatever." He stabs the lit end of the cigarette into the wood of the nightstand beside him, and watches through the side of his eyes as it leaves a dark mark.

\---

He scrunches up his face where half of it has fused with the mess of bedsheets. “When— I’m just used to— When you say spiral I think, I think ‘Martin, let me grab your hand and get high off the mark you got trauma bonding with Michael, I want to watch you get crazy and - and I can’t handle you unless I go there, too’. I don’t know how you mean it.”

\---

Michael gives him a puzzled look, and his hand flies to his wrist, thinking. Thinking of teeth. Thinking of his own claws, digging deep and tasting blood from his nails. It's hard, now, to really give in to the thoughts he once had, when he was more, when he was the Distortion, when they were one and the same and not at all and all at once in harmony lonely. But he remembers feeling pings of awareness of his marks being touched, and laughing and laughing, and clawing out of deep dark tunnels and doors of his own mind, of the Distortion's visions and dreams, of Shelley's nightmares and dungeons, and thinking, oh goodness, what a day to be thought of. What a day. What a lovely day. 

"I  _ mean," _ He says, and clears his throat, and tries to layer it in a way that makes sense, that isn't riddles and obfuscations. Cheap riddles, he thinks, but he's certain he got that from a reality that isn't, anymore.

"It's hard to stay linear, it--." Oh. He can illustrate. Michael draws upon it, and he lets himself unfurl. "The mind wants to wander. And with-- being--" He flaps a hand aimlessly. "--It's hard to stay focused. Spiralling. Falling into madness, falling-- the pits of crazy, of swirling logic, until there's no logic but it's all logic and it's all one and together and lonely and 1, 2, 3, and hey, did you ever listen to Three Dog Night, groovy tune they've got, but such a shame, those one hit wonders will never go anywhere beyond some annoying earworm, and did you know in another reality I pulled, pulled,  _ pulled _ worms from flesh? You did too, and you liked it, and  _ O,  _ it made me giggle to watch it from afar, you know, to see you and Jon see such pain, firsthand, to spill blood in the archives, just like Little Miss Robinson got shot, shot, shot in the head right... There. Such a pity, too, though she'd never be Crowned, no sir, and your bed is so warm, and it's terrifying to think I'll be kicked from it soon, but the gold is lovely, almost yellow. I love yellow, yellow, cornstalk yellow and cornflower blue, because they aren't covered in ice, and--" 

He takes a breath and cuts himself off, and regrets burning out his cigarette into the nightstand. Michael doesn't even know what he said, not really. It was just... a mass. Paint being thrown and splattered randomly. What patterns? Up to you.

\---

Martin keeps very still, words flitting over him from behind, like each one is a different living thing. He’s not frozen there, just listening, following along, an audiobook crackling down corridors that skips and repeats and turns over. He wants to follow it. He really is too tired to spiral, but this is the side of the Spiral that nobody talks about. The side that warps your brain like taffy and leaves you wishing you knew where you started so you could finish. He follows it, and he gets up, and it’s a wobbly little motion just to get himself closer to Michael. 

It’s the same side of the Spiral that’s the same side all around, because there are no sides, it’s all one side at a different angle, all different ages and sizes and shapes and colors where the light makes you think you’re finally seeing clearly, but then it switches up and you realize you’re not ten. You’ve only been ten once, and that was a long time ago. You aren’t confident, your mouth just stopped moving long enough to trick you. 

He drapes himself half over Michael’s lap, curling up the same way but not alone, this time. A weight that makes sense, because it stays the same. It’s a fact. “I’ll tell you later, whenever you ask. We’ll learn how to— To talk. Not sending you out.”

\---

Michael presses a hand to his mouth to keep himself from speaking for a moment, and he nods mutely. He has to let this pass. His tongue would love to speak golden lies and realities right now, to continue for eons and eons and eons, but he prevents it. He keeps nodding, until he's able to drop his hand, and lay it flat over Martin's belly, under where his shirt starts to ride up. 

"I don't know why you'd want to do that."

\---

Martin turns slightly so he’s facing up, facing Michael, belly-up that special sort of way that he’s hardly ever comfortable doing. Something that feels natural, impulsive, beyond just the Hunt or any combination of entities of proper noun or otherwise stuffing a syringe full of behaviors in him. Just Martin, mostly. 

He has more to say, but that makes him pause. “Do what?”

\---

"Not send me out. Want to learn to talk with me. Tell me whenever I ask. I still don't get it, and I just-- I talk like a crazy person, and you're just-- What! In my lap."

\---

“You don’t have to just be trusting.  _ Trusted.  _ I’m trusting you, and- and I think that means sharing my crazy, too. Even if I don’t— We don’t know how to manage it, yet.” Martin blinks up at him, simultaneously far away and crystal clear present. “I think you should paint, still. I think it might help get it out.”

\---

Michael blinks down at him, and spreads his fingers along Martin's belly, running his hand up and down the length of his chest and stomach idly. He purses his lips and says, "No room here."

\---

“We’ll find some.” He whispers it. Not the way you whisper a secret, but when you’ve found somewhere that doesn’t hurt to exist and you don’t want to disturb it. His eyes fall shut, and he’s comfortable, and safe, they’re safe, even if he wasn’t able to speak his mind with perfect clarity about all the things that are difficult to push through. Michael wasn’t, and he forgives him for that. Might as well extend that to himself. 

They’re all working on that. “Promise.”

\---

Michael hums, and continues his, well, petting, and he lets himself drift here, lost in the swirling thicket of thoughts that always hang over him, and always have, like a late spring thunderstorm.

The Distortion always hated when this happened. The wrong kind of spiraling, just another deficiency of Michael's. It was worse then, directed dissociating until even the thoughts fell away for a while.

This is softer. He stays like this until he hears Jon step back into the office, and his hand stills for a moment, before resuming, his brain restarting like the skipping of a tape as it comes back online. Or some kind of metaphor there.

Jon steps into the bedroom with a drink holder containing three coffees, and he looks at the two of them in bed with a curious, strange look, and sets the drink sleeve down on the dresser. "I didn't know what you liked," He says to Michael, and Michael shrugs as a plain iced coffee is handed to him.

\---

The proximity to Michael’s thoughts is like standing next to someone quietly pouring ingredients into a soup pot, grounding and calm so Martin has a chance to opt out of his own altogether. He takes it without hesitation, half-sprawled and half-conscious over Michael’s warmth that leaves him far enough away that he’s not lost. 

He’s floating in a pool, mind numb but not in the bad way. He hears the door, distantly, but it takes him a bit to crawl out of that space, focusing in on the way Jon carries himself, so different from the Archivist and much more familiar.

He’s late on the conversational uptake, but he has opened his eyes by the time Jon’s voice starts. It doesn’t pierce the silence, just gently tugs. 

“Good quiet?” Martin starts, and then crinkles his nose at the incoherency of it. He tries again. “Did going out help?”

\---

Jon nods, and hands Martin his coffee. "Yeah. Felt nice to, you know, walk, too. Get my bearings back." He is afraid of losing those, more and more. Seems he has even less time, these days, when he keeps waking up days and weeks later. He tugs his shoes off and climbs back into the bed, placing his own coffee on the other nightstand.

\---

Jon hands him what’s essentially a foreign object. Martin holds it awkwardly, mentally pulling his brain back into place. 

He ends up sideways on the bed between them, which mostly involves sticking his legs out over Jon’s lap and propping his torso somewhat upright against Michael’s. He’s facing Jon, watching him with dazed interest. “I did miss you, you know. And— You can say when you need a walk, it’s okay.”

\---

Jon's eyes flick to Michael and then back down to Martin, and he nods. "Yeah. Alright." He takes a sip of the coffee and then sets it down, and leans over, somewhat awkwardly with Martin on him to rummage through the drawer of the nightstand until he produces a clean notebook.

"I have to write these dreams down," He says, and props the notebook up on Martin's shins, his non-dominant hand reaching to pat him where the book doesn't obscure his skin.

\---

“Good dreams or bad dreams?” Martin says behind his cup, taking a cautious sip. Wow, he forgot what being warm inside felt like.

\---

"I don't have good dreams, anymore," Jon mumbles, fishing for a pen. He makes a triumphant noise when he finds one, and clicks it resolutely. He opens the notebook and starts to write up a header.

\---

Right. Martin doesn’t say anything to that, because the only thing on his tongue is ‘sorry’, so he does what he thinks will help. Keeps his legs still, first of all, and stretches back over Michael to place his coffee down on the nearest surface. He stays stretched out like that, inconvenient and immovable.

\---

Michael leans over Martin somewhat to look over at Jon's writing, and he asks, "Does that help? Writing them down? I'd be afraid of the words melting off the page."

Jon looks up and furrows his brow, then shrugs. "I don't know, really. I haven't... Written them down before. Sometimes they're not dreams, I don't think, so I ought to start? Maybe?"

\---

“New life resolutions, finding ways to organize your thoughts.” Martin moves one hand to play idly with the locket, leaning slightly so he’s pressed closer to Michael. “Do you want me to not ask about them, while you’re trying to write?”

\---

"They're-- I mean the normal ones, of course. Not important," Jon chews on the end of his pen as he thinks, mentally sorting them. His eyes flick about, as though categorizing a chart that sits suspended in front of him.

"Bearing witness to other people's trauma. That happens whenever-- whenever I Touch someone, anyways. When that... That thing is using me, it's... Different. Like I'm getting glimpses of its vision. I--"

He hums, and writes a couple sentences down. When he finishes, he mumbles,"It's like sometimes I can see what They look like, as they're watching me from-- from wherever they live."

\---

“Like, like halfway between the plane they live on and ours?” Martin says it carefully, quietly, like he’s worried about setting off a cannon. “Out of body experience. But you can’t see what he’s doing with you and- and other people, when he’s there, right?”

\---

Jon shakes his head. "I'm asleep. Dreaming. It's just that sometimes the dreams might be real." He thinks. "I didn't know my body was being used. No awareness."

\---

“Ah.” Guess it’s better than being completely aware. Maybe? Probably. “It’s still new for everyone. I think Gerry might’ve figured out more about him, but he’s...” 

He holds the locket up just slightly. “Tired. He stayed out all week. Maybe they talked.”

\---

Jon grimaces. "Maybe. From what you've said about this...  _ Thing...  _ I'm not sure Gerry is the best spokesperson for us."

\---

Martin squints. “Gerry’s fine, who else is? The Archivist called me his  _ Messenger,  _ but I don’t want that job.” He wants to correct him, about his abuse of the word Thing, but he never really did ask. Seemed like the Archivist didn’t care at all, really.

\---

"Messenger." Jon squints as he tastes the word. "I've never heard that. In-- in any of my research. Archivist, sure, but that's not even what it is. I'm the archivist and it's just... Using my body. Right?  _ Messenger." _

\---

“I guess? I don’t know if he’s in there all the time, or if you’re like, like a crystal ball.” Martin sniffs. “I’m not a messenger. I can’t even get my own words straight half the time.”

\---

Jon shrugs. "I guess I have no way of knowing without speaking to it. I don't-- I don't think it's always here? But it can come whenever it wants."

\---

Martin doesn’t say he knows that already, because so far he always happens to be there when he does, instead moving to press half his face against Jon’s shirt as Michael wears it. “Maybe Michael has thoughts.”

\---

Michael grimaces as Jon looks to him. "Maybe you're both it and yourself." He shrugs. "I've met... That aspect... Of you once, and I did not like the smell of him, but... I didn't exactly like the smell of _ you _ either. I only let you in, last time, because I thought it would be funny. But you're more powerful than I expected, because you're-- you're tangled up with a part of your God. Just... Cleaner lines than mine?"

Jon stares at him. "You knew I wouldn't be able to go into the hallway?"

"Well, yeah, duh. It was for Martin. Oh woe is Jon, he must lay down, look how scary he is, whoa, boom. Door slammed shut." He laughs, but it's tired. "It was funny at the time. But you freaked us out when you actually stepped through."

\---

“I didn’t know. Not— Not consciously, I think. The Spiral likes shoving doors in people’s faces.” Martin shivers as he backtracks enough to remember more details, a bodily reaction he wishes he could hide. He could, if he wasn’t sandwiched between them. 

“He commanded me to come back. Out of the Spiral, once I was done.”

\---

Michael hums. "He's very possessive of you. Ach. The Eye and it's silly need for control. No wonder it likes you, archivist. Control freak. Or-- Maybe I can't call you that anymore, considering your patron's new moniker." He laughs. All this talk of the deities has him mentally half a foot into the hallways. It's got his eyes wide.

Jon shakes his head, as though trying to clear himself from Michael's lines of thinking. "What did-- what did he want?"

\---

One of Martin’s hands reaches out for Michael’s, holding it there over his chest. “He’s vague, and I don’t get the possessive thing. He hates me. I don’t know— Like I said, Jon. Better talk to Gerry, when he’s awake.”

\---

Jon hums, but doesn't look satisfied. There's just not enough to go off of, and in a very very real sense, he's terrified of the loss of control. In more of a literal definition than he's ever had to deal with. This is different from instincts and urges. This is him, not allowed to be himself.

"Do you really not remember? How odd. I remember doing most things, when I was... It." Michael squeezes Martin's hand, and though it's still jarring, startling, to see the Distortion so quiet and bedheaded and being soft with his person, Jon is glad that Martin can get such menial creature comforts from someone, pretty much always, these days.

He supposes he'll have to get used to Michael being here with them, just like he's getting used to Gerard. Just like they're getting used to the monster inside him.

"Of course I don't remember. I'm not _ it." _

Michael rolls his eyes. "You and your _ its. _ It's soooo obvious you're just trying to distance yourself from what you are, too. C'mon."

\---

“Michael.” It’s a stern, sharp sound. “Don’t. I—“ He grips his hand tighter. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea right now.” 

What Martin doesn’t say, is that it’s hitting a little too close to home with his own crisis, now, and maybe trying to get all the pieces in everybody’s heads to bond together as they are is a terrifying idea. A terrifying idea that might make Jon worse, might make himself worse.

\---

"Blind. Both of you." Michael rolls his eyes again, and moves his hand from Martin's chest. He's not playing this game. He knew Jon Sims was a stubborn, frustrating man, but he didn't expect Martin to coddle him. Or coddle himself. Ugh.

He reaches for the nightstand and busies himself in drinking the coffee Jon got him. It's fine. It's exactly the way Michael takes his coffee, which he would expect nothing less from an Avatar of the Eye.

"I'm just saying, I got 'it, it, it' all day long from Jon, and now he's calling the God inside him one, it's just patterns. I like patterns. Even the unhealthy ones."

\---

Martin swallows down a noise at the loss, but he can’t move, so he just has to take it. “Okay. He’s afraid of being a monster, I-I get that, but so am— So am I, I guess, I think. We just don’t know enough about him yet to say ‘why don’t you just let him in’—“ He sighs. “At least it’s— None of you are pulled in a hundred different directions. You just— You just have one.”

\---

"Oh, yes, you and your directions,  _ Kelsie."  _ Michael chides around the straw. He doesn't say: what do you think the Spiral is, Martin, if not every direction and none all at once? He does not say, what do you think identity is, Martin, when you have all and none and they're all made up and they're tied down, and it's slides, slides, slides like lightly tilled soil?

\---

Martin waves a dismissive hand. “I just feel like we all need to be... more level headed, first, before we start telling Jon to... you know. Just being careful.”

\---

"I didn't even mean that. I just meant he should stop dehumanizing the things we are. Sheesh." He rolls his eyes. "I, of all, know what it's like to be something chained."

\---

Martin blinks, realization crashing into him. “Oh. Yeah, I— I mean, I agree with that, I guess I took it... the wrong way.” He tilts his head over in Jon’s direction. “He’s... technically human, right? In your body?”

\---

Jon, who's been looking between them mutely, cocks his head. "I... I mean. I would imagine? Or, as human as my body is, still." He blinks and glances to Michael.

"More than I was, at least," Michael replies. "I think my current body is.... New, technically. You still have yours. Flesh and blood. Partially owned blood, but blood that reeks of humanity nonetheless?"

\---

“Blood isn’t what makes you human. Gerry’s human. You can be a ghost and a person. There’s— I don’t know if there’s a human smell?”

\---

"Sure there is," Michael says. "Maybe you'd know it, if you hung around, like, real humans once in a while."

Jon blinks. "But if I'm in a human body, that must-- limit it. Him? Whatever. Somewhat, r-right?"

Michael shrugs. "Imagine so. The Distortion's existed for a long, long time. Your-- this weird eye thing? Letting the Eye cross over? It's new. I felt it. I felt-- surprised, when I felt him, in such a pure form, on this plane."

\---

“He doesn’t know how to do loads of things, Jon. Must be— You know, the way the Spiral was hurting, all twisted up with Michael, I don’t know if it’s scary for him, but so far he’s only really done stuff that, um, you can.” Martin shifts as well as he can, given the lack of space. “Except the— The memory thing. But it was... sort of just like giving a statement, but stronger. Same pulling feeling.”

\---

"So-- so hopefully he's limited in, um, scope? That's... That gives me some comfort at least." He grimaces.

"Still strong, but so are you. Both of you. Together. Can't go in the Hallways. It's not good news, but-- could be worse. At least you don't always feel him." Michael gives him a small smile that's meant to reassure him. It doesn’t.

\---

“Right. Jon, you should— You should write down your dreams, I’m... I don’t think we’re getting anywhere without him, and I—“ He looks back down at the locket with a small frown. “I’m worried about him, too. He was fading, before he left.”

\---

"Has he ever been out, that long? A week? Maybe he's just... Just tired?" Jon blinks, and glances back down at his paper.

\---

“I don’t think so, and— I hope so.” Martin sighs. “I’m just glad we’re... safe. It’s nice to have some time in bed.”

\---

"Mm," Jon hums. He begins writing, his voice nothing more than a distracted mumble. "Bed was cold the whole week you were gone. I missed having you to sleep with. Even if we have yet another overgrown cat joining us."

\---

"Don't be rude, Jon. That's why I think it might be nice to get a flat, or- or some place... I..."

Something hits him, something that settles heavy in his gut, a foreign and familiar body all at once. "I'd be able to... to help get a better place, if... if I... my mother?"

\---

Jon looks up and over at him, and Michael looks down, cocking his head. "What about her?" Jon asks.

\---

"If I told her I can't... Can't pay for her, um-- Maybe not. Her bills, I guess. But I can't..." He really, really wishes he didn't keep bringing things up and then realizing he actually doesn't think he's capable of seeing the conversation through. "...That's kind of evil, she's... I don't know what might happen."

\---

"I-- I mean. Regardless of her, and her bills, I'm sure I could-- You know, it's not like I pay for a flat currently, either. And I don't exactly think we need a four-bedroom..." He does not like talking about Martin's mother. He also doesn't like knowing that in a year or two, her bills won't exactly be an issue.

\---

"It shouldn't all be on you, Jon, and, um..." His voice goes very, very small. "...I don't know what'll happen when the, um, the car thing comes back to bite your... your card. If it-- If it will. Just-- I don't know. I need to..." Talk to her, soon, he keeps to himself. Ask her, like Gerry said.

\---

"..........Oh.  _ Fuck. _ I forgot about that one. There's no way our insurance will cover all of that, huh." Shit. He rubs a weary hand down his face. "Yeah."

"Pity I'm cut off, and dead." Michael sighs.

\---

Now that they've soundly moved on from his mother, Martin is more at ease. He places a finger over his own nose. "Nose goes on explaining that one to Elias."

\---

"Oh!" Michael immediately throws a finger to his nose, and Jon looks at them both balefully. If he still wore his glasses, they'd be judgmentally petering off the edge of his nose.

"Whatever. Fine. I could just send him a long email, he'd probably like that." He snorts.

\---

Something like a giggle passes Martin's lips. "Dear Mr. Bouchard, I'm writing to inform you that I will need twenty thousand p--" He freezes with a half-formed thought. "Jon, weren't those Hunters after his book, last time?"

\---

"I mean-- well. Yeah." He frowns. "Who knows, this time? She hasn't even, um, used him, this time. We got him first."

\---

“Who knows. Right. I can’t think of anybody who knew we were in America and had a reason to know where we are or what our plans were.”

\---

Jon frowns, and watches Martin. There's intent in his voice, and he starts to poke at it, a gentle prodding, and he says, "Are you implying-- Martin?"

\---

Martin feels it, an uncomfortable tug without proper direction. “Am I implying... Martin? I— What— Are you trying to - to compel me, right now?” He makes a frustrated sound, the discomfort lingering in the air like a loaded water gun. “That’s not a question, Jon!”

\---

"No! Not compelling, just... Looking at where the hell your line of thought is going!"

\---

“I’m saying I-I-I don’t know, but— It’s been really quiet since we got back, what is Elias doing?”

\---

"Ah." Jon nods, and huffs out a sigh. He didn't want this to be about Elias. But isn't it always? "Gloating, I imagine. You know-- the. The first time I died, he refused to let me see him? He refused visitation rights while he was in prison. Can you believe that? He plays these-- these games to get me where he wants me."

\---

“We can play our own games,” Martin huffs, expression soured by the shift in the room. Set deeper by the guilty look he doesn’t mean to send up at Michael at the association with the word. “What’s the word— Proactive?”

\---

Jon nods.

Michael says, "What would proactive even mean, here?"

\---

Right, because Martin is the expert on all of this. He lifts both hands in a vague shrug. “I don’t know, keeping an eye on him?”

\---

"Oh. Okay. See? Glad I asked. I was warring between 'prison' and 'kill him.'" Michael pauses. "No killing?"

Jon blinks. "No killing."

\---

“If we went around killing every vaguely ominous boss, I would’ve killed Jon a long time ago.” He sighs. “...It’s just - just something to keep in mind.”

\---

"Good luck getting one over on him,” Michael mutters. Him and Gertrude were a thorn in our never ending side. Not mine, anymore, really, but, you know." Michael laughs.

Jon looks between them. "He's still useful for now, anyways."

\---

“Right. Good conversation. Jon, when— When you can, make that schedule for things we need to do? I—“ He finally shifts, not too preoccupied with how he inconveniences Jon’s writing set-up, to get back under covers the proper way. “I’m going... back to bed! Yep. Yep, back to... to bed. I’ll drink my coffee later.”

\---

Jon puts his pen down, and gives Martin a flat look. "How many conversations do you want to have at once, Martin? We're not going to solve the Elias problem sitting in bed. Christ."

\---

“You can think on your own.” Martin turns so nobody can see his face, pressed between two pillows with enough room to breathe, and commits to saying nothing else.

\---

"Okay! I'm going to take a shower now," Michael announces all at once, clapping his hands together. "The second I'm clean I'm flat-hunting, because if I'm right and you're using that gym to shower..." He shivers, and leaps out of the bed.

Jon mumbles something about the shower caddy that has their stuff in it, his hands over his face, and Michael gives the fastest salute in the world and escapes the office as fast as possible.


	50. Chapter 50

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're going to talk about feelings sooner or later, Gerard Keay.

Before he feels his name called, there's a warmth to the being that Gerard Keay is when he isn't on the material plane, a peculiar awareness before the summoning, and then he's here. It's still a bit slow going; his eyes blink into existence slowly, out of sync, as though groggy and having a hard time opening yet. But each pop of the iris reveals flesh, until Gerry finds himself aware and conscious and very much not a book. 

They're in some sort of office, it seems, but nowhere in the Institute that he can gather. No, it's small, and absent of bookshelves or Institute files, just a table and some chairs, as well as a television with various hookups and cords that people might need for some rented office space. 

He turns in the chair, to look out the glass-paneled window that makes up one of the walls, and indeed, it seems to be a library. He might have even been to this library once or twice, if they're still in London. Not that they have any reason to leave, right now, but it's not as though Gerard has any way of telling until he's told how long it's been, where they are, what has happened in his absence. 

And the way he stretches and almost seems to waver on a yawn, he's thinking it's been a few days at least, since he's been let out. 

He looks across the table, at Martin, and before he can even really take the man in, he says, "Is it bad that I'm worried you summoned me in a library, when we live in one?"

\---

“Hi,” Martin sighs with immediate relief, tension physically easing out of his shoulders. He ignores the judgmental quip for what it is, finding it better to just explain than get into one of those loops right now. He’s too tired for that anyway. 

Martin looks the part, to say the least. Exhausting event after exhausting event has left him feeling like something that could float away in the wind, and— Well, juggling it all is difficult. Lots of guilt. Lots of unfinished business. Lots of business that could have been finished months ago. Lots of worries. That’s why he’s here. Breath of fresh air that doesn’t involve jumping into the Spiral to get away from it all. 

The stack of books on the table is mostly for show, justifying the need for a private room in a library where he wouldn’t be bothered or have to lower his voice, behind a closed door. The notebook and various pencils, however, are not. 

“No, this one doesn’t have our coworkers who Jon’s...  _ supposed _ to be telling about all this from the start right now, and I haven’t been back here since I met Michael. Less scary, now.” Sure has changed. Martin blinks. “Are... are you okay?”

\---

Gerry shrugs. "Just tired. Strung out? Just a bit. Existentially confused. All that. Yada yada. Same old, right?" He leans back in the chair, resting with the bottoms of his boots on the edge of the table to keep him from falling over. 

He looks around again, and quirks a small, fleeting smile. "Feels nice to wake up to Not Panic."

\---

Martin frowns, and he wishes he didn’t look like some terrible caricature of the Archivist from across the table, asking questions. “I mean— Emotionally, I guess. I wanted to make sure you had time before I asked you to come back, for that part.” He laughs, just as fleeting. “No, no panic here.”

\---

Gerard rolls his eyes, but the look he levels Martin afterwards is soft. "I'd say 'we need a vacation' but considering what happened the last time you did that..." He clicks his tongue.

\---

“We got you out of it, so it could’ve been worse.” He tilts his head slightly across the table. Still trying to be the optimist, aren’t you, Martin? “I’ll just do what I used to do, go on walks and sit around somewhere less familiar.”

\---

"Does that help?" He cocks his head.

\---

“It used to,” Martin says plainly, unsure of whether that’s a ‘yes’. Better to focus on Gerry. “You just sounded— It didn’t sound like it went well, when I came out.”

\---

Gerard surprises himself with a dry laugh, and he looks away. "Yeah, well, I wasn't exactly expecting rainbows with him, so who am I to complain." The chair tilts back forward to land on the ground, and he drops his legs beneath him.

\---

Martin gives him a displeased ‘hm’, looking back down at his paper. “I did say you’d know when you met him. I— I want to ask, but that’s not, um, I sort of just wanted to spend time with you. At— At all. Not just, just the bad stuff. Seems I’ve got a gap in my schedule not filled by acting ‘crazy’ or ‘unhinged’ right now.”

\---

"Oh, c'mon," Gerard whines, putting on some sort of voice that even he couldn't name the affectation of. "Baby, you're always unhinged and crazy to me, queen." He snickers; he is more than happy to leave behind anything that happened with Archivist behind. 

They'll have to talk about it. But he's pulling a page out of Jon's book; put a pin in it, for as long as he can.

\---

Martin stares, evidently not amused. Maybe he never got out of the Spiral, and everyone around him is crazy, now. “Right! Anyway. I, um, I’ve been talking to Michael about... getting our hobbies back, and I think— Well, we’ve already got enough hypocrites around here, so I should do what I suggest, and...” 

He lowers back down to the page. “I wanted to ask if you’d think it was stupid if I wrote about you, I guess.”

\---

It surprises him, a little. He's just so used to even mundane conversations turning into... Well. Turning into what his existence's purpose has always, always been about. He smooths his hands through his hair and huffs. "I-- no? I don't think it's stupid. I want to see it when it's done, though."

\---

_ “Obviously _ you’ll see it, I’m just putting poems together again and I write about things that... that mean something to me. So.” He finally cracks a sly smile down at the page. “Sorry I brought us to a place full of books, but you’re free to make suggestions. I’m not going back today, and if you want to do something normal, I mean— I’m all ears for you.”

\---

"Something normal," Gerard repeats, and shakes his head. "Dunno how to do that, Martin. You're the normal one, here. I like the books."

\---

“Oh, I am? Shoot. That’s news to me!” Martin snorts. “Doesn’t matter if you know how. Start with something that makes you happy. I, for one, would kill to collaborate with you. Make a really bad poem going back and forth.” He pauses. This is starting to settle comfortably. “Maybe we can go to an Arcade. Or get matching piercings.”

\---

"... Okay. I used to paint once. Not a lot. Mum just liked it. Taught myself to play the bass once. Poetry... I think I'm glad I never wrote it. Mine would suck shit. Edgy."

This is the part he hates. Talking to people about shit he barely did. The reminders that he was never normal. He's squashing down a lot here, huh? It's even cutting through the ghost-fog. This sucks. But he's going to keep it together, for Martin's sake.

\---

Martin’s right back to glaring, flicking a rolled up page he’d ripped out earlier at him. “Gerry, you get to live as long as you want, now. You can hold pencils, brushes, maybe learn an instrument if you tried, so— So don’t get all mopey. I’m sick of you all putting yourselves down.”

\---

"Putting myself-- I'm just saying I'm glad I didn't do it when I was some asshole teenager. Christ. You're so moody. Michael puts you in such a mood." He crosses his arms and glares back.

\---

“I’m not  _ moody. _ You just made it sound like it would always be like that.” 

_ I feel like everything’s gone wrong, like I just want to run away but there’s nowhere to go, that I want it all to be over but I’m stuck, I’m questioning everything around me and I’m afraid none of my love was ever real, I kind of want to give in to whatever bad thing happens to me next, I’m afraid that I dragged you into this, I’m afraid that we can’t go back to something that feels happy ever again, I’m afraid of making you into a thing. _

Martin deepens his glare until it turns over into comedic parody. “Not Michael’s fault, and he’s not here. Just us. I think we both need to have something positive right now. Forget normal, I guess. Happy’s the right term.”

\---

"Happy as can be justified, I guess," Gerard says, and he wants to shut down, turn away, leave. Just... Not be here, if it means having to address anything about himself right now. Sometimes it's easy, being this ghost, when he can fall to the background and just help. Rote routines. Martin doesn't want that, though.

But he's trying. And Martin's close to exploding. It's fucking obvious. 

"You get that, right? That... That you make me happy as I can be?"

\---

“Call me the first Entity of Joy,” Martin says with a neat twirl of his pencil. No breakdowns. “Okay. We’ll work on stability once we’ve had a good day. That’s today. Drawing a line in the sand, there. Not putting it off, just setting a time better than  _ later.  _ I think I have an idea, but you’d have to agree to it, first.”

\---

"..... And what am I to agree to?"

\---

“We both have to get things off our chests by the end of today. You show me yours, I show you mine, no freaking out, no spiraling, no stopping me from killing someone. And if we haven’t said it by the end of the day, we sit down and— And we say it. Then once we’ve said it, we work on getting somewhere better. Together. Collaboration. Make sense?”

\---

"Not really, but I'll follow your lead," He says, and cocks his head slightly. "See? That's what I mean by normal. You want to.... To process shit. Hard to do."

\---

“I don’t know _ how  _ to do it, but I’m throwing myself out there. Just as hard.” He picks up the stack of paper and taps it on the table so they even out. “Can’t stop the end of the world if we can’t even talk through the basics. Practice with me? I can read you what I have so far.”

\---

Isn't Martin full of surprises. This isn't spiraling, it's not desperate-- well, not in the Hunt's terrifying way, just the normal human way-- it's just... Martin. Martin, who's a bit odd and so, so earnest in all the ways that were very, very early on ripped out of Gerard.

He likes it.

"Alright, Mr. Pulitzer Prize, let's hear it."

\---

"Christ, I hate you." Martin sits back, clearing his throat. "Each had a mother, loved by varied degrees, love that comes from creation, of bodies or souls. Um-- In the end, those foxes in traps start to laugh, carving holes in their brains for that love, however sick it might be-- Sharp metal stings, curved daggers winding up, up and through flesh, burning books, into dust, keeping knowledge inside only one set of eyes... erm, there's a part later about the earth's crust, I-- I have some that aren't so heavy. I'm experimenting."

\---

Gerard sits back in appreciation. "Y'know. Not to be, like, way over-enthused, but considering the majority of my time spent with you so far has included lots of growling and non-verbal communication... You're quite adept with language. Edgy? But in the good way, I think." 

Or maybe he just has a soft spot for Martin. Easy to think everything is grand and gold when it's someone you like. But like is like.

\---

"Oh, I'm full of words. I grew up with Crowley, remember?" He shrugs. "I asked if I could write about you, so I'll come up with one. Live reading. Living life on the edge, here."

\---

"Be a bit macabre, won't it? Okay. Alright. Stroke my ego." He leans across the table and plants his elbows to the wood, his hair falling around his face. "Come on."

\---

“Loving more than he was loved, a ghost in name, but not in practice— Sent floating in the darkness, aimless, finding his own self-made purpose. Cold metal at my chest, deceiving, he’s warmer when he thinks he’s breathing?”

\---

Despite himself, Gerard's expression is fond, melting, and though he doesn't know what to say, that says enough, right? That there's no snappy, self-defensive quip to this. Martin thinks of him, thinks of him enough to make up prose, right on the spot, and it's not even mean. Not cruel, or hacky, or really anything but something makes Gerry hope. 

"Oh," He says softly, and slowly crosses his arms over the table so he can lay with his chin on one of his forearms. His eyes are crinkled in something. Who knows. Gerard's shit at knowing how to dissect emotion.

\---

"The-- I've figured out the trick is to just, just stick with, um, one rhyme for a while if you're... on the spot," Martin says, trying not to look flustered as Gerry deflates but not in a bad way. "Practice, darkness, aimless, purpose. 'Ing' words work, too. It... It grounds me, I just... didn't really have the... It's hit or miss."

\---

"It's interesting," Gerard says softly, and lays his head on his arm while still watching him. "You're-- You're a very surprising person, literally all the time. But in a good way. Keep me on my toes. And now you do art. Wonders never cease."

\---

"I did art before." He can't be vague. Now he has to say it. It's fine. "Before I got involved with all this, this time. Between me and Jon, I haven't really had much time, or - or energy. Didn't even get around to finishing the one he quoted at me to convince me he was from the future. It feels... really, really good--" He laughs, airy in a sort of tired. "--that you like it. You're a, um, a good muse."

\---

Gerard can't help the surprised laugh that falls from his mouth, as he sits up and leans back and flips his awful hair back. "Oh yeah, a right proper Greek siren, I am. A  _ muse." _ He wrinkles his nose in amusement. "You're funny, sometimes. What you like."

\---

"Can't help what I'm inspired by. You're just..." You're something special, aren't you. 

Michael's words from years ago or days ago or somewhere in between ring in his ears, and he tries not to flinch. Instead, he nods matter-of-factly. "...I just think you're neat. Feeling better now, or do you need another one?"

\---

"I feel fine," Gerard says flatly, and flaps a hand. "Up to you. You're the one who brought me here for an art session. And I don't write, sooooo..." His smile judgmentally pursed.

\---

"I didn't bring you for an  _ art session, _ we can do anything. I was serious about the piercings. We could even go to a mall." 

He shrugs, again, and his shoulders are getting sick of it. "I want to remind us both about - about good things, so we can pull through bad things, I think. Like, like I feel like I can talk better when I make you swoon. Or laugh. Either-or."

\---

"You make me do both, quite a lot, even if I don't show it," Gerard says, and gives him a quick smile, and then ducks his head before embarrassment can hit. He jumps to his feet, before Martin can make it sappier. "Anyways. We're going to a Sally's Beauty right now. Pack your shit."

\---

"Boo. I earned seeing that on your face," Martin complains even as he moves up to grab his bag off the back of his chair, stuffing things inside without much fanfare. "Start wearing it all on your sleeve, you corrupted me, so fair's fair, right?"

\---

Gerard stands and pulls the collar of his coat down without looking back, pulling the door open with one hand and a boot, and holding his other hand pointer finger up. "I might be dead, but I still have a modicum of decorum." Confidence in his voice and posture, but that's only because he's not looking back at Martin. God. What has this fucking man done to him.  _ Ridiculous. _

\---

Martin follows through the doorway with an appreciative hum. Much better place. So, so much better. He’s not even dreading talking through the bad parts. Now that he’s made that a rule, it feels more real instead of scary, instead of unknown. 

Martin’s only teasing, like he’s not staring at his back with pure, unfiltered relief at his entire existence. “Gerry, you’ve got the decorum of a pair of jeans stitched up ten times over.”

\---

At that, Gerry turns back and filters him a look of utter amusement, and he jabs a finger in his direction. "Pretty punk rock, though, isn't it? Better than your fucking sweaters."

\---

“Pent up feelings about my sweaters, Gerry?” Like he’s one to talk, looking like failed concept art for the Matrix, over there, but Martin’s still beaming up at him anyway.

\---

"Oh, yes, I forgot to tell you about my secret fetish where my only desire in life is to cream all over your 90s reject earth-toned mom sweaters." He snorts, and then snickers at his own joke as he starts down the stairs.

\---

“Guess I’m made for you, then. All I do with my time is lust over your split ends and drunk teenager stick and poke tattoos you did in a garage.  _ Where  _ are we going?”

\---

"Sally's. Speaking of split ends, we're dying your hair today." He wrinkles his nose. "I got at least three of them done professionally, by the way. I wasn't about to tat my own fucking neck, you maniac."

\---

“And he didn’t even make it a cool design,” Martin laments with a world-weary sigh. “Have a color in mind?”

\---

"First, we're seeing how your hair takes to bleach. Then-- I dunno. Pink? Red? Purple?" He shrugs. "And piss off. You don't have any ink; you don't get to judge. Virgin skin."

\---

“Oh. I— We’ll try red, first.” Michael’s going to have something to say about that, but we won’t think about that just yet.  _ “Virgin skin.  _ I’ve got plenty of scars, and weird teeth, I’m off to a good start, I-I think.”

\---

"Mm. But yours aren't glow in the dark. Much less rad." They reach the bottom of the stairs, and Gerard lingers close to Martin, as the throng of people thickens, and he says, "Get your phone out. GPS time, cmon."

\---

“Not yet. Maybe someday.” He says that like it’s a threat, pulling his phone from his back pocket to figure out directions. “Can’t you just Know where to— What is it, a place to buy dyes?”

\---

"Yeah. Beauty store. Bet your new  _ boy toy _ would know about it."

\---

Martin looks up from his phone with a pointedly neutral stare. “Why are you saying it like  _ that?” _

\---

"I don't know. Because it's new. And I wasn't expecting it." He shrugs.

\---

“Expecting what? Me saying I’m bringing Michael back, and him... coming back?”

\---

"Well, no, quite frankly, I wasn't expecting him to come back." Might as well be truthful. Not that he can really lie. "But more-- I mean. Am I the stupid one? There's something there with you two? Right?"

\---

“That’s fine. _ I  _ believed,” Martin says down at his phone, not to hide his face but because he’s paying attention to where they’re going now. It's a bit important. “I don’t know. When I was in the Spiral, it— It sent me back in time, sort of, except I didn’t remember, not the same way— It... I came out different ages. Different life. Bit complicated.”

\---

"I'd be more concerned if it was simple," He says, and tries to walk through the sliding glass doors, but they don't open for him. He scowls. "Entirely different life?"

\---

Martin opens one for him with a soft noise of confusion. No breakdowns. Be normal about this. “Where I ended up, I was Michael’s age. It was— I was me, but, but a better version? I’d forget it was ever different. Then I’d get ripped out of it.”

\---

"... Oh," He says softly, and looks up to the sky when they get out. Daylight, at least. Early afternoon or late morning, he'd reckon. "In there for a week, but psychologically longer. That's..." He whistles, low. "That's Hell."

\---

“Right. It...  _ right.”  _ He pauses, blinking the bright spots out of his vision. “So, I guess— I guess the answer to your question is, maybe? He’s not, um, in a great place for constructive Spiral-related conversations, just yet. Neither is Jon.”

\---

That earns him a look. "How's he doing? It's been-- what, you let me sleep for a couple days?"

\---

Martin smiles at him, then, tired but genuine. “You needed it! It’s... the same as usual. Fought the first time we talked, trying to get him to, um, help make a game plan for what we’re even doing.” His life sounds so depressing. He doesn’t want to think of it that way. “He’s afraid, I don’t blame him.”

\---

"Yeah, yeah, he gets to take a nap while the little princeling runs around. Not taking much pity on Jon, right now." He stops in the street and points left and right, giving Martin a questioning look.

\---

Martin blinks down again, pointing left as he turns that way. “What he feels is still real, it’s relative. I just don’t know how to help us all through this. That’s the hard part.”

\---

Gerard shrugs as he turns, stabbing his hands into his pockets. "Herculean task. Don't know if it's possible. Miserable pile of men, we are."

\---

“We don’t  _ have _ to be. I think I’m— Yeah, I think I’m actually trying my best. All I can do, really. Not up to me to save the whole world, except it is.” Martin sighs. “We aren’t perfect, we just need to... be a team.”

\---

"More communication couldn't hurt, I guess." Gerard is very okay with shifting the conversation to teamwork. "Especially considering our.... Hm. Natural inclinations towards not being able to communicate."

\---

“Funny how that just makes us more likely to run off to fear-entity-related things. It’s— It’s a skill, Gerry. I think we can all learn.”

\---

"A ghost, a God, a loony, and a dog walk into a bar..." Gerard turns to level Martin with a sharp grin. "You know I trust your judgment when it comes to shit like this."

\---

Something falls away from where it’s settled between Martin’s shoulders, and it’s not because of the joke. “... Thank you.” 

Oh, there’s a hint of tears threatening beneath the surface there. Roll it back, Martin. “I’ve just spent weeks feeling crazy, or - or out of control, or wrong, and— And I’m finally ready to go, no,  _ no,  _ we have to— We have to work together and get through this, and— I just, thank you for - for not punishing me for it.”

\---

That earns him a concerned look. "Punish you? Look, I'll tell you when you're being stupid. And you are, sometimes. A lot. But I mean-- look, I'm dead, not blind. I can see how frayed we all are. And I don't know how to handle that. You're better at the-- at all that stuff. Working with others. Caring. You're smart that way."

\---

“What did I call you, before? Prophet-witch? You infected me.” Martin snorts, making a show of stepping back in fake disgust before coming right back beside him. “Okay. I think I’m— Yeah. I’m ready to tell you what’s on my mind. Is that okay?”

\---

"Yeah, so long as you keep us going in the right direction." He looks back at him. "What's up?"

\---

Martin waves the phone dramatically. It’s not far. Public library’s near a bunch of shops, anyway. “I’m trying to take care of things that, um, that I need to do, so I have less to worry about. I think, I think I deserve an answer, from my mother. Depending on how that goes, I think... I’m done paying her bills.”

\---

Gerard's steps falter for a second, but he quickens his gait to normalcy after a second. "Oh. Right. That might... That could be a good or a bad idea." He looks back at Martin, slows a bit, and brushes their shoulders again.

\---

“So,” Martin continues, evidently undeterred, “I— I’m asking if you’d come with me. One less thing on my mind, one less thing to worry about, and I can just— Move on, you know? Focus on now.”

\---

"Focus on now," Gerry repeats, and slowly nods. "Um, yeah. Yeah I'll come. I gotta be nice to her?"

\---

“Depends on what she says.” Martin isn’t sure if he can grab Gerry’s hand, so he holds onto his coat as a thank you instead. “I’m just going to ask her a few things. Not now, though. We’re—“ He snorts. “—buying hair dye.”

\---

"Ah, yes. The historic 'fuck you mum, can't you see I'm done? My hair is a weird color now'. Glad you're really growing into your angsty teenage self."

\---

“It’s  _ red  _ now, that’ll show you. I was a teenager a few days ago.” Martin hums. It’s not funny, but it is. “And I was wearing dresses.”

\---

A smile grows big and big and bigger on Gerard's face. "The Spiral got you to wear a dress?"

\---

Martin says it plainly, like he’s reading facts off a notecard. “No. Michael Shelley did, in 2008.”

\---

"2008." Gerard thinks. "You were his age, in the memories. That's right. Huh. Well... Did you like it?"

\---

The sidewalk is suddenly the most interesting thing to look at. “Um. I— Yes?”

\---

"Nice." Oh, right. Men and their embarrassment with femininity. Gerard almost forgot. 

"Almost wish Pinhole was still mine; I probably had some outfits you'd have liked.”

\---

“...Pinhole?”

\---

"Yeah. Bookshop my mum owned, and then well, technically me, when I was acquitted. It's where I lived."

\---

“Oh. Is it gone, now?”

\---

"... Dunno. I mean, it's probably standing. But I, you know, died two years ago. Dunno who gets the deed after that. Bank?"

\---

Martin shrugs. “Might be worth checking out, next time we have a chance. Seems like death is just a temporary state. Oh— It’s up here. Your turn to lead.”

\---

Gerard perks up the moment he sees the building, and angles for it, giving a noncommittal hum. "I did have a lot of old, rare books in that place. Useful, too." He pushes the door open, and even holds it open for Martin. See? He's sweet today. Maybe Martin deserves it.

The clerk looks him up and down and sees his hair, and asks if he might need some help, sir, but Gerard waves her off with a flat look and leads Martin towards the back to start looking at bleach.

\---

Martin stifles his laugh until after the clerk’s left earshot, color slowly flooding his cheeks. He’s being doted on, in this subtle way he likes. “Will your hair always be that way? I-I like it, but... It’s changed a few times, hasn’t it?”

\---

"Hm. Think it depends on how I see myself. My own perception of my soul." He crouches, and picks up a few packets, reading the back of them to deliberate. "Guess I still see myself as ugly as fuck."

\---

Martin reaches out to touch the top of his head. Every touch is cautious, only to save him the discomfort if he phases through. “Don’t do that. You’re not. You just look like you don’t care what other people think.”

\---

Gerard lets him, though the touch makes him shiver, somewhat. "Whatever. Fact is, I've never had good hair. And didn't care how shitty it was, because it took like, thirty minutes to do." He pauses. "We're being  _ way _ more careful with your hair. It should handle a beating, though." He puts one of the bleaches back, grabs a big bottle of developer, and gives him a look. "Now find the color you want."

\---

Martin tilts his head with an inquisitive look, hoping it comes off as fondly as he thinks as he’s channeling it through his mind. “Maybe not, not neon red, but bright? God— I don’t know if this’ll be a good look.”

\---

Gerard snorts. "Of course it won't. You name me one person whose first dye job looked good." He stands, and spins in place to look at the opposite wall. He looks at the brand and different categories for a second and then gestures to one of the displays. "These. Pick from these. It'll help me know how much we need to bleach you, too."

\---

Martin investigates the colors with intense scrutiny. Hard to imagine how it might look on him, but... he’s resigned to his fate. He picks something that says it’s vibrant red, but looks a bit on the darker side of vibrant and holds it up next to his face. “This?”

\---

Gerard shrugs. "If you want. This is your decision. I'm just the applicator." He snorts. "Unless I run out of energy halfway through and force Michael to finish it."

\---

“I’m just asking what might look good on me, Gerry. You always have opinions.” One of the reasons he likes you so much, stupid ghost. “Anywhere we can do this that isn’t the Institute?”

\---

"Back-Alley Dye Job," Gerry muses, and then barks out a laugh. "New band name. Hm." He looks at the shelf, and grabs a slightly lighter red, and a light purple, and holds them out. "Could do more magenta-ey."

\---

“I like that.” Martin puts the first one back and takes the other two from Gerry. “More classy than Back-Alley Blow Job, right? Ready?”

\---

"Oh, it's way less classy, somehow. Your life has seriously gone wrong if you've resorted to dying your hair in an alley." He trails to the far end of the store to grab a brush and gloves and a bowl, and when he shoves everything to Martin to hold, he says, "... You're avoiding... Who, Jon? Michael?"

\---

Martin shifts with all the contents between his hands. They should’ve grabbed a basket. “Jon,” he says without hesitation. “I don’t think I can help him right now, and it’s less avoiding, I think he just— I feel like he makes an effort to... to make coming up with a plan harder.”

\---

"Hard to plan for unknown variables, I guess. Fries his little archival brain." He snorts, thinking of the annoying back and forth he played during the week leading up to the Distortion's ritual.

\---

“Not like that. It’s— Like, I’ve been telling him for months we have to talk to Tim and Sasha, and it’s always, yes, later. I don’t— I’m not good at bossing people around. Especially—“ Martin works his way to the cashier. “—If they start... um, yelling. I like helping, but not— Not delegating.”

\---

"Okay, and that's something we'll-- you know? Figure out. He'll keep pretending everything's fine unless he gets a reality check. But avoiding your home is bullshit. Just so you know." He rolls his eyes as he takes them to the counter.

\---

“I’m not  _ avoiding— _ I’m taking a day outside to breathe, Gerry. It’s good for me when— When I’m with you.” Martin shoots an acknowledging smile toward the receptionist as he places everything down on the counter, reaching for his wallet.

\---

"Okay, see, but that sounds different than 'can you dye my hair on an alley pretty please pretty pretty  _ pleaaaaaase'." _

The receptionist gives them both a look, at the products and then at Gerard's hair again, and she says, "Do-- do you have any questions on how to process this correctly?"

Gerard sneers at her. "No. I've got it handled. Thanks."

\---

“I didn’t— I didn’t bring up any back alleys, you did!” Martin smacks him gently before he pays. “Just one bag if - if you can, ma’am.” At least he can handle a basic conversation with a stranger without making it weird. No harassing retail workers today.

\---

She gives them both a look, and then a small nod and a hum, handing the entire lump of products off to Martin. "Good luck?" She says, and Gerard rolls his eyes. As he steps from the counter, he mutters, "I never understood. My hair isn't even that bad." Yes it is, Gerard.

\---

"It's-- We're in a place where they know  _ everything  _ about hair. Makes sense they'd have... something to say?" He takes the bag and follows after Gerry, a genuine little smile playing over his face. "Like I said. I like it."

\---

"Uh-huh. Well maybe you just have shit taste. Seeming more and more likely by the day."

\---

Martin rolls his eyes. "Not with you. Oh-- Before I forget." With the bag in one hand, he lifts the locket up with a few of his fingers. "When you're not awake, can you-- Can you feel it, when I touch it?"

\---

Gerard tracks the locket, and nods. "Sometimes. I think-- intent, has something to do with it. I felt it when you called me today. It's like-- like half waking up early."

\---

"That's nice. It's fun to touch, just-- You know, I-I hoped I wasn't disturbing you." He lets the necklace fall back down to his neck. "Even if you can't hear it, it's-- It's like you're there?  _ Sappy."  _ He says the last word with a specific lilt he's taken to using for an impression of Gerry's voice.

\---

"Very. I, uh, I like it, though. That you like it. It--" He looks away. "It made the week easier."

\---

Martin nods his own agreement. He could say just about the same thing. "We're talking about that today. I-- I can only imagine it's not good, but we can... we can mend things. Make it through."

\---

"Mm. After we dye that mop of yours. Don't want to get angry and break all your virgin hair." He ruffles Martin's hair.

\---

Martin sighs into the touch, but he doesn't linger on it. They're trying to walk. "You're dropping the word virgin more than usual today. I-- Hm. Your turn. Can't GPS us into an alleyway."

\---

Gerry laughs. "One, that's what your hair is, since it's all natural, and two, I told you we’re  _ not _ doing that. We could always leave afterwards, again. The gym bathrooms aren't even close to home."

\---

"Oh. Right-- That's fine. We'll do that." Now that he knows where he's going, Martin flips directions. "We'll, um, have a romp in an alleyway some day."

\---

"Oh, yes, get grungy with it." He snorts. "You just want to be a bad boy _ so  _ bad, and then pretend you don't have predator teeth. Hysterical."

\---

"Predator teeth and magenta hair. Sending off a few mixed signals, I think."

\---

"Exactly. The perfect type of signals. 'what slur do we use on  _ that?'  _ And by the time they choose one, your teeth are at their throat."

\---

Martin grimaces, like he's just swallowed something painfully bitter. "I'm... not killing people unless they deserve it, Gerry. I'd-- I'd like to not kill anyone!"

\---

Gerard rolls his eyes and starts picking up their pace towards the institute. "Joke, Martin. It was a  _ joke.  _ I know you're not going to kill anyone. Sheesh. Sometimes, we can joke about our circumstances."

\---

Martin trails after him, doing his best to keep up without hurrying. No hurrying today. "Well, I know I'm capable of it now, I guess, so-- So it's not... exactly a joke. I... mm." He decides to drop it. Not like he's bragging about it. He won't kill anyone unless they try to kill him first, or-- Well, if they're plain evil, that seems like a normal distinction to make.

\---

"The joke is the hypothetical. I know, yes-- God, you're infuriating.  _ Yes _ it wouldn't be a joke if I were to say 'your teeth around Trevor Herbert the Vampire Hunter's throat' because that happened. That's how-- ugh. It's how comedy works, Martin." He rolls his eyes.

\---

Martin blinks ahead, forcing his voice into deadpan neutrality. "Wow, Gerry, you should do stand-up. I'm sure some people would - would love to hear you explain your jokes on stage."

\---

Gerry turns to jab a finger at him, lips all scrunched up, but all that comes out is, "Fucking-- prick!" and he turns and quickens his pace. "You're the actual worst."

\---

Martin sits with his smug, lazy grin for company, until they're close to the Institute. "Sorry, sorry, you're just-- You're easy to wind..." He locks eyes on the stairs out front and falters slightly, but, well, it's fine.

\---

"Yes, yes, you love to torture me, and-- Martin, c'mon?" To tell the truth, he's far too excited to do this man's hair. He reaches the top and turns back to Martin and says, "So! On a scale of one to ten, how likely is it that the Ex-Distortion has done nothing but be a depressed sad sack for three days and is in need of something to do with hands that have enviable fine motor skills?"

\---

Martin blinks, refocusing on Gerry’s voice. “Eight, maybe? Are you... are you inviting Michael?”

\---

"We can always wait until I get tired, but I don't know how long this will take to process, and--" Gerard shrugs. "If it's an eight, he probably needs something to do. I don't care, either way, I could probably teach you how to do it, too, if I get worn out, but..." He shrugs, and steps into the lobby of the building.

\---

Martin follows, grimacing at various walls of the Institute. “If— If I gave you this,” he pulls on the locket slightly, “would you bring him?”

\---

"Sure," Gerard holds his hand out for it. "Get everything set up, and I'll drag Rapunzel down here."

\---

Martin lifts it gently off his neck and into Gerry’s palm. It leaves him a little queasy, though he’s not completely sure why. “Okay.”

\---

He cradles it and wraps his hand around it firm, and for a second, his expression goes a little glassy, the circumstances of the last time he needed to hold the locket very, very vivid in his head, but he pushes it down. Later. Later. They set up a time for later. Gerard can't go around getting triggered by a fucking locket. "Ta," He mumbles, and turns towards the stairs going down to the Archives. 

Michael is, predictably, being a sad fucking sack when Gerard makes it to the offices. Jon looks up briefly, surprised, when he sees Gerry, but Gerry gives him some half-stammered excuse and steps into the bedroom instead. 

"Oh my God," Gerard says, as he steps in, because Michael's looped his feet around the top of the backboard, ass on the pillow, and sprawled along the rest of the bed half-asleep with Jon's phone on his stomach, some sort of compilation video playing muffled where the screen has fallen to his chest.

Michael sits up all at once, and hisses when his feet slide roughly from the back of the backboard, blinking at Gerard in confusion. "Oh. The Skin-Spirit," He says, and clicks Jon's phone closed. 

Gerard purses his lips and deigns to ignore the epithet. "We're dying Martin's hair, and you're helping. Let's go." 

Michael gets up immediately at the command, but then seems a bit confused, swaying where he sits. He's clearly visually trying to keep up. "Martin's-- Hair?" 

"Just follow." 

And so he does, and when Jon asks what they're doing, Michael babbles out an incoherent string of thoughts about Martin and his hair and must be important and never done my hair before, Jon, new experience for us all, I s'pose. It must be enough of a garbled mess, because Jon just blinks and says solemnly, "Have fun," and returns to writing.

From there, it's just a matter of him and Michael bickering over which stairs are quickest, and which elevators sucks the most, here, but at least he's vertical and has material hands. Small miracles.

\---

Martin isn't quite sure what the best way to set this all up is, but in Gerry's absence he's taken to organizing it with one hand while the other scrolls through some how-to guide on hair dying. He's getting more restless by the second, but at least he's taken off his sweater and he's not particularly attached to this undershirt. He rarely ever is, that's why they're undershirts.

At least it's practically empty on this floor. He's lost track of the days, what's weekend and weekday and what time it is and what month it is, everything has been flowing by and around him with an increasingly frustrating pace that he might as well give up and stop counting. He has his hand on the edge of a chair to pull it close to where he thinks he wants to do this, off to a corner and out of the way, when he hears them coming. His back stiffens, and he settles the chair down where it stands like he's been caught doing something he shouldn't be, even though... they planned this. Like they were never coming back, and now he's surprised.

Maybe he _ is _ a bit more off than he'd like to think he is. Still, he makes sure he's smiling by the time he's sure they're about to round the corner.

\---

Gerard comes into view, Michael trailing behind, and his grin is excited. He claps his hands together. "And the order of Archival Assistants, Meeting One, commences, on behalf of one Martin K. Blackwood." 

Michael snorts, and leans against the counter, looking at all the supplies laid out. He looks to Martin. "Red and purple? Why?"

\---

Martin is immediately overwhelmed, but he thinks that's a good thing, maybe, even though he's got half a mind to kill Gerry where he stands. "I-- I picked out red, first, but Gerry said we could 'do more magenta-ey', and - and I wasn't about to argue, so, um, here we are!" He holds both hands out in front of him, as though giving up the various bottles as an offering.

\---

Gerry glances back and winks at Michael. "It'll fade more pink, that way." He steps forward and presses the locket back into Martin's palm, and before he gets started, he gives Martin a genuine, soft, meaningful smile, some kind of appreciation or another, and then steps back to start mixing their bleach. 

"Over here, blondie," He says, once he lays out everything, and instructs Michael how much to pour from the developer, and to pour the entire packet of bleach, and makes him stir. Wow. It's actually kind of nice to just be able to dictate with his arms crossed and not have to do jack shit. 

"I'd say sorry for getting you up, but you were being a sad sack and watching videos, so no, I'm not," He says, as Michael stirs. 

Michael looks to Martin and wrinkles his nose. "He's very rude. And very goth."

\---

Martin decides it might be best to just... sit in the chair, for now, eyes flitting between Michael and Gerry as one of them orders and the other one moves. "He is rude, but--" He lifts his eyebrows at the description, settling on Michael for now. "I-If it helps, I want you here-- It was, he actually brought it up, that maybe you'd want to, or..." He lowers his voice. "I don't think Gerry actually knows that much about dying hair. He's being very nice, compared to the, um, the usual, though."

\---

"I know plenty. I read books on it," Gerard scoffs, and angles a glare Martin's way. 

Michael smiles. "I've never dyed my hair before." He scrapes the brush over the sides of the bowl, and peers down at it. It seems to be an even color and texture, and he tilts it for Gerard to inspect, who gives a very confident nod despite the fact that Martin is absolutely 100% correct in his assessment of Gerry's abilities.

"I'm being nice, because if I'm like normal, you'll freak out, bleach and red dye everywhere, Elias will think we killed a man in the bathrooms, imagine all the HR paperwork you have to file. Tsk, tsk." He takes the bowl from Michael; might as well try it himself while he has the energy. Bleach is more finicky than dye anyways. And the nice thing about being a ghost is that he doesn't even need gloves.

\---

"I don't think Elias cares," Martin grumbles down at the floor, both hands between his legs to grip the edge of the seat as a unified grounding force. "I haven't seen him since before we went to America."

\---

"Probably a good thing," Gerard mumbles, and starts to pull apart sections of Martin's hair, inspecting the way it clumps together before pulling one section and starting to brush on the first of the bleach. "Creepy fuck. Honestly glad, in hindsight, that Gertrude never had me get formally employed like you chumps."

\---

Martin initially tilts comfortably back into the touch before he realizes with a soft noise that he doesn't find the sensation of cold bleach particularly  _ pleasant, _ instead turning back down to the tile. He's not very fond of the direction this conversation is going, either. With how he's technically-not-avoiding Jon still swirling around in his mind, he's afraid he's going to start making associations. "Right. Right. You turned out lucky, didn't you?"

\---

"Oh, yes, the luckiest of the bunch. Flayed for the efforts." He laughs; he's keeping the conversation surface level, yet. "Boggles the mind that we all narrowly avoided each other. Though, I guess you would have been working here while I was around." He cocks his head as he thinks. "I probably would have been such a dick to you back then."

\---

“What, like you’re not  _ now?” _ Martin tries to tilt his head a little, but he can’t quite move enough to catch Gerry’s eye. “You’re being... bouncy. Are you... are you showing off?”

\---

Gerard rolls his eyes and looks at Michael. "He wounds me. See this? I'm nice, and he assumes it's got some ulterior motive."

"Well do you?" Michael asks.

"No. God. Maybe I'm just glad to have him back after you ate him for a week."

\---

Martin gives him a world weary sigh, even though that last bit makes his heart swell in his chest. “He didn’t  _ eat  _ me, Gerry, I walked in.” 

He leans back, so he can stare pitifully at Gerry from upside-down. “I don’t like bleach.”

\---

"No one likes bleach. Just wait 'till I hit your roots and it starts itching." He lightly bops him on the nose with the end of the dye brush. He sighs, overly dramatic and with a sing-songy bravado, "The things we ladies do for beauty."

\---

Martin squints to hide the way his words grate and fluster him. If he could project his thoughts straight into someone else’s brain he’d be growling out Gerry’s name as aggressively as possible right about now. Acting like an evil Disney Princess up there. “Go ahead, might as well get the jokes out now.”

\---

"Jokes? Oh, Martin, I'm deathly serious." He laughs, but it's light-hearted. "I'm usually the only freak in a room, and suddenly? There's three. Three amigas."

"No wonder Miss Robinson didn't want to hire you," Michael says, and shakes his head around a smile.

\---

“Right. So progressive, Gerry. Really, um, really making me want to nosedive into gender.” He turns his sad, dejected gaze to Michael. “He’s awful.”

\---

"He's funny-- he. Oh. Right. You and your constant 'is that problematic?' thing. I forgot." Michael holds the side of his hand over his mouth around a smile.

Gerard barks out a laugh. "What would it be? 'I went to 2008 and all I got were these spiritual tits?'" He sombers his voice, but there's still a laugh embedded in his words. "I'm the most progressive bloke out there."

\---

Martin tries to swat at him from the chair, but he’s not sure if he’s just misdirecting back on Gerry because he can’t ethically or even physically hit Michael from here. “I’m not— I’m not afraid of being problematic, I’m just  _ saying, _ it’s— I don’t know if the step immediately after wearing a dress is— ‘Well, I’m a girl now’!”

\---

Michael cocks his head, and tilts his eyes to the ceiling and says, "Well-- I mean, no. Duh. I think I'm just used to not seeing gender so... Stuck."

Gerard pops over around Martin's side and says, "It's teasing, but it's not, because gender's a big fat joke."

\---

Martin, in his own little fit of rage, leans to where Gerry enters his vision and kisses the side of his face. He can’t add to this conversation, not because he doesn’t agree, but it’s a bit different on his end. “You’re a joke.”

\---

Gerard ducks his head and giggles in an utterly bashful movement that he will forever pretend never, ever happened, and has to spend a moment composing himself before he continues applying bleach.  _ "Now _ you're getting it. Damn Stranger, all of us, with what clowns we are for performing gender."

\---

Martin will remember. 

“Gerry,” he whines, both hands back to the center of the seat. “Is it supposed to feel like that?”

\---

"Yeah." He holds out the bowl and whistles to get Michael's attention. "Finish this. I'm gonna start looking to make sure it's processing. Gloves." He gestures to the sink they've piled all their supplies on, and Michael follows to comply.

"He's very demanding," Michael murmurs near Martin's ear when he steps over and resumes the last few sections of hair.

"Nothing gets done with pussyfooters," Gerard says back, and starts to poke at Martin's hair, looking at the previous segments and monitoring the color.

\---

“He takes his job seriously,” Martin says quietly to Michael’s side, knowing full well Gerry’s already joined them again. At least the vague itch at his scalp eases off a bit with the new movements. 

And naturally, without anything left to complain about at present, he gets around to thinking how nice this is. How nice Gerry’s being, all things considered. How he’s letting his eyes all shut, and it’s good to be vulnerable with either of them. “I’d be dead without him. He can have it.”

\---

Gerry idly pats his cheek as he's inspecting Martin's hair. It feels strange, to have nothing to do but normal things, like dying hair and not needing to kill monsters. "How sweet. I earned his affection by running around Chicago like a maniac."

\---

Martin hums, trying to sound at least a little ticked off at the touch. “I was the maniac.” He thinks for a moment, and then hums again. This time it’s sweeter. “Do you want another poem, Gerry?”

\---

"Yes I do, you big sap."

\---

Oh, he’ll give him one. Martin clears his throat. “Gerry’s gone ghoulishly goth, my gloomy green ghost giggles  _ girlishly.” _

\---

Michael startles him by breaking into laughter, and Gerry leans back to look at him with narrowed eyes and then down to Martin. "Bit different from your others. Like a children's book."

"Great Grumpy Grumbles and Groans," Michael recites, and returns to the last section of Martin's hair, still laughing.

\---

Martin laughs in turn, trying to keep himself still. One hand comes back up to the locket, idly rolling it between his fingers. “Yeah, it is. Easy to make those ones mean without getting anyone mad at you. Michael’s good at it, too. Already— Already has you down pat.”

\---

"Hm." Gerard hums angrily, and picks up a strand of his hair to check the color, as Michael steps back and raises an eyebrow to ask 'this good?'.

He walks all around Martin and gives an approved noise, and says, "I learned you do poetry three hours ago, and I've already had four written about me. I'm a veritable Book of poetry now."

\---

Martin doesn’t correct him - he’s more of a cameo in that first one - letting him have it. No arguing, as acknowledgement of Michael’s words as a poem is very sweet of him. “You’re not even a book, now, you’re a cursed necklace. How does it look?”

\---

"Cursed necklace is a bit more romantic," He says, and let Martin's curl bounce back to his head. He gestures to Michael for the brush, and uses the pick at the end to sort through his hair, verifying the roots are hot and processing, and nods happily. "It'll look more professional than my hair. Thank you, Michael."

\---

“Right, you’d know all about romance.” He can’t see either one of them from this angle, and he hates it, but he’ll push through. “Looks like I’m your first canvas here, Michael.”

\---

Michael blushes as he comes around to lean against the sink, and Gerry snorts.

"Look what you did. You made him red, Martin. How cruel."

"Should have torn you apart in the hallway, Spirit," Michael mumbles, and hides in his hair.

\---

“I’d make you red all the time if you had blood,” Martin says waspishly under his breath, even as his face betrays his fondness.

\---

"Hm, guess you'll never find out," Gerry says airily, and comes back around to grin at him. "Think he'd make as good a blond as you, Mike?"

Michael wrinkles his nose. "Not that name. And maybe. It's all tacky right now."

Gerard gives him a flat look. "Yeah, no shit, Sherlock. He's covered in bleach."

\---

Martin points a finger up at him, like what he’s about to say is of grave importance. “Don’t leave me blonde, and— Be nice to Michael.”

\---

"I'm being angelic considering what I  _ could  _ say," Gerard says, and filters an amused look to Michael, who ducks his head out of the way of his gaze.

\---

“I— Don’t know what that means, Gerry— Just ignore him, Michael.” He kicks at his ghost from where he stands nearby. “Bring back the version of you melting on a library table this morning instead. I like that one much better.”

\---

"You know," Gerry muses, and presses a pointer finger to his chin, as though contemplating something. "If I forgot how long I left the bleach on, you'd go bald. Did you know that?" The look he levels Martin can only be described as 'evil.'

\---

“I really don’t— “ Ah. He doesn’t know enough about bleaching hair to argue. “If— If you did that you’d be taking the fall, too. Aren’t I much nicer to look at with hair?”

\---

"Touche! Can't pull a neck as gracefully as you can hair." He grins.

"Wow. I really would have made some bad decisions if I met you in a club," Michael says, which earns a surprised and sputtered laugh from Gerry.

\---

Martin sinks in the chair and lets his head fall forward into his hands. Half of it is to hide the heat in his own face - as someone who has blood to do that with - and the other is to force himself not to request an elaboration on whatever Michael means by that. “You’re both bad decisions.”

\---

"And yet we're the ones you chose to do your hair." Gerard says cheerily, and leans off the sink again to check his hair.

"I didn't even do anything wrong," Michael pouts, and crosses his arms.

"Sure you did. You chose to shack up with Martin." He let's go of Martin's hair. "Go wash that out, conditioner only."

\---

“I’m— I happen to be— So far I’ve only been a-a good decision in a club, for the record,” Martin stammers out, getting started before either of them could have a chance to respond. 

We really need to figure out the layout of this horrible gym joke gone wrong. 

He pulls off to one of the showers and hikes his shirt up over his head, locket nested in the middle where he’s bundled it up. It’s easy enough to bend forward and make this quick, flooded with relief as the physical sensation of bleach over his head comes washing out, so focused on this that he’s not worrying about the rest of it. Arts and crafts need to happen more often. He thinks it might be insanely attractive for Gerry to play music. 

...And that’s his cue to get out of the shower, pulling a towel over his shoulders so he can come back to sit in the evil bathroom chair.

\---

"Oh, wow," Gerard says, the second Martin comes back into view. It's a bit orange, considering how dark it started out, but still miles lighter, and his smile is a surprised, wondrous little thing.

Maybe this 'sharing time with other people' thing isn't so bad. Pity he didn't learn about it until he was dead. "Cute. Do you and Jon have a blow dryer?"

Michael, too, is smiling big, though he doesn't have the foresight not to say, "It's rather...  _ Orange." _

\---

“...Orange?” His eyes move to the mirror, but he quickly snaps them back to the nearest person that isn’t his reflection, because he’s not going to freak out about having orange hair. He’s not. It ends up being Gerry, with that stupid look on his face, and maybe being the center of attention is actually completely embarrassing still. 

“I don’t have a blow dryer. Maybe they have some— Don’t smile like, you’re not— You’re not leaving it like that, are you?”

\---

"No, of course not, I'm not a sadist," Gerry says. "But it is funny. Hm. Maybe the lady's locker room will have one. Your hair looks like it'll take ages to dry, otherwise."

He pushes himself off the sink and snickers, "Don't be too naughty while I'm gone."

\---

Martin glares mutinously between Gerry’s shoulder blades as he leaves them behind, tilting the chair so he can face Michael properly. “He’s a bit much, but you... are you having fun? I hoped it might help.”

\---

Michael shrugs and opens his mouth, and says a million things at once. "He's funny. Guess it's nice to have a change of pace. He's not as quiet as Jon." He smiles. "A-and it really is small up there. I like that you're doing your hair, that's exciting."

\---

“Technically  _ you’re _ doing my hair, it’s— I’m working on what I need to do to pitch in for a new place today, this is the least destructive thing I could be doing to cope. It’ll be bigger, and—“ He reaches out one hand, making a lax grabbing gesture to indicate he wants him closer. “—You should help decorate?”

\---

Michael immediately steps forward, and the smile on his face turns pleased, surprised. "I'd love to." He wrinkles his nose. "Not sure I'd love Gerard's decorating skills, quite frankly. Your bedroom is... Nice."

\---

“I helped with the bedroom,” Martin says vaguely. He’s not getting into that one. He lifts a hand to lace his fingers with Michael’s; a warm, real, human hand with a pulse and a comfortably natural weight. “Gerry can have the closet under the stairs.” He lowers his voice to a mischievous whisper. “We’ll keep his locket under there.”

\---

"Like, like-- oh God, that book, with the wizard. Harry Potter. Hah! Poor Gerry." He snickers. "Jon could have the attic, for him to peer out the house creepily."

\---

Martin laughs, bringing Michael’s hand up to the side of his face. Might as well get all the sappy intimacy out before Gerry comes back to smite them both. “I— Honestly, l think he’d like that. Little library nook. I hope he’s— Has he been...nice to you?”

\---

Michael presses against his cheek lightly, his smile soft. "As well as he can be, I think. He asks me questions, sometimes. From the other room. Quite nice, really; makes me remember I'm actually, ah, there?" His voice gets lower, quieter. "Most of my existence the past few years has been trying to pull myself together enough to exist. It's a habit, now, to not. Getting used to it. And he begs such succinct answers, it's hard to- to. You know."

\---

Martin watches, and listens, and finds himself nodding slowly to fill the space in Michael’s pauses for air. “He’s a good person. I think— I think he forgets that. Just a— A speed bump, I guess. I was just afraid, that— That you’d see we don’t have it all together, and— And you’d regret coming back with us. I’m really afraid of, of trapping any of you.” 

The way he pauses after that is to process. He hasn’t thought this out loud before. “Gerry’s a page in a book, you’re legally dead, I don’t want you to-to feel like I own you, or something. You’re people.”

\---

Michael pulls his hand back, but it's not rejection, just to chew on his nails while he processes and thinks. It's a lot; to think about what he wants, and right now? It threatens to overfill the well that he knows is in him.

Eventually, he shrugs. "If I didn't want to be around, I wouldn't have let you save me, I think. And I think, that maybe I've been alone too much." He laughs, but it's quiet and sullen. "Find myself on Mr. Lukas' boat for other reasons, this time. That's-- don't take that seriously. That was a joke. Um-- you're a good person, too. People get in tiffs."

\---

Martin takes both hands, uneasy, and wraps them around Michael’s waist to pull him close enough that he can rest his forehead against his stomach. “I know, I know it’s a joke— We’ll get through it together, and... I know we all want you here. As long as - as you want that, too, I— mm. You know what I mean.”

\---

He huffs out a pleased laugh at being pulled close, and one of his hands flies to Martin's wet head. He's quiet for a moment.

Half his mind whispers, 'Oh Michael, you know it's too good to be true. It must be a trick, a lie, a door you shouldn't have opened that you forgot you entered. Fickle, dumb, creature.' But. Well. If it's just delusion, it's one he wants, even if it'll hurt in the end.

And he doesn't really think it is. At least, not right now. He can smell Martin, and the bathroom, and he smelled and felt the bleach, and it can't all be fake. It just can't. 

"I want to," He says.

\---

Martin stays where he is for another minute, before he figures it’s not worth whatever snide comment Gerry might make to cover up for his own feelings to keep holding Michael hostage in front of him and pulls back just enough that they can make eye contact. “Maybe when he gets here you should do the blow drying. I feel like - like if he does it, that’s a fire hazard waiting to happen.”

\---

"Have you seen those split ends? He clearly doesn't know what he's doing," Michael says, and rolls his eyes. "What a ghost you've captured. He's-- Keay, right? Miss Robinson used to mention his mother. His father used to work here, too, I'm pretty sure. What a family."

\---

“All comes down to old ladies,” Martin sighs, and along with it goes his tension. “Runs in the family. We don’t have to keep... keep doing it. Save the world with trust instead. Not— Not one-sided.”

\---

"Hm. Yes. I would like to avoid Miss Robinsin's approach. Doing good so far, I'd reckon. Even the Distortion's going to be happy." He grins and then pouts. "You’re lucky Gerard's coming back. I want to sit on your lap so bad right now."

\---

That startles a laugh from deep within Martin’s chest. “What, to talk about  _ Gertrude?” _

\---

"No.  _ Maybe. _ I don't care. It's not about her." He scowls. "Now I don't want to think about it."

\---

Martin settles into a lazy smile. “I’m kidding, Michael. Take a— Take a, um, a free lap card?” 

God, Martin. He tries to salvage that. “Redeemable at your next convenience.”

\---

"I'll remember that," He says, and there's a spark of fae-mischief in his eyes. Careful what you wish for, Martin.

At least Gerard makes it back, then, brandishing a hair dryer above his head like a mythical sword. The cord loops right through his body, swinging back and forth through him, but he doesn't seem to care. "Nothing in the lady's locker room, but Rosie, bless her heart, has one in her ridiculously oversized purse. A diaper bag, practically."

\---

Martin can’t hide the color rising up to his ears, but he can channel a fresh glare in Gerry’s direction to distract from it. He loves digging his own grave. “That’s... convenient. Back to torturing me, then?”

\---

Gerry angles the blow dryer at him like a gun, and says, "Pew," as flatly as possible. "Torture over. You're welcome." He finds an outlet and plugs it in, then summarily hands it to Michael. "Alright. Get in there, flesh hands. I'm not wearing myself out over this. Careful: he bites when he's scared."

Michael snorts, and takes the dryer. "I'm very aware of that," and turns it on before anyone else can say anything, moving behind Martin to start drying his hair.

\---

Martin’s insistence that he’s not scared of hair dryers is drowned out by the sound, and there’s only so long he can keep up a peevish facade in place of actually enjoying their company for what it is. 

He lets himself have a thoughtless moment of peace where he doesn’t have to take care of anything. He can’t pinpoint the exact moment his eyes shut, where the obnoxious volume of it fades into sustained background noise, but what matters is that by the end of it his brain isn’t a messy knot of worries.

They’ll take care of things. He has people. Whatever is going on between him and Jon can be solved, and that’s what they’re all doing. That’s what today is. Having a bit of normalcy without guilt after running on fumes is fine. 

These people make him want to be better. It’s all very sappy, but there seems to be quite a few bursts of that today between teasing and pushing and checking in and teenager-brand insults, so who cares?


	51. Chapter 51

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Sasha.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for posting two chapters immediately this morning, I got way too excited about finally adding the Sasha tag...

In another world, the person who is and is not Sasha James found herself resigned to a fate that seemed a bleak, inevitable reality within her field. 

Now, though, she takes step after painstaking step towards an office that might have been hers, in yet another life. She won’t waste her time indulging that one— can’t, anyway, considering Tim’s at her heel trying to launch into what might be the fifth pep talk he’s tried giving today. Luckily, she’s had plenty of practice on this front, and the conversation goes something like this:

“Now, don’t give him a chance to back  _ out—“ _

“Tim.”

“I’m just  _ saying, _ it’s not about who’s  _ supposed _ to be in charge, it’s—“ 

“Tim! I’m already nervous. You’re not helping.”

He’s quiet for all of five seconds before sidestepping around her, putting the brakes on their walk with both hands at her shoulders. He sighs, too much, too dramatic. “I believe in you, Sasha.”

And then he stares, like he could will his eyes into sparkling as they bore into her own, far less amused by comparison. They stand motionless in the hall until, second by second, the silence sets about unwinding the twin tension in both their stomachs. Until their half-baked staring contest reaches its natural conclusion. 

Sasha cracks first, the hint of a smile that tells him he’s won covered by the stack of papers she uses to swat his face away. He holds his tongue until they’re just outside, content with the tiniest of victories. She inhales before the knock, pointedly ignoring the way he mouths ‘you’ve got this’. 

“Jon, are you in there? We need to talk!”

\---

The second before the knock comes, Jon Knows they're there. He inhales at her question, and says, "Come in!" before she's even finished speaking, his voice resigned to what he knew was inevitable. 

He has his journal open, as well as a calendar he's been cross referencing as he drafts up dates, schedules, recollections of dates from the other reality, as well as how they've matched up, thus far, with this one. What with cross-referencing statements, his other notes, and various bits of research from the scant books that were useful, his desk is a mess. He doesn't let that bother him, though. 

Despite Martin's frustration at the whole... Tim and Sasha...  _ thing... _ he had penned them in. For Wednesday, to give him a few days to feel marginally human before having to experience the presence of anything except for Martin and Martin's... accoutrements. He hadn't had the time to think about those two, much, yet, beyond a general acceptance and fondness of them, and a willingness to explore whatever it was that this was. 

He doesn't have the time. He hardly has the time for anything but planning now, and he knows it's not fair, he does. He does. But it's the hard cold truth of the matter, the reality they're in; they're tasked with saving the world, and it leaves scant room for anything else.

But he'll go against his scheduling for Tim and Sasha, since they came to him, and-- Oh. He glances down at his calendar. It  _ is _ Wednesday. He'd lost track of time. Well-- Universe's synchronicities are allowed to dictate him as well, it seems.

\---

Tim and Sasha exchange a glance as they linger outside the doorway, a mutually assuring no-nonsense telepathic pep-talk that isn’t, well, actually telepathic. That would be ridiculous. 

It’s not quite like walking into a trap, and more like taking your first step into a haunted house at the carnival. You’ve signed up for it, but you can’t really know what’s going on in there until you’ve experienced it yourself. 

Sasha is the one who twists the knob, and as the door opens Tim shoots an acknowledging wave up over her head to the desk. 

“Hi, Jon!” He’s the one visibly paying attention to the whole set-up, raking his eyes over everything. “Wow, look at this. Wish I could get  _ my _ office this g—“ 

Sasha elbows him at an angle she’s almost positive Jon won’t see, and he makes a breathy  _ ow _ that’s nearly inaudible. It doesn’t take much longer for her to sink into this, taking the free chair across from his desk. That leaves Tim behind her, balancing one elbow on the top of the seat. 

It’s a relaxed gesture, but it’s a protective one nonetheless, not threatening and still friendly enough, there’s just a hint of something there. 

Sasha, however, is more traditionally polite, worry on the edge of her question. “How are you, Jon?”

\---

Jon has always respected Sasha James. Immensely so; he wasn't stupid, either. Along with everyone else, he, too, knew that she was the gunner for his position, and was just as surprised as the rest when it was he who Elias chose to carry on Gertrude's legacy. 

He supposes he can guess why, now, and he's glad it's him and not her that has to endure this all, but there's still a pang of 'she deserved the position more' that haunts him. 

But it's not the most pressing thing that haunts him about her. 

He's forgotten his glasses, and though he could fumble for something to hide them, he decides, in the end not to. They'll find out eventually. He's supposed to be honest, now, and he won't back out of that awkwardness and shame just because it might necessitate a few horrible conversations. Well, he would, but he doesn't want Martin mad at him, anymore. 

Jon's forgotten his glasses, and he can't help but rake his eyes over Sasha, the woman he forgot, the woman he let die from sheer ignorance. And she's still here, whole, and so is Tim, and with them sitting here, in front of him, he supposes he'll have to be honest. 

"I'm alright," He says slowly, and then gestures to the piles of work in front of him. "Keeping busy." But that doesn't mean he wants to sit here in awkward small-talk. "You wanted to see me, then?"

\---

Sasha does not bring up his eyes, of the mind that this conversation will lead up to it naturally and she’s not inclined to stare, just yet. Doesn’t want to lose her confidence. 

“Well, Jon, it’s been weeks since we’ve even  _ seen _ you, and— Elias hasn’t exactly been helpful, he’s around about as much as you. You’ve been avoiding us from the start, Martin all but disappeared, and I had to find out from Tim—“

The second she takes a breath, Tim jumps in. “Oh, yes, you caught us, so we’ll include you under one condition, Tim, and what’s what? Don’t be  _ rash!  _ By the way, I know the name of your dead brother. Bye, off to America, job well done. You tell  _ me, _ but not the most competent among us?”

\---

And this is why he knew he wasn't going to like this conversation. He opens and closes his mouth several times as they talk, and each time, his brain stutters and stops and has to restart like a fresh tape recorder. When Tim finishes, he sighs, and leans back in his chair, and does, at least, have the decency to look guilty. 

"I planned on telling-- On telling you, Sasha. Things have just been... Ah, out of hand the past few weeks. Month? However long it's been since we've been back. I honestly couldn't tell you. It-- I know, I know, I probably owe you several explanations at this point."

\---

Tim rolls his eyes. “No text, not even a postcard!”

“Tim.” The second she’s sure he won’t keep going, Sasha turns back to the desk. “Yes, Jon, you do. But there’s a reason we’re here, not somewhere else filing complaints about this that I would imagine are pointless, and— “ She sighs, pushing her glasses squarely back into place before sitting the stack of papers up in her hand. “I came here expecting that I had a job to do, and in the absence of... Well,  _ any  _ direction, I’ve been doing my own research. You didn’t seem to think it was important enough to tell us what you knew, but I’m not you.”

\---

"... No, you're very much not me." Jon says, and sits up a little taller. In another life, a mundane life, she'd make a very, very good boss. He'd very much enjoy that life.

"You have-- well. I'm all ears."

\---

Having found her confidence, Sasha begins combing through the papers. “First, people are still coming in to give us their stories, but most of them aren’t linear. We took notes of anything we could look into, typed and printed them out with contacts, names, and addresses stored separately just in case we found a lead to follow-up with.”

She places the thin stack at the edge of Jon’s desk, holding the rest in her lap. “We’ve gone out into the field to investigate, but usually we don’t get much. I knew Gertrude had a reason for keeping her notes the way she did, and considering you thought it was completely rational to leave her...” She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose as she thinks. “We haven’t told Elias.” 

Behind her, Tim makes a zipping motion over his lips. “Not to cover for you, but because it makes sense. The categories, that his decision to put you in this position might be motivated by... more than what I think all of us knew, when we got the news. You told Tim about the Stranger and you left him with that on his mind, so we’ve been focused on that, too.”

\---

Jon blinks at the both of them, and well, he's thoroughly impressed, to put it lightly. And they don't even have the decency to look overtly worn out.

He pulls the pile of files close, and flicks through them, his brow raised before setting them aside, perpendicular to another stack of papers. He'll go through them later, and add them to his filing.

"For keeping her files the way she..." Jon cocks his head, and then shakes it quickly. "The Unknowing was next; I'm... Happy to share my notes on it with you two. I know how, where, and when; a different method to stop it would be-- well, preferable."

\---

Tim leans in to stage-whisper over the chair. "See. Flighty. I'll take my free lunch, thank you." He perks up to Jon, something bitter and unresolved behind his eyes he's holding back behind the veneer. Maybe it's for Sasha. Maybe it's for someone else. "I won't say any names, but  _ someone  _ bet on Martin."

Sasha ignores him with practiced patience. "A few months ago I would have been glad to listen. You don't sign up for this job unless you..." She thumbs the edge of the stack in her hands. "I never liked Artefact Storage. I didn't transfer to run away from the truth that sometimes things are more complicated than we'd like them to be. I did it because I had... I had a feeling one day I might not come back out. Elias brushed me off, and now you brushed me off, until we had to come to you. How am I supposed to trust that? That you want to be transparent and, and offer up everything we need to know, once we've cornered you, when this is the first time you've looked at me in-- In months, Jon?"

\---

Jon looks away. He wants to avoid, wants to push them until they back off and he's got the room to himself again, but it's a horrible, awful instinct, and he pushes against it.

"It's not because-- it's. Sasha, it--" He takes a deep breath, and pinches his nose, and says, "I don't know how much... How much Tim has filled you in, b-but. I'm sorry. I didn't even--" He gives a dry laugh. "I didn't even recognize you, when I first came here? B-because. You got replaced by something. And I was so,  _ so _ scared of it Happening again."

\---

"You didn't tell me that." 

It's Tim's voice, but it's so quiet, and still, that Sasha has to turn her eyes up toward him. He doesn't meet the eye contact, because he's staring straight ahead at Jon. 

She settles back in the seat. "You really thought it... You thought it might be  _ less _ likely to happen if we were left to our own devices to handle what you gave Tim to send to me, and we went out into the field with only that to keep us safe? This isn't something you can just shield people from by not telling them, Jon! So you, you picked the one employee in this office who's probably... the  _ least  _ likely to know how to tell anyone else, has the least amount of experience on how to look into this safely, and you... You know, right? Martin doesn't have... I just hope you know how it looks, from here."

\---

There's a lot there. And Jon is internally kicking himself already. He forgot. He forgot he didn't tell Tim about... Sasha. He clenches his jaw in tension, but it turns to confusion, because, "How it-- how it looks?"

\---

Tim is white-knuckling the chair behind Sasha's head. Plenty of opportunities for a good one-liner. None taken. Sasha continues. 

"I can only tell you what it looks like, but, Jon, he doesn't know anyone. A few days in he'd see me and turn the other way, and he'd do  _ anything _ just to get out of working nearby, like he was afraid he might say something. Tim said the last time he saw him he looked... scared, when you showed him Gertrude's body, which... I am  _ not  _ okay with leaving down there, by the way, that's-- That's not right, Jon. We've been worried about him."

\---

"I--" Jon blinks, and slowly sits back in the chair. There isn't even an excuse here. What can he say? That there's nothing to be worried about? The truth is, there's a  _ lot  _ to be worried about, and all the careful walls he's built to ease the guilt in bringing Martin into this mess start to crumble, and he widens his eyes, his mouth pulling down into an anxious frown. "You're right. It looks bad. Maybe-- maybe it is. Shit."

\---

"I would have listened. I'll be honest, Jon, I've yet to find a good reason to trust you. That doesn't have to be permanent. You've just left us in the dark, you left-- Well, you left me to do  _ your _ job, which isn't the part I... Sorry." 

She shifts in the chair, until she's sure no matter what she does she won't find a way to sit comfortably. "I practiced this in the mirror earlier and now I know you know more than I thought you did, so-- I want your notes on the Stranger, to start. And a time for tomorrow. I think that's a start."

\---

"...It's a start," Jon repeats, and nods, and really? Truly? Is properly cowed. Leave it to Sasha. Sasha, who never had a chance to be this stern with him, because none of them, none of them knew what was going to happen, before she got taken by the Not-Them. 

He pulls himself up heavily from his chair, to go to the filing cabinet where he's filed away the pertinent and important files on the Stranger and the Circus and everything pertaining therein. As he does, he says, "I want-- I do want to be upfront. A-and honest with you two. I do. I will from now on. Any question; answered. It was just-- It's not an excuse, I'm... I'm realizing that now. It isn't acceptable, or an excuse, but-- I just didn't know how to start, especially once everything started.... Started happening." 

The hanging file full of the Stranger's files is of a decent size, and he pulls it, winding the elastic tie around it to close it shut for Sasha. Quietly, he says, "If I'd thought ahead, I wouldn't have involved Martin, either, but he won't hear from that. I was--" He blinks. "I wasn't thinking, when it came to him."

\---

She watches him move, watches him blunder through something that isn’t an explanation, isn’t an apology, isn’t leading her or Tim anywhere near closure. She can’t imagine it’s been easy, but she can’t imagine herself in a position she doesn’t think she could possibly put herself in. 

She can’t quite settle on sympathy or pity with what she knows now, processing through the limited first-hand knowledge she has that’s not from Tim’s mouth. Running back through the tiny glimpse into this situation she got through this conversation that felt less like a conversation and more like a frustrated monologue of management. 

“That doesn’t make me worry any less.”

Tim chooses the empty space in the aftermath of her words to speak up. “Enlightening talk. Honestly. Huge weight off my shoulders, I can tell you that much. Ready to go, now, boss?”

\---

Jon hands her the files, and gives her a weary look, and for the first time in a while, he feels completely, utterly out of his element. "I'll get everything together for tomorrow morning. It's been--" He lets out a frustrated huff. "It's been a mess, trying to organize since America. I haven't-- I haven't exactly been myself since we got back."

\---

With the folder tucked under one arm, Sasha stands to excuse herself, fully intent on getting her bearings back by tomorrow morning. The only thing she offers is a polite, workplace-brand smile. "I'll see you at noon, Jon."

Tim lingers a bit longer, his own strained smile fading as she passes out of immediate earshot. He puts both hands on the back of the guest chair and leans forward, just long enough to pass a hurt, "Don't ever say his name again," before he's turning to the door, as well.


	52. Chapter 52

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We love bickering!

Gerard is, secretly, extremely, extremely pleased with the way Martin's hair turns out. The dye goes in without a hitch, Gerard quietly kicks Michael to look up if Martin's supposed to shampoo after dye or not (he's not), and after they blow dry it for the second time, Gerry finds himself grinning at Martin's reflection in the mirror. His own reflection is absent, but he's way too happy with himself to care about that revelation. 

Under it all, there's a panic. A panic he doesn't want to address and refuses to yet, especially when he's still happy. And he is. Happy, that is. As odd as it is to admit, and as foreign as something as simple as 'hanging out and doing activities with another human being relatively his age' is, he has it, and now that he does, he's loathe to ever, ever give it up. Just try him. 

Michael gets progressively quieter the longer they work. While he looks content, and comfortable around both of them, Gerard can't help but see the tension growing in him, and once they give a small little celebratory 'yay' to Martin's bright magenta hair, Martin is kind enough to tell Michael he can head back up, if he so needs to. Gerard agrees, and makes fun of his eye bags, but it's the kind of making fun that's fond, and chiding, and makes Michael snort ugly. He's holding his arms tight around himself, and keeps staring off into space, and near-flinching when he's addressed, and luckily, he doesn't argue when they both tell him to go the fuck back to bed.

Gerard is not one to chide a guy for needing to sleep. Not in this new existence of his. Fatigue is fatigue, even if Michael looks like the kind of man about to snap and commit homicide. Maybe he is. Or not anymore. Michael trails his fingers along Martin's fresh hair as he leaves, fighting through the exhaustion to express, wordlessly, his appreciation. Gerard thinks he rather likes him. He's an odd little freak, but that seems to be the way of Martin's weird wolf pack.

But eventually, it's just Gerard and Martin, and Gerry leans against the sink and smiles at him. He says, "That was the most exciting hair dye mental breakdown I've ever experienced."

\---

"Breakdown? It-- That was sweet, Gerry. Inviting him like that." Martin, who'd forgotten how nice his hair felt when it was clean, has taken to idly running fingers through the soft curls at the back of his own neck. "Michael likes you, too."

\---

"It wasn't sweet, I just have the fine motor skills of a two year old child, and he used to have magical knife hands." He rolls his eyes. "It looks better than I expected, by the way."

\---

"I'll settle on both," Martin teases as he packs up his things, fitting the open containers inside the plastic bag they came with. Hopefully that keeps them from spilling onto his notebooks in the backpack. "Were you hoping it might be bad?"

\---

"No," Gerry snorts. "But I've never done anyone's hair before. So, you know, I worried. And it was stupid to bleach and color in one day. I think." He kicks off the sink to come up behind Martin, and presses his hands to his hair. "But it's still soft. So I approve."

\---

"No, really? I thought you ordering him around wasn't to cover up for... " Ah. Right. He should expect this by now, but it still catches him off guard enough to sigh back against Gerry's hands. "...Not knowing any of it."

\---

"I know everything, remember? And it turned out great, so clearly I knew what I was doing. Obviously."

\---

"Mm. He knows everything. How about what you want to do next?"

\---

“Hm. Nope. None. Let's turn in early for the night! We're good here!"

\---

Martin frowns, trying to parse what exactly that entails. "You mean go back upstairs?"

\---

"Sure. Whatever. I don't care. Do whatever you want. Go scream at Jon or something, I don't care."

\---

Someone’s being painfully obvious. Martin’s not giving him dignity if he’s working so hard against something he’s pretty sure they both agreed to. “Ever been on the roof?”

\---

"Of the-- hm. No. I don't think so. Why? You have a thing for roofs now?" He crosses his arms.

\---

“I’ve always liked roofs, but not - not really. I mean I’m not asking you about what happened in front of  _ him, _ and you’re— Gerry.” He says his name with a whine, hoping that’s obvious enough.

\---

Gerard looks at him for a long moment, and anger flares in there before he visibly deflates, and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Fine." Suppose he owes him that much. He did promise. "It's just hard to explain."

\---

“Right. If you don’t explain as a one-man theater performance on the roof of the Institute through prose, I don’t care how you feel.”

\---

Gerard is quiet for a long time, and then he sighs and kicks himself off from the sink, shoving his hands in pockets. "We're not going to the roof," He mumbles. "I, um, I might get mean. We'll go to the courtyard. Not a lot of people go out there. Used to burn books there. Much better."

\---

“That’s fine,” Martin says cautiously, like he might spook him. “I was joking. I... do care.” He almost reaches for Gerry’s hand and seems to think better of it, going for the edge of his coat instead. “Lead the way?”

\---

That earns him a noncommittal hum, and he starts to lead them out of the bathroom. He wouldn't say it out loud, but there's a strange comfort when Martin holds onto his coat. He can feel it, not like flesh, per say, but on his soul, just this awareness and presence that makes him feel less alone, less vastly cold in an untouchable world, and Martin is always, always warm.

"Gertrude used to get so  _ mad _ that I'd burn books here," He says, because if he doesn't talk about other things right now, he'll talk about the elephant in the room, and he's still collecting his thoughts on that. "'Oh, what will the non-archival staff think'? I dunno, you daft bird, that some goth was vandalizing the courtyard? Obviously."

\---

Martin hums contemplatively, voice taking on a higher lilt. “That weird man is back in the Institute defacing private property, better to just let him so he goes away. I do like his sense of style, though. Wonder where he gets his hair done.”

\---

Gerard filters him an amused look. "Y'know, Gertrude all but implied Elias wouldn't hire me because of how I dress. Funny how small miracles work out. Wonder if Michael's technically still employed."

\---

“He died, so I hope not. We—“ Martin runs the back of his free hand over his mouth, wiping away a grin. “We at the Magnus Institute have a strict No Goth policy. It’s— It’s just too dark! How are we supposed to see them?”

\---

"Ugh, those roots just don't mesh well with our spooky ghost stories and eldritch horrors. It's just too frightening to entertain!" He leads Martin to a side door that opens up to a small courtyard, still lush in the early September sunlight.

\---

“Oh, but an unassuming garden is just fine. Looks like a place you’d find secret passageways.” Martin brushes his fingers over the lining of his coat before his hand falls away, trying to give him some mental space by not  _ staring _ at him expectantly.

\---

"Secret passageways under the Institute. Now  _ that's _ a concept." Gerard finds a bench to sit on, and there's a decently-sized tree to the left of it, so he leans against it and spreads his legs out over the stone of the bench.

He takes a deep, artificial breath, and then another, and then-- "I don't know how to start. 'cause I don't know why it's even upsetting."

\---

Martin lowers himself to the ground beside the bench instead of on it proper, like he’s concerned about Gerry’s privacy here. “You can— You can always go back and say, no, wait, that’s not why, it’s— We’re talking about it so we can get through it, not to just... not to just know. Feelings aren’t concrete.”

\---

"... Right." He brushes his hair back from his face, and tilts his face up where it rests against the tree, looking up at the leaves. 

"I think he-- owns me? And knowing it makes it real. It's not like. It's not like with you, with the-- the locket, and the. You know. Whatever the fuck it is we're doing. It's-- I  _ belong _ to him. I'm a construction of-- of the great Beholder, and anything I have, he has granted me. 'Grant us sight'... All that. It's-- it's fucking infuriating but my soul, it-- it knows he's right."

\---

Martin gives a short nod. “That makes sense. You’re a person, but you’re— I-I won’t make another lipstick joke. And that’s why Jon can... touch you.” There’s a hint of jealousy there, but he waves it away in his mind.

\---

Gerard nods. "Because I'm his. Not... Jon's, but the Beholder's. Well. I don't think there's much of a distinction, anymore. He could destroy me. He almost.... He almost did, until I... Ugh. Until I submitted to him."

\---

“You got bratty with him, didn’t you?”

\---

"Hardly." He tilts his head down far enough to glare at Martin, and then looks back up. "Barely said a word, and he had me by the jaw, and made it very clear who I belong to. You too. It-- he? He..." He squints, and has to think.

There's a light breeze, and he lets it wash over him, lets it move the strands of his hair. He has to feel real here.

"It was all instinct. Like-- like two animals in a? A dominance competition. It hurt. And he's stronger. And the second I--" His voice goes quiet. Ashamed. "--gave in, it was like a light switched on in my brain. Soul? Whatever. Instincts to herald him, comfort him. Do his bidding, be an extension of him. And he held your locket and I-- he wouldn't let it go until I looked away from him. No eye contact. Not an equal. Just a servant."

\---

“Oh.” By slow inches, Martin brings a hand up to his own throat to quell pressure gathering just below his Adam’s apple, a tight knot of muscle he has to work out. “I don’t care if you— If you belong to him, by whatever rules he has, that’s not— I’m not letting that be normal.”

\---

"That's the thing, Martin." Gerard looks down again, and he frowns slightly at Martin, both at the man and his own internal processing. "I agree with him. Not, not consciously? Obviously. It's why he took my tongue for a few days, but-- in me?" He presses a hand to his chest. "I don't think I could disobey him, in the end, without it... Destroying me. Literally."

\---

“He took your voice? Gerry, he can’t— He can’t  _ do _ that, it’s— I mean, I don’t think he can summon you unless you’re close enough, right, I just— If he’s in charge of whether you live or die, I don’t— I don’t trust him with that. Obviously.”

\---

"There's nothing we can  _ do _ about it!" He sits up, and there's anger in his eyes, and fear, a fear he refuses to show, ever. For once he's got something he wants to keep to himself, something not forced or bred or manipulated, and he's scared of losing it. His form wavers at the realization.

\---

Martin blinks up at him, frustrated and worried. “Of course there is, we just have to... to find it, or— Or... We’ll come up with something.”

\---

Gerard huffs. "Martin, I'm a part of the Beholding. The End binds me, but the Eye has me. It's not like I couldn't physically speak, when he got mad-- I obeyed, and the thought of not doing that... It never… It was a stopper in my brain."

\---

Martin holds up both hands, trying to organize his words. "Then we... we reason with him. Or... Gerry, if he's, um, limited by Jon's brain, he can... We don't have to accept that you're just... his  _ pet." _

\---

Gerry flinches at it being laid out so abruptly like that. But. Well, that's what it is, isn't it? Covered in lipstick. Leashed at the hip. Alive and as functional as a ghost can be purely because of the gifts that he's been given under the careful watch of the Eye.

He's under no illusions. Without the Eye marking his soul, he'd be as lost and foolish as the rest of the poor souls in the Book.

"He's petulant. And impulsive. And doesn't know what reasoning  _ is." _

\---

"Then we teach him. He's learning. I--" Martin snaps his jaw shut, unsure where his sudden willingness to work with him came from. Optimism and protectiveness coming to a head at the center of his brain. "I think... I think I'm the only one who-- Did he ever explain what 'Messenger' meant?"

\---

"No." Gerard says, and he leans off the tree, curling his back. "You just are. It makes sense. Carrying out his will. You-- I mean, look at Michael. You corralled the Spiral itself under the helm of the Eye. In a sense."

\---

"I didn't do it for the Eye, and the Eye wasn't-- He said that, that he didn't see me in there. He wanted to kill Michael i-immediately, Gerry."

\---

Gerard hums. "Michael didn't want to be one of the powers. Guess it makes sense to. To cull him. In his eyes."

\---

“I just... I don’t understand. Well— Okay, I get the Michael part, I guess, but... Okay. Okay, okay. The only way I can figure to solve this is to... be ready to talk to him again. Me.” Martin scratches at the inside of his wrist, the one Jon had marked. “You placated him. He did listen to you, on the roof, and you talked back, and he didn’t smite you.”

\---

"He was ecstatic to see you. He just didn't want me talking while we waited. It's weird. He likes you, a lot."

\---

“I-I don’t know where you got that impression, Gerry.” He pulls himself up onto the bench, deciding the ground makes him feel way too small. “I just want— I want you safe here.”

\---

"He sat there and did nothing for a week while he waited." Gerard snorts. "You think he  _ hates _ you? He's-- fucked up and weird and doesn't know how humans work, but that isn't the action of a petty child that hates someone." He pauses. "He won't destroy me."

\---

“I— Whatever, it’s not about me, I’m the— The least— He wants Michael dead, he can control you, and he took Jon’s— Jon’s body— I’m just mad he doesn’t—“ Martin inhales deeply. “Okay. I’ll talk to him. Maybe we can make peace.”

\---

"Good luck," He grimaces. "He's somehow more of a stubborn dickhead than Jon."

\---

“I know. At least he didn’t kill me when I called him Moon-Prince.” He gives Gerry a soft smile. “Do you... do you feel better? Talking about it? I don’t know if it helped.”

\---

Gerry shrugs. "Feel better? No. But I think you needed to, uh hear it. It's probably-- I don't know how much he can control me." He pulls his legs up to his chest and looks at Martin over the top of his knees.

\---

Martin turns sideways on the bench so he can press his palms flat on it, leaning towards Gerry. “Thank you for- for telling me. The more I know, the, um— We’re a team. It’s- I’m not expecting this to fix everything. Just get it started.”

\---

"Right." Gerard looks away, out over a courtyard he used to haunt with the regularity of a fed feral cat coming back over and over again for the barest of scraps. "I don't know how much fixing there is, anymore, Martin."

\---

“Don’t say that. I think— I think we can pull through this. It’ll just take...” This is honestly just starting to hurt. “Maybe we should go back home.”

\---

"Yeah." Gerard huffs out a long sigh, and slowly uncurls himself from the bench. After a few moments of settling himself, he says, "I don't know if it helped, but it doesn't feel as heavy. So, uh, thanks."

\---

“Yeah. I’m... I’m still happy you’re here, Gerry.” His hand slides up to the locket as he stands, holding the ball in the warmth of his palm for some small comfort.

\---

Alright. No more sadness. He's happy he's here too. He steps up close behind Martin and wills himself to manifest, and presses his chin on Martin's shoulder, squeezing his side with one of his hands. "The magenta looks good on you."

\---

Caught up in his own whiplash, Martin doesn’t filter the soft noise that’s somehow both startled and relieved. The hand not occupied by the locket moves on reflex to cover Gerry’s. “Getting a-a running start on my midlife crisis.”

\---

Gerry snorts. "Better this than some ugly, flashy car." He pauses. "You're not even thirty yet, shut up about midlife crises. Ugh."

\---

“I already crashed my ugly rental car, remember? Better get everything out of the way. Piercings next. Then I’ll- I’ll go goth.”

\---

"Goth." Gerard laughs. "Bit too colorful for that one." He reaches up and tugs on one of Martin's earlobes, leaning forward enough that Martin can see him wrinkle his nose up from his peripheral. "Piercings are good."

\---

Martin shifts slightly where he’s standing so he won’t lose his balance, mouth open just slightly. Enough that he’s embarrassed about it once he notices. “You’re acting... handsy.”

\---

"Captain Obvious makes an appearance!" He says, and pulls his hand back. "I told you, I missed you. Don't make me spell it out or I'll go to bed."

\---

Martin huffs, more grumpy at the loss of contact than the threat. “You did just spell it out—  _ Needy.” _

\---

"Needy? Me? Oh, no no no, Martin. I'm not needy. Jackass." He pulls back the rest of the way and scowls.

\---

“I was  _ kidding, _ but it’s— it’s fine if you are,” Martin turns to face him, trying to swallow down his own smugness as he reaches for Gerry’s hand. “I’m not using it as an insult.”

\---

"I know you aren't. But it's not true. I am not needy. You are. Not me. No way." He crosses his arms, and it's so utterly childish but he doesn't care.

\---

“Yeah. I’m needy.” He draws his hand back, rubbing at his wrist like he’s been hurt before turning back towards the entrance to the courtyard. “At least I can admit it. Let’s— Let’s go home.”

\---

Gerard trails behind him, officially unsure of what... What his emotions are doing. He feels bad, almost, for pulling away from Martin. But he doesn't know how it works. How it's supposed to work. How he works, and what's too overbearing and not enough and-- 

Ugh. He's thirty-four and has the relationship maturity of a teenager. This is why he's never had feelings before. Easier. 

"Yes, yes, not all of us can be as confident and cool as you, Martin, congrats." But he keeps on following him.

\---

“I’m neither of those things.” He sighs the words out as he walks towards the lifts. “It’s just worth the risk with - with you. I trust you with my life. And my feelings. It’s fine.”

\---

Once again, Gerard is thankful he can't blush. Even so, he ducks his face away from him, scowling at how badly he wants to smile. "Whatever. Me too. Shut up."

\---

“Oh, my ghost trusts me with his afterlife but he can’t tell me he’s needy. He just— Gropes me instead.”

\---

He rolls his eyes. "You like being groped. You're needy. I'm not needy, I just satisfy my Locket-Keeper." He wrinkles his nose.

\---

“Oh, is that your job? Nobody told me. Should I— Should I be making more demands, prophet-witch?” Martin glances over his shoulder to gauge a reaction, squinting just slightly.

\---

"Oh, you can always make demands." He winks. "Up to me if I comply."

\---

He keeps quiet as he thumbs the button to the offices, ideas brewing in his head to stave off the worry at heading back. “I think you should spend more time with Michael,” Martin settles on. “He thinks you’re funny. And I— I think you’d both like that.”

\---

Gerard rolls his eyes. "I live with him, so I imagine we will, yes." He laughs. "You're funny. Ever imagine having this many doting men on you?"

\---

“No,” Martin says plainly, hands stuffed into his pockets as the lift starts to move. “Half the reason I didn’t believe Jon was - was serious, when he first came back— I didn’t think I could ever be important.”

He blinks, and inhales sharply to cover that one up. “Sorry. But it’s— It’s not for me. I didn’t even ask Michael about the Crown. I just wanted him to have a-a chance, I guess.”

\---

"Altruistic to a fault, our Martin is," Gerard coos it dramatically, but there's a soft, genuine look in his eyes.

\---

“That’s me.” There’s a hint of pride, there, in the way he’s built himself up by extending a chance to others. All these people that couldn’t be saved, the first time around. Not just saved, either, but who chose to stay instead. It’s nice, even if it’s complicated. Moving on, since that dread is coming back, heralded by the doors opening on their floor. “My next demand is get some rest, and - and let me know when you want me to call you next. Or, or tell me what you want to do next time you’re up. I can— I can make reservations.”

\---

"Reservations, how romantic, Mr. Blackwood." Gerard laughs. "Whenever you want. Tomorrow? I kind of want to see how far I can be away from my page without straining myself."

\---

Martin pauses far enough from the office door that he thinks is reasonable. “Sure. Want me to invite Michael, or just - just us? Promise I won’t wake you up in a field somewhere.”

\---

Gerard shrugs. "If he wants to come, ask him along. Any of us. It's not like I'm gonna say no to the rest of us tagging along." He rolls his eyes. "No fields."

\---

Martin hums out his acknowledgement, deciding to start a new habit on impulse alone. He lifts the locket up to his mouth and presses his lips against it, watching Gerry as he does it. "See you."

\---

That earns him a smile, soft and quiet and doting, the kind of smile he wouldn't allow himself if he was sticking around, for fear of embarrassment. "Bye." He says quietly, and then let's himself sleep.

\---

Sappy. Needy. Growly. Weird, how Gerry picks out all these things he sees in Martin, that he just pretends aren't true inside himself. Maybe he's compensating for a lack of functional mirrors. He burns the image of that smile into a picture memory, as best he can, before he lets the locket drop back to his neck. 

His walk to the office is tense, and too short, but he's already going through the motions of a courteous knock and a twist of the knob, figuring he's as ready as he'll ever be for what he finds there.

\---

Jon's managed to clean up, or at least put aside, his impromptu 'write everything I know down' session, in favor of pulling out whatever remaining files and notes and theories on the Stranger and the Unknowing that he has yet to give Sasha. Martin walks in as he's scouring the bookshelf that sits to the back left of the desk, and he turns, his mouth a thin line.

Such a severe expression and he tries his best to smooth it once he sees who it is, giving a small awkward wave with a couple of his fingers.

\---

Martin watches him from the doorway just long enough to subconsciously measure his movements, mentally categorizing them by how well they match up with what he knows. The interrupted scowl is familiar, and the wave cements that enough for Martin to feel safe pushing the door shut behind him. He assumes Michael’s gone back to nesting in their bed by now, which is... honestly, a good thing. 

“Hi, Jon,” he says meekly, mentally kicking himself for that tone of voice. “How, um— How are you?”

\---

"I uh, well I talked to Sasha and Tim, and-- oh my God.  _ Martin?  _ Your hair?" Whatever level of composure he had disappears in a heartbeat, a surprised smile fluttering over his expression as he steps away from the books shelf, his hand already coming up to touch.

\---

“Oh, that’s g—“ His tone is rather chipper, considering Jon’s still intact and it doesn’t sound like it went in the worst conceivable direction, but Jon’s coming into his space and Martin isn’t backing up or shying away from the touch. “Um, Gerry and Michael— Is it— Is it bad?”

\---

"No," He says immediately, and finally lets himself grin, utterly distracted from his cloud of thoughts in the best way possible. "I like it. It-- It brightens your face? It's-- You look handsome. Really handsome. They-- Is this what you did all afternoon?" He laughs, genuinely pleased for the first time in... Well, that's a depressing thought.

\---

Martin chances a cautious touch over Jon’s shoulders with both hands, confused but in, well, a good way. He’s not sure what he expected. 

Maybe he’s just so afraid of conflict tearing them apart that he’s let his anxieties run a bit wild. People have arguments. People learn. And... Jon’s compliments send him for a loop in ways that don’t exist with someone else. “No, I wrote— I wrote poems, at the library, and— Well, we’ve been talking about this for... a few weeks, now. I didn’t think they’d make it— It’s very pink.”

\---

"Well-- Do  _ you _ like it? It is very pink. I did blue once, but it was such a hassle, and--" He shuts his mouth to lean in and kiss him lightly on the mouth. He knows nothing is fixed. Not entirely. But having Martin here, in front of him, makes him impulsive and he misses him and talking to Tim and Sasha has made him realize... Well. 

He needs to be a little more fair to Martin and his situation. That he hasn't been the best. And he needs and wants to be better, however that means. Whatever that means.

\---

Martin makes a noise most easily described as a ’mmph’ against Jon’s lips, hands moving from his shoulders to just above his hips. There’s no weight behind it to pull him closer or push him away, they’ve just settled their weight there. 

“I—“ He scrunches up his face to clear up the way this has flustered him. “I like it, I-I like that all of you like it, I can picture you blue. I’m not - not really a fan of... bleach.”

\---

Jon wrinkles his nose. "It itches. I hate it. Stopped doing my hair because it was such an atrocious sensation. I'm glad you had a good day with them; Michael was smiling when he came back."

\---

“Really?” There’s relief visible in his face, pieces of tension relaxing. “That was Gerry’s idea. We did it downstairs, I was— I set up, and, well— Gerry won’t admit using his hands makes him tired, and Michael... Michael likes art.”

\---

His smile is soft. "You're good to them. It's-- I'm glad you have them."

\---

“They’re here for you, too— I mean, Michael needs a bit, but he’s smart, Jon. If you let him.” He returns the smile, thumbs rubbing soothing little circles above his hips. “How was your day? You look busy.”

\---

Jon snorts, and his expression turns a little more complicated. "Tim and Sasha, they uh-- Well, they practically jumped me today. I've been getting files and information on the Unknowing put together all afternoon. They uh-- They've gotten a lot put together while we were gone, it seems. Like... A lot."

\---

“Oh, they came to you?” There’s no smug tone to the question. He can’t tell Gerry they’re a team if that can’t be extended to everyone else he cares about. Just because he was right about getting them included sooner as opposed to later doesn’t mean there’s an ‘I told you so’ attached. “I mean— You kind of, you told Tim a lot, back before... oh. Wow, that - that was a while ago. We’ve... been really busy. But they’re okay? Still... them?”

\---

Jon finally pulls back from Martin, and sighs. He angles his way towards the bookshelf to grab the book he had been about to pull out before Martin came in, and then gives a half-assed, one-shouldered shrug. "Sasha is... Well." He laughs hoarsely. "She's still herself, but it's not like I know her well. She's-- God, she should have gotten this job. I'm so, so glad she didn't. But she's far more competent than I am."

"Tim..." He flips through the pages, doesn't find what he wants, and pushes it back into the shelf. "He's angry. He's-- Angry at me, and I don't blame him, but I just can't handle him when he gets that angry. I don't know how to deal with him. They're-- They're coming tomorrow morning."

\---

Martin gets about halfway through Jon’s explanation before he’s crossing the room to stand with his back up against the desk. Comfort in proximity. “Okay, so he’s mad at you for leaving him hanging. Normal. You can— It’s not - not about  _ handling,  _ just learning. Obviously if they came they, they want to try. Do you... want me there?”

\---

Jon looks back at him, and squints, thinking. Maybe that would be for the best. Even if-- Even if they think he's done something to Martin, and it might be tense, maybe it's for the best. "If-- If you want. I think... It'd probably be a good idea for you to talk to them, too."

\---

“Sure. Might help, um— Can’t imagine getting cornered alone feels nice. But it’s— I mean, I think we  _ are _ on the same side. Or, can be. Together.”

\---

"I want to be, it-- Ah. You were right. It was... Stupid, keeping them out of the loop." He shuffles back to the desk and starts to collect some of the files into a loose pile, using paper clips to separate some of the subjects. There's a notebook open in the center of the desk, where he's begun to write down, in detail, everything he did to stop the Unknowing the first time. All the events, all the key players, everything they did to keep Elias off their specific trail. 

"It was stupid keeping you separated from them, too. That wasn't-- It wasn't fair of me. What I did."

\---

“I—“ Martin’s mouth closes as soon as it’s opened, crossing his arms as he thinks. “I... It’s not like I could’ve walked up and... and told them, but— You weren’t really— Not like there’s a guide. Best you can do is, um, try? I know you’re not stupid, you just— I get it. I’m just happy it’s happening now. Not - not later.”

\---

"...Yeah." Jon says, and he chews his lip for a moment, his face coloring. "I've just-- Just been thinking all... All day? And-- I wanted. Even if I didn't know, it doesn't.... It doesn't mean I can't say... Sorry? That I-- I forced you into this all. Without... Without you really being able to... To know what would happen."

Thank god for paperwork to keep his hands busy as he talks. He speaks to the desk, practically; he knows this all needs to be said, but it's not doing his ego any favors.

\---

“You didn’t  _ force _ me, but it was— It wasn’t really ideal, and I need... You know I’m not really the.... best researcher, I kind of paid attention to what they did so I could do it. Um. So, mostly I’ve been making it up as I go. And when you told me about,  _ you know— _ I was really, really afraid of being alone.” 

Martin rubs the back of his neck and shrugs, barely a ghost of a normal shrug. “It’s okay to be wrong if you - you try to fix it, once you know.”

\---

"Right." He closes the notebook and adds it to his pile. "I think-- I don't know how open you want to be. But I have a feeling we'll be catching them up to speed, all the way, tomorrow. They saw my eyes, but didn't ask any questions. I Know Sasha has questions."

\---

Martin snorts despite himself. Right. He’s grown used to them, a little. “Guess they’ve got a lot on their minds. Not too worried about your new contacts, yet. I think... I think you know my answer. As much as I know. And— And anything else. Don’t be scared of Tim.”

\---

"You don't know how scary he could be. I swear, he was going to growl at me. I didn't-- I hadn't even realized he'd be... Be mad at me."

\---

“Of course he’s mad, you said he was in. And then we went off for - for weeks, without a word. He was— I mean, you two got along. He was excited.” Martin doesn’t bring up his own newly-apparent anger issues, here. “He just wanted answers. That’s all.”

\---

"Yes, well, he'll get them." He's quiet. "I don't know about the-- I don't know if I want to tell them about him yet."

\---

“If you—“ The tension is back again. He wishes they could’ve stayed there, back a few minutes ago, just rewind and pause forever. “If you didn’t tell me about... about me, I don’t think I would’ve called Gerry. And he wouldn’t be here like... like he is now. Just— Think about that, maybe? It wasn’t fun to know, and I still don’t completely... get it, but— It might be different. Bad different. Worse.”

\---

"Not that, Martin." Jon shakes his head. "I'll tell them-- Anything. Anything they want to know about themselves. I'm talking-- I meant..." He turns away, and says quietly, like just saying its name will summon it, "The Archivist."

\---

Martin tries not to flinch, swallowing it down instead. "Maybe... Oh. Not yet. I was... Um, I talked to Gerry, actually. And-- And I think it might be a good idea for me to... try... talking to him, again."

\---

"O-oh? For-- Why?"

\---

"Don't laugh," Martin starts, like he's about to hand him a paper to grade. "I want to teach him about - about manners."

\---

"You want to teach a god about--" Now, he  _ does _ laugh, but it's not a mocking one, or anything more than a nervous, surprised and incredulous huff. "From what I've heard about him, that sounds like an awful idea. That-- I don't want him to hurt you, Martin."

\---

"Apparently he likes me. Not that I can see it." Martin's shoulders rise. He did tell him not to laugh. The  _ kind  _ doesn't matter. "And he's-- I can't imagine it's easy, never being human. It's-- Maybe he can learn. Not like anybody else can teach him."

\---

"I think-- I think you're being  _ dangerously _ optimistic, Martin," Jon says, and digs his nails into his forearms, shaking his head. "I mean-- Do-- Do whatever, but... Please? Be careful? I... I worry."

\---

"It's not about optimism, Jon. It's all we have right now." He lowers himself to the floor beside the desk, too exposed from up there. Easier to talk like this. "All I know how to do is throw myself at it and follow directions. And-- Right now, there-- There are no directions."

\---

"Right. Well. Unless you want to figure out how to trigger him to possess me, I guess we'll just have to wait for him to get bored enough and-- And take me, again." Jon is stiff, tense. It's terrifying, the prospect of his body being taken over again, while he is unconscious and unawares.

\---

"I know. I know, Jon. But-- Maybe we can, we can solve that, find-- An agreement? Maybe? So he won't-- So, l-long-term, less of that?" Martin runs his hands over his face, scowling in the darkness. "Maybe I'll just howl at the moon."

\---

"If you're right, a-and he likes you, and, I mean, who wouldn't, then-- Maybe? Maybe he'd come if you called. Might. Might earn you a few favors if you asked for him to visit? I don't--" He doesn't want to give up his body. But he understands that if they're going to have this parasite attached to them, then they need to figure him out.

\---

Martin pulls his hands away from his face, leaning the back of his skull against the wood of the desk. "Hold on, hold-- Wait. Come here? Please? Before we say anything else."

\---

Jon blinks, but he comes around the corner of the desk anyways, and sighs, before slowly lowering himself to sit next to Martin.

\---

"Okay." He moves an arm to hook beneath Jon's, lining them up past the elbow to lace fingers with Jon's hand. "It's-- It's scary, Jon. I know what it's like to - to not, um, be able to control... to be afraid of hurting you, or- or other people. It's there, it's happening, but we still have a chance to - to change that. Right?"

\---

"At least it's still  _ your _ brain, Martin. Your thoughts. Your-- Your being." He squeezes his eyes shut. "Not-- Not to diminish. I'm not trying to say you're not-- It's just. It's different. It's scary. I-- I dream, when he's here, and it's not good, Martin. It isn't. It's really, really, bad."

\---

"You've been getting - getting powers a lot quicker, this time, Jon. He's just-- He's doing what you already do, but-- But more, um, focused. Like he's not afraid of it it's good or bad. I--" Martin tenses where he holds Jon. "Yeah. I guess I don't know."

\---

"...I'm just afraid of him taking over permanently," He says it so quietly, so scared. Terrified. he almost doesn't want to say it out loud, like it cements it into place. "That I was just... a vessel. A trial run. And the Eye found something better; itself."

\---

"The Eye is a part of you, like-- Like how all these things are a part of me, but you-- You've always picked the Eye. It can't-- It can't do that, I think, unless you... unless you want it to. You're not a vessel if - if what said 'yes' is obliterated. Then there's - there's no connection. R-right? I hope that's right. Shit."

\---

"But-- But what about things like Jane Prentiss? Can what she was still-- Is that--" He shakes his head. "I don't know. I hope you're right. But then, it could always turn into a Michael situation, right? Me and-- and him, we're separated right now. What if we... weren't?"

\---

"Remember, a-a long time ago, when we-- We talked about Prentiss toying with us? Like maybe she could've come in the whole time? She wasn't mindless. Just-- "Martin sighs, turning his head so he can lean up against the warmth of Jon's neck. "I don't know. I-I don't think so. Michael hated the Spiral."

\---

Jon nods. He's quiet for a while, letting Martin's presence comfort him. It's easier to think through it all, when he's here with him. 

"I think-- you can try and call him, when you want. You have-- I'm okay with that. So long as I know it's coming. If you really think you can... negotiate with him. I'd..." he huffs out a bitter laugh. "I mean, I'd love to work that out, honestly."

\---

Martin nods against Jon’s throat. “I want you to know it’s coming. That’s why I’m telling you my idea was asking. You’re not the one we’re surprising, and I can’t— I won’t do it unless you say it’s okay.”

\---

"As much as I hate it, It's probably the best idea we have, right now. Better to-- To give him some sense of... What you do, than to... have him find Elias, or something. Ugh." He presses tight against Martin's head. "I don't want to be gone for another week, though."

\---

“I think that week was an outlier, and I’d rather him like  _ me _ than Elias. Um, speaking of... where... where is he, anyway?”

\---

"I... Don't know. I kind of assumed an email when we returned." He huffs. "I'm not exactly keen on keeping him in the loop. He can see everything, anyways."

\---

“Okay— So we should have an eye on  _ him, _ Jon! You—“ Martin sighs without pulling away. “Since day one, Elias was evil, you need like - like a tracker on him, or something. Obviously he’s not— He’s just running around!”

\---

"What's the point? It's not like we can do anything about him right now! He's just... It's more stressful to keep track of him than to just ignore him!"

\---

Martin pulls his head back, leveling Jon with a scowl. "Until he puts us in a trap out of nowhere, Jon. I-I swear, did they ever teach you the word  _ preventative _ in university?"

\---

"Oh, yes, it was wedged between the lessons on terror gods and magic rituals." He rolls his eyes. "I just don't see what we could do."

\---

"Jon." Martin takes his free hand to rub over his eyes. It's already been such a long day. Compared to the past few long days, it's nothing, not really, but Christ, it's been a long day. "I'm just saying it's something to - to keep track of. I'm-- I feel like a walking alarm clock."

\---

Jon scoffs and rolls his eyes. "I'm not asleep, Martin, I have bigger things to worry about. There's a difference."

\---

"Not. About.  _ Sleep, _ Jon." Martin pulls away from him to stand up, but he won't go so far as pacing. "Talk to Tim and Sasha, keep track of Elias, brainstorm about the Archivist, find a place for us to stay, talk to Gerry about what happened, come up with a way to handle the c-car--" Oh dammit, you crybaby, don't start tearing up. "I'm always worried. Not about-- You know I'm not talking about  _ sleep." _

\---

"I was being metaphorical!" Okay. Great. He pulls himself to his feet too, not wanting to be tiny and small and meek on the floor. "I'm constantly worried too! Of course I am. I- I don't know what to  _ do _ about Elias, but being loud and open about it in my office sure isn't the way to go here!"

\---

“I’m sorry you - you feel like it’s fine to just shrug, and say it can’t be helped, or - or you ask me if I have any ideas— But then you always think my ideas are so  _ awful,  _ and stupid, or  _ pointless—  _ at least they’re ideas!” Martin huffs, grasping at his newly-dyed hair with both hands. “I’m so sick of— Fighting with you every time we talk.”

\---

"Oh, yes, I'm ecstatic to argue every single time we communicate, favorite part of my day." He bristles somewhat, narrowing his eyes at Martin. "That's not even true. Don't lie. The-- the Distortion ritual was your idea. We did that. America was at least halfway collaboration, I-- I listen to what you say! Always! Sometimes I just don't have an answer!"

\---

“And everyone thought it was a bad idea. All of you thought Michael would die, you only cared because you wanted to learn about - about the Crown— Nobody even asked me how it went!” Martin turns around, not wanting to be looked at in any meaningful way. “You’re from the future, Jon. You have more answers than I do.”

\---

"I had more answers.  _ Had.  _ The second we went to America everything changed! Everything. I-- I assumed you'd tell me when you were ready, and..." His voice falters. It's still angry, still lit up with energy, but he's not stupid enough to not read the hurt in Martin's body language. "I don't know as much as you think, and it's painful."

\---

“Yeah. I’m - I’m in pain every day, now. And I’m scared every day. But I’m still trying to clean up m-messes. And I know less than you do. So stop being mad at me because you’re mad at you and— If we don’t handle all this now, if we don’t get a grip on - on all of this soon, it’s not going to get any easier.”

\---

"Okay! Okay, okay. I'm trying, I-- you might not see it, but I'm trying." He shakes his head. "I don't want to be mad at-- I'm sorry. I don't mean to yell."

\---

“Okay. So it’s my fault, then. I just don’t see how hard you’re trying. Not that you not sharing has anything to do with - with that.” Martin grimaces down to the floor. “I just want— It’s always me, taking care of everything. Everyone. It’s all I know how to do. But I— I have nothing left. Everything keeps piling up.”

\---

"I didn't say it's your-- don't put words in my mouth. That isn't-- that's just going to piss me off." He scowls, holding his shoulders high. "You-- you've got to tell us before it becomes too much? It--" He gives a breathless laugh. "I know that's hypocritical, probably. But-- fuck. We're both messes. I don't know what to do. I don't know how to  _ help  _ you."

\---

“It’s always too much now, Jon! I’m always— I’m always right there, on too much, and me - me telling you we need to keep an eye on something, or start handling one piece, that’s me telling you, because one less thing to worry about is still— I’m  _ always telling you! _ I’m always the one asking— If you’re okay, if Gerry’s okay, if Michael’s okay—“ Martin’s voice shakes, but it stays quiet. “— I keep telling you how to help me. I keep— I wouldn’t be a mess if - if you didn’t make me one!”

\---

Jon flinches backwards. He knows it, he knows it all. But it's different to be told it, to his face, abruptly. He swallows thickly and nods. Then nods again. Sasha is right, it seems. 

"Alright." He says quietly. "I didn't know. I didn't-- I'll try and do better. I'm--" He shakes his head, frustrated at himself, horrified at himself, and isn't that indicative of something else? That he's still thinking about himself? He feels overwhelmed, and starts to hold himself again.

\---

“You were the first - and, and only person I’ve ever said ‘I love you’ to and meant it. I want to - to help you with everything. But I don’t know how to take care of you. I don’t think— I don’t think I can. You just have to—“ He rubs the heels of both palms into his eyes, like he could scrub away the bad feelings. It doesn’t work. “—If we don’t learn how to not fall apart, we can’t save the world. That includes you, Jon.”

\---

Jon takes in a deep breath, and after a long moment of silence, he nods. "Yeah. I-- yeah. You're right." He just doesn't know how. It seems like at every single step of the way, strength means being worse, in the long run. Monstrous.

He huffs. "I-- I have a hard time telling, sometimes. With you. When you're not doing good. You're good at-- at hiding it, or sweeping it away, and I'm... I've always been bad at emotions, Martin. Even this is freaking me out. I need-- I'll work on everything. I know I need to. But I need you to be-- I can't always tell."

\---

“Of course I’m not doing good. I haven’t— Crying and - and doing nothing about it doesn’t help. I have to fix things before I— I have to fix things before I’m allowed to. I don’t sweep it away, I just keep it quiet because - Jon, you realize if— If I shut down, it all falls apart? You won’t fix it if you lose me. Me not doing what you do is the only reason we’re still alive. I’m just me. I can’t handle that.”

\---

Jon tightens his jaw. He doesn't know how to fix this. "Can you come here? I want... I want to hold you. I want... I'm sorry, Martin."

\---

Martin hesitates, at first, only because he knows what’s going to happen the second they touch again. That’s not Jon’s fault, not something he put in there, not something he caused, but it’s still going to happen. 

Still, he turns around, and he stops just short of touching him, afraid and overwhelmed as he’s balancing on the wire that leads to snotty tears if he falls. “I’m not asking you to read minds. I just need— I need help.”

\---

Jon closes the distance before he gets cowardly, and wraps himself around Martin, one hand coming up to press down on the back of his head, so he can go into the crook of his neck. "I'm going to. I'm sorry my head's been up my ass. I think--" He lets out a wet laugh. "I think we're both atrocious at this, a little, even without our lives being the way they are."

It's so much easier to think when he's with Martin. When he can press himself tight and feel safe.

His voice is quiet, but sincere. "I love you. I'm sorry-- I'm sorry I've made you feel alone."

\---

“I want to get better,” Martin whines over Jon’s shoulder, his hands moving up of their own volition to grip his shirt at the center of his back. “I’m not good with - with ‘we’ll figure it out’, I have to— I need... s-steps.”

\---

"... Yeah. I mean-- I prefer them too. I just don't-- I don't know how to s-start? I don't- I've never done this." His voice is wet.

\---

“You just— You just start.” He holds on tighter, nearly too much. “I’ve never done any of this either.”

\---

"Better at it than me," He gives a soft laugh. "I want to be good for you."

\---

Martin frowns over Jon’s shoulder, tilting his head so his face just barely touches Jon’s hair. “You can be. I just need help. I-I’ve never— I don’t ask for help. Not for me. We can’t let things sit.”

\---

"I'll pay more attention. Try-- try to ask for help, more?"

\---

Martin flinches like Jon’s just shot him. 

“It won’t help me to - to talk about it if I’m still worried about, about other things— I can’t— Gerry’s a wreck about his own things, you’re worried about being possessed, Michael just came back from the dead and needs help, I can’t— I can’t just say, ‘Jon, I know you’ve got your own problems, but can you handle this’? And I don’t— I can’t say ‘Can someone just let me stay in bed all day to cry about what happened instead of fixing the world?’! Other people— They need it more. The world needs it more.”

\---

That brings him back a little. He pulls back, and he shakes his head. "You-- you afford so much healing for everyone else, but you don't take any for yourself. You can't-- you can't just run on fumes. If I can't, why can you? You need-- we all need--"

He narrows his eyes. "Yes, if you're hurting, I want to help. And if I-- you're the one so adamant on roping everyone in! That-- that means we can shoulder less weight and you... You can have a day to yourself, or, or a few hours, or just-- just me. That's-- Martin, you can't get mad at me and then not do it yourself!"

\---

“It just feels selfish,” Martin whispers, almost under his breath. “If I start being selfish now— I’m not more important than the whole world. I-I don’t know how to be taken care of. I can’t even— I can’t even admit it unless I’m... I’m spiraling. I didn’t exactly— My needs never mattered before.”

\---

"They do now. They do. You have to-- Martin, they matter now, and-- you can't save the world if we're paralyzed."

\---

“Okay.” His shoulders slump in resignation. “We need a game plan. Need to be... proactive. And— I need to go to bed, I think.”

\---

Jon nods, and he looks Martin in the eyes for a few moments, before stepping backwards to the desk. He grabs a couple notebooks. "I've been writing a schedule as I research. And-- and writing things down. Like you-- planning stuff, yes, but also-- Um. Like you said in America? My stuff. Thoughts. Tomorrow morning, um, noon? Sasha and Tim. Sleep. Okay?"


	53. Chapter 53

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm so so so sorry about Michael Shelley's behavior.

Martin and Michael sleep; Jon does not. More than the Unknowing, more than the end of the world, the day has just been too much, and his mind is bursting. 

The Archivist, Martin, Sasha and Tim... it's like eighteen different problems that he probably should have tackled ages ago coming to a head in one day. 

The moment Martin leaves to pass out, Jon sits heavily in the chair opposite the archival chair, and he smokes, and smokes and smokes, and at some point, he pulls his personal journal to himself and begins to write. He writes down everything that happened today, all the emotions and deficiencies in himself that have been brought to the surface, all his fears and trepidations and wants and hopes, and it doesn't help, it hurts, but... It's written. It's put into language. It's organized into something that can be categorized better later. 

That's more than he's done, in a long, long time. 

He rubs his hands over the raised red scars on his inner forearm, and thinks that it's been a long, long time since he was in his other timeline. That at some point, that future and this one have switched, and this is his real life. This is the real future. This is what matters. 

This is an arm tied by blood to Martin. This is a mind tied by blood to the Eye. This is a throat marred by the stones of Chicago. A wrist tied to the Spiral. On and on and on. This is a body that lives here. There is a future, beyond what he knows, that lives here, and he lives here, and this is his, and he is its.

Writing it does not make things easier. But it settles reality like stones in his gut, and when he realizes the pack of cigarettes is empty, it's late into the night, far later than it should be, and he deliberates sleeping. He wants to say 'no', and keep working. The look on Martin's face if he finds out Jon didn't is what gets him to stand, wobbling and muscle-sore, to at least get a few hours before dawn breaks. 

He has everything ready for his meeting tomorrow, except for his own defense mechanisms. Jon will try to squash them, to be as good as he can; Martin being there will help keep him on track. 

Martin makes Jon a better man. He's not quite good, but he gets closer, under the care and caresses of Martin's love. 

That's the last thought he has before he sleeps, dressed lightly in boxer briefs and an old t-shirt, wrapped solidly around Martin's sleeping frame. Martin makes me better. Martin makes me remember humanity. Martin deserves more than me, but I will give him what I have nonetheless.

\---

Dreams splatter across an unconscious mind as concepts tossed together in a blender without a lid. There is no order to them, no coherent swirls confined to one space, but glimpses of half-formed chunks as they fly from the bottom and stick to every surface. Martin doesn't pass through the dreams so much as experience them, shoved into his face only to immediately be smeared and wiped away. He dreams of colors and their contexts, of fabrics and fluids and textures, pain and pride and fear in seconds he can't hold onto. 

He flinches, every once in a while, alternating between restless and restful and waking up just enough to reach out through the night and touch something familiar enough to lull him back into sleep. He only knows his body is done with the cycle when he starts to come up in sections: the dark, the room, the bed, the sheets, he's somewhere with sheets, somewhere comfortable and safe-but-not. Something warm is up against his back, and he stretches his arms forward in an attempt to find something warm in front of him, too, the only indication he's awake being the soft, discontented hum in his throat as he moves.

\---

In the interim, Jon dreams, and is dead to a world where he feels comfortable and soft against the solidness of Martin's back. 

Michael, on the other hand, does not dream, and the moment he hears Martin, he rolls over, pausing the lightly-playing video on his phone to blink at him. The problem with depression sleeping means he's been awake the moment Jon climbed into bed at what must have been three in the morning, and he'd just stolen the man's phone the moment everyone had fallen asleep. 

Jon has the restless stillness-- an oxymoron that makes parts of Michael's brain tickle in humor-- of someone with insomnia, but clearly, he feels comfortable against Martin. He'd watched them, as they slept, and had smiled. When Martin had pressed against his back, Michael had smiled bigger, feeling something, something in his heart. 

He clicks the phone shut and wraps an arm around the top of his head to press into strawberry hair.

\---

Martin sighs heavily into the touch, deflating between both of them as the struggle for consciousness fades into a desire to stay present. 

“‘M’awake,” he says to Michael’s hair like someone’s prodding him up, ever the martyr. “Stuck here.”

\---

"Stuuuuck?" Michael whines. "You can go back to sleep. If you want. Was just touching you."

\---

_ “Nooo,”  _ Martin whines miserably as he presses further into Michael’s hair, “Need to— Time?”

\---

Michael presses Jon's phone open again. "Uh-- Almost eight? You're so whiny."

\---

Martin growls, just slightly, too hazy with sleep to lock that up tight. Eight is fine. There’s no rush to get up, not with no obligations until noon. “Not whiny. I can stay.”

\---

"Good. I'm comfy, and you're warm." He has, in fact, kicked some of the sheets down and has been using Martin as his sole blanket. He loops his hand all the way around until he can press his marked wrist to Martin's mouth, patting his other cheek.

\---

He’s never woken up like this. Past analyzing his surroundings, still half-asleep, comfortable and content without anything immediate to get up for, pressed close to warmth on either side. 

With his eyes shut, everything hones to the singular point of Michael, whatever Michael is, instinct memory allowed to take the reins without anxiety or hesitation. 

At least, that’s his excuse for licking Michael’s wrist, familiar and possessive in a single motion against his pulse.

\---

Michael hums happily, low in his register in the early morning, and he presses his head backwards to lean tighter against Martin. The wrist that was once a bloody, pulpy mess, now healed but scarred, sends jolts of awareness through him. Residual levels of  _ his  _ and  _ mine, _ and whatever else the Distortion has deigned to leave him in its pursuit to bind with Helen Richardson instead. 

He laughs, breathy, and says, "I know it was me, but I still can't believe I let you bite me like that. It was... It was good."

\---

Martin opens his mouth, stuck between what he wants to do, and giving a response. In a genuine effort to placate both, he moves so he can nose up against Michael's wrist with his mouth just low enough that he's not tempted. He echoes the sound with his own, more like an 'mhm' than a senseless noise. "I can-- Won't do it again."

\---

"Well-- As much as I'd be  _ okay _ with it..." Michael laughs again. "I'd probably die, this time around." He doesn't sound upset, though; quite the contrary. There's a sad note to his voice, nostalgia and a sigh mixing together. His hand tightens on Martin's cheek.

\---

"Right," Martin breathes out with a lazy smile, meeting the confusing part-melancholy tone with an upwards tilt of his head back to where he started, mouth against his wrist. "I can't bring you back from that."

You only get to come back from death once, Martin's decided based on nothing but arbitrary rules that don't exist, even as he vaguely tests that exact concept with a graze of teeth against the scar he'd left behind.

\---

Michael hums happily against the graze of teeth against flesh, and his smile is contented. "Oh, you spoil me, puppy," He murmurs, and rubs the side of his face against the pillow, letting go of Jon's phone.

\---

Ah. Maybe this is a bad idea. He has obligations today, he's pretty sure he remembers that, but he also remembers not being too pressed about it right now, so that's worth just as much. He shivers at the name, not sure what emotion that's tapping into exactly, spurred on in a way that brings comfort. Something about condescension, about pet names drawing from a different source than the grating snaps from his ghost, something that eases him in rather than bring him to confrontation. 

He presses down with his teeth, short of puncturing but close enough to feel the thrum of Michael's heartbeat beneath the pressure, and holds himself there comfortably.

\---

Michael giggles and shivers. "What a morning," He mumbles, and turns the rest of the way, enough that he can keep his wrist flush to Martin's teeth while still turning his head to look at Martin half-lidded and content. If he could purr, he'd be purring. He thinks he might once have been able to. Not anymore. His smile says enough, though.

\---

Martin only cracks open his eyes once the sensation of being watched hits his awareness, just enough to show a sliver of color around his pupils. His jaw tightens like he's about to give in to an impulse he can't come back from before backtracking with enough slack to pull his teeth away. Back to brushing his lips over Michael's skin for the sensation of it, his own exhales bringing warmth back to his own face. "You make me w-weird."

\---

Michael laughs, breathless and pleased and just a tad hysterical, and he untangles his arm from Martin so he can turn properly and press his hand back to his mouth without awkwardly having to twist his arm. "Good. I like you weird. I like when you don't hold back."

\---

While his gaze is too out of focus for details, Martin notes the way a thin line of drool leaves with Michael's hand and has the sense to know that's just a little bit gross before it's out of his mind again. He's not sure when Michael's praise started washing out everything but a pure state of calm, and-- Maybe it's selfish, but he doesn't feel selfish for forgetting about his worries with him. 

He kisses the inside of his wrist with a breathy laugh. He thinks a soft "I like you" of acknowledgment is sufficient before choosing a spot to focus on, just below the bone first with his tongue before he's adding teeth. Yes, he's sucking a hickey into Michael's hand, and no, he's not ashamed about it. Very liberated this morning, he is.

\---

Michael watches him with half-lids, a smile slowly growing over his face. It's a focused, present expression, much more than the majority of his presence the past few days; this, this he understands. Is it spiralling? Maybe just a little. Or maybe it's just them, in ways they're going to have to just contend with. Michael doesn't mind. 

"I'm glad I gave you those," He breathes, when Martin's teeth graze him again, a slightly keyed-up breath leaving his throat. "A decision me and the Distortion unilaterally agree with."

\---

“I hope...” Martin says with a pause over Michael’s skin. “They’re happy together. Helen. Spiral.” 

His breaths are shorter, lighter, a little bit faster, as the next bite just barely breaks skin. He makes a soft noise of surprise before running his tongue over the wound, part apology and part self-absorbed, unfocused pride. Seems they’re floating in the opposite direction, but it comes down to the same comfort, he thinks. “Sorry. Not— Not a vampire.”

\---

"Ha. Kind of though, huh? You and your blood." Michael turns some more, enough that he can press his forehead against Martin's, the warmth leaking from him like a sauna to his soul. "Werewolf, vampire, all of them. Mm. Creatures. Helen will be fine."

\---

_ “Creatures.” _ Martin puts pressure where their foreheads meet, holding still where their wrist sits nestled between them. “Thank you.”

He’s not sure what for. Likely for letting him sit in worry-free, simple-minded comfort.

\---

Michael hums, and dips down to butterfly kiss his nose, his lips pursed and his eyes squinted. Utter rich boy sensibilities. "Thank  _ you," _ He says. He peeks a glance over at sleeping Jon, who is passed out, thank God, and then grins, leaning over and grabbing Martin by both sides and trying to bodily pull him over on top of Michael.

\---

Martin follows easily, the loss of Jon’s body heat instantly remedied by Michael’s own. He kicks a leg over so he can straddle Michael’s waist, leaning close to his chest with little care for how much weight he’s pressing down with. “Hi.”

\---

"Hi," Michael repeats, and his grin is salacious. "Aren't  _ you _ colorful this morning." He glances over to Jon and wrinkles his nose. "He went to bed late. I bet he's dreaming. Did you dream well?"

\---

The theme for this morning is turning out to be ‘not exactly sure what that means but it makes me feel good about myself somehow’. As the theme entails, Martin crinkles his nose like Michael’s made him shy, nuzzling against his chest in response. Colorful. Sure feels like it. “I don’t know. All over the place, like— Bubbles?”

\---

"Good ones? Did you ever-- Oh! There were those sticky ones, you could blow and hold in your hand, and they were strange and heavy and thick but  _ fun?!  _ Did you ever have those?" He rakes his fingertips up and down Martin's sides, scratching slightly.

\---

“I didn’t, there were —  _ ah _ — those flavored ones, you could catch in - in your mouth.” His back arches, just barely, unable to lean one way or the other into the touch.

\---

Michael's smile is sharp and mischievous and light. "Ah... You're so cute. You've caught me."

\---

“Caught  _ you?”  _ He’s laughing, breathy and quiet, as he sinks back down again, chin to Michael’s chest while his face floods with color against his will. “I— I think it’s the other way around.”

\---

"Hm... I'm the one who played hide and seek with you. You found me. I just didn't let go when you got to me." He grins, and once, there might have been a swirl of color in his eyes, a break in the physical shell, but it's just him, just Shelley incarnate, and his hands are wrapped tight around Martin's hips.

\---

Martin squeezes his thighs around Michael’s waist, mostly involuntary. Well— Technically he’s just relaxed, and not hyper aware of everything his body’s up to, but still. Same thing. “I’m just good at chasing things. You leave a - a nice trail.”

\---

"Mm. I smell good, is that it? Even me, little old Michael Shelley?"

\---

“Yes, you. That other stuff just made me crazy. All— Raised hackles thunderstorm crazy. The, um, the perfume was you. And— The b-blood is you, too.”

\---

"Yeah. AB-Negative. All me." He reaches up to awkwardly rub his face against Martin's. "I like old things. Glad you liked the perfume. I picked it out for you."

\---

It’s natural to return the gesture, less awkward from where he is to rub his cheek against Michael’s. His own stubble’s gone soft, but he hadn’t noticed until now. He barely ever gets any facial hair, but he hasn’t cared about shaving in... well, definitely a good minute. “I know, I could tell. Followed it across a city. You should find more.”

\---

"Expensive," he chides. "The real stuff is thousands of dollars, probably. Mine was a memory lifted from a memory. Now? I'd have to actually buy it." He sighs. "The Spiral afforded me some nice things."

\---

A sad, dejected sigh flows out of him even as he lowers to nuzzle further down just under Michael’s earlobe. “We can find you a replacement, maybe. Not— Not of that one, just— A new one.”

\---

Michael pouts, but it's performative and over the top. "Oh, what am impoverished life I live now!"

\---

An eye roll for the poor sacrificial lamb is all he gets as pity before Martin nips the edge of his ear with blunt teeth.

\---

Michael all but squeals beneath him, a yip that turns into breathless giggles as he calms down. He runs his hands up and down Martin's arms. "Ridiculous," He laughs, totally loving it.

\---

With a grin that’s far too smug for this early in the morning, Martin brushes his lips over Michael’s neck before pulling back enough to speak. “I know you are, but what am I?”

\---

"Doting." Michael says, and chases that kiss, wanting more, wanting more.

\---

Martin complies, soft touches inching down until he’s nosing at Michael’s collarbone. “This is— Um, a better start to my morning than I thought I’d get.”

\---

"Really? How'd you think it was gonna start?" One of his hands slides down the slope of his back to dip in under his shirt and ride back up, nails lightly pressing as they go along. Nothing akin to a scratch; just the slightest bit of pressure to feel good.

\---

Martin sighs pleasantly, melting against him with his face tucked between Michael’s neck and shoulder. “Waking up late... or just— Needing to start work, as - as soon as I got up.”

\---

"Bah. You and your  _ work. _ The two of you are going to stress yourself to an early grave." He rolls his eyes.

\---

“He already did,” Martin whispers with a quiet giggle against his neck, feeling struck vaguely dumb. “No work right now. Like being touched.”

\---

"I can do that." And so he does, just soft... Petting, really. As he does, he says, "I've been looking at flats. And houses. I think maybe also I should go to the bank? And say hullo, I'm alive?"

\---

“If you want to.” He’s practically dead weight over Michael, soft noises bubbling up from his throat with appreciation. “Can’t hurt... to try.”

\---

"It's not like mum can close my account if it gets reopened," He giggles. "Lost that ability in the funeral."

\---

Martin shakes his head, grinning against him. “Were you ever reported missing? Bit complicated if you were.”

\---

"Martin," Michael says, and blinks up at him. "How would I possibly know that? I was missing!"

\---

“I don’t know!” Martin buries his face at his neck to hide himself from Michael’s eyes. He snorts. “Thought maybe the Spiral checked.”

\---

"The bureaucracy of living... Dying... Missing...  _ Found? _ Gah. I can imagine trying to think about that, as the Distortion, and it makes me want to hide in one of my doors. Human affairs. Too much order." He shivers against Martin.

\---

“Boo, human affairs, too boring. I’m a god of mischief.” He stretches his arms out on either side of Michael’s head like a mock downward dog, hiking his shirt further up. “Better things to do. Like Operation, and blood rituals.”

\---

"Well-- yes! The Spiral likes you. Very clever. Gets its games. Better than me." He gives a reedy laugh. "You made us get out of the proverbial bed."

\---

“Of course I am— I’m a master,” Martin says with a hint of teeth against his jawline. “No getting out of bed here.”

\---

Michael hums. "Your wish is my command. Until Jon decides to wake up and command us all." He reaches across the plane of the bed and lightly smooths his fingers through Jon's hair, and he makes a soft nose in his sleep and presses into the touch, curling up on his side more, but doesn't wake up.

\---

_ “Then  _ we’re doomed.” He perks up enough to watch Jon’s movements with a pang of fondness before moving to nip at Michael’s earlobe again. Definitely a ploy for attention. He’s not ashamed.

\---

Michael's grin is ecstatic, and he shivers again, resuming the movements on Martin's back. "Needy," He says. "What are you gonna do when I have to get up? Hm?"

\---

“I’ll drop dead.” His tone is flat, even as his eyes fall shut with contentment. “It’s not a-a crime to be needy.”

\---

"I didn't say it as an insult. I like it." He presses as forward as he can, head off the pillow to bump their foreheads. "I'm needy too."

\---

_ “Finally  _ someone admits it. Gerry won’t, we should teach him.” He mirrors the nose kiss Michael had given him earlier. “It’s okay,” a kiss at the corner of his mouth, “to be  _ neeeedy.” _

\---

"Gerry." Michael rolls his eyes. "We'd have to make him  _ cry _ to admit anything. Like Jon."

\---

“Maybe.” Martin grins with his lips just short of Michael’s. “Or  _ I _ could cry.”

\---

"Mm. That should work. You do have the saddest crying face in the world."

\---

“Gerry’s seen it more than you. But— He’s used to frustrated crying. Less, um, less— L-loving?”

\---

"All--?" Michael scrunches his face up as ugly as it can go and mimes the temper tantrum of a three year old, until his face crumples into laughter. "Like that? I can picture it."

\---

“No, not like that. More like—“ He knits his brows together, squinting his eyes with all the tension up at his nose. Almost like a silent fear-growl. “I spent a-a lot of time crying in America.”

\---

"I know, I saw you from afar," Michael laughs. "You make it very easy to be seen. We'll have to fix that, when we move."

\---

Martin tilts his head, questioning. “What do you mean?”

\---

"Safety nets. Like-- Magic, and the like. Easy to mark someone with zero protections. Why do you think this place is hard to get into? It's loaded with protections." He laughs. "The Spiral is just sneaky and gets into places it really, really shouldn't."

\---

“What, like sigils?” He mulls it over with a short hum. “Can you even do that to a rental?”

\---

"Oh, you think I  _ ever _ earn my security deposit back after I move? As if. I'm destroying the walls of anywhere we go. I doubt Gerard is a kind tenant, either." He pauses. "I can see him punching a wall with his weak ghost hands and getting so mad that it doesn't crack through."

\---

“Stop it, don’t be mean,” Martin says as he lifts a hand to cover the locket, like he’s stuffing Gerry’s ears. “It’s— Probably a good idea. I trust you.”

\---

"That's a new one," Michael says, and cocks his head against the pillow. "Being trusted. Very new. Sure it's a good idea?"

\---

“I mean, if I can trust you enough not to eat me in the Spiral... I— Yeah. I am.” He sits up a little, just enough that it’s not hard to move his arms, catching Michael by the wrist to pull it high enough to kiss the inside. “I-I trust you more than I trust me.”

\---

"Well I trust you more than I trust me, too, so fun little arrangement we've here," Michael laughs, and his expression is doting, his eyes soft in the halo of hair around him.

\---

Martin huffs out a fond laugh against Michael’s wrist, running his tongue over the spot he’d bitten earlier. “You just— You need some time. Not expecting you to jump back into— Well.”

He pauses. “It’s not the same thing, I-I guess. Fresh start. We won’t do what she did. Or— Other people. You’re safe with us.”

\---

Michael shrugs against the pillow. "It doesn't really matter. She did stop an apocalypse."

\---

“Yeah. And we’ll - we’ll do it as a team. You’re not a tool, you’re—“ A friend? Companion? Partner? Lifeline? Trusted. Thought of. Included. “You’re Michael.”

\---

He snorts, and wrinkles his nose. "So I am. It's weird to have-- To have an identity so... So solid, again."

\---

“You have time. To, um, practice. With us. We’re all a little... weird. Just try being around Gerry when you eat something.” Martin noses more insistently against Michael’s wrist. “He— Is funny.”

\---

"Food is disgusting," Michael mumbles. "I'm not doing it around the Skin-Spirit. I'll lose what meager appetite I have."

\---

“I— I wish we had time, more, to— I sort of want to learn how to cook better.” He shifts a little, like he’s nervous. “Can— Can I bite you?”

\---

"Anytime you need, darling," Michael purrs, and his eyes focus somewhat, abandoning the thought of food, and identities, and even Gerard in favor of Martin, always Martin, these days.

\---

Martin shakes at that, anticipatory and decidedly awake. “I like the names you call me,” he says, almost like an afterthought to the way he moves against Michael’s wrist so he won’t break skin anywhere he’s unsure about. Safety, and all that. 

It’s like a game, actually, he thinks as his canines puncture a soft spot at the side, just barely hard enough to draw blood. Restraint. Or maybe there’s just something wrong with him.

\---

Michael shivers, and where his hand lays flat on Martin's back, he tightens, his eyes filtering closed. It wakes him up, certainly, too, and after a few moments of this, his eyes open back up and his smile is a bit more mischievous, and he kicks out beneath the sheets to connect a foot with Jon's shin, hard enough for Jon to splutter in his sleep and jolt to. 

His eyes filter open and he squints at Michael, and then Martin, and then he blinks and blinks and blinks.

\---

Martin has closed his eyes to lean his senses into the tang of blood and skin and Michael’s warmth as a whole, so he’s a little too late on the uptake to quit running the flat of his tongue against the barely-there wound he’s left by the time Jon’s watching. 

He’s also not sitting completely up, chest just barely up enough that he’s not flush with Michael’s, but he feels watched, and eventually that gets his eyes open. 

He blinks back at Jon, eyes half-lidded and lazy even as embarrassment starts to flood into his ears up to his cheeks, mouth stopping mid-motion.

\---

Michael laughs, and turns his face to Jon, and he pulls his wrist away from Martin in order to pat Jon's cheek, wet from Martin's spit. "Good morrrrrrrning, Jon," He purrs, and squeezes the hand still on Martin where it comes to rest lower by his side. 

"...Hi," He mumbles, and his voice is sleep thick, his head cocked slightly in curiosity. "Glad you two are having-- Is this fun?" He wrinkles his nose at the pat and pulls back, grimacing at the spit. But he doesn't look horrified. Just-- Unsure.

\---

Michael’s made him too emotionally open to stop the soft, vaguely upset groan as his hand leaves, but he stays put like his other hand is giving an order. 

Weird development. The words he makes coherent are sputtered out. “Hi— I don’t— Y-Yes?”

\---

Michael cackles. While the soft intimacy was fun, this is far, far more fun. Jon glares at him, and it just makes Michael laugh more. 

"I mean-- By all means, don't let me stop you," Jon says, slowly, like he's testing out the words.

\---

Martin shoots a quizzical little look at Jon, not in enough control over his expression to fully cock an eyebrow. Not what he was expecting, but he presses up slightly to Michael’s hand at his side even as he works himself into an embarrassed loop. “We weren’t— I was just— Um— I-Is it better or worse if I say I was just biting his h-hand?”

\---

"Martin," Jon says, and slowly sits up, stretching all the kinks out from sleeping so curled up. "It's okay-- it's alright that you like him. You know? I mean, he's sleeping in our bed? Don't you think I'd have already had a problem?"

\---

“Oh.” Martin deflates, pressing back to Michael as he watches Jon, relief and embarrassment and something that might be excitement swirling in his mind as he does. “Okay.”

\---

Michael blinks, and then turns his head up to the ceiling and exhales another laugh. "Oh my God. Have you two not talked about this? Wow."

Jon glares at Michael. "There's been more pressing matters, Michael. I thought it was obvious, anyways."

\---

“W-We talked about ghost polyamory,” Martin whines, lowering to hide his face at Michael’s neck. ”But he has a crush on Gerry and - and I’ve been too— I’ve been too busy to talk about— What happened in... in there. The S-Spiral.”

\---

"What happened in there?" Jon asks, and oh, now he's  _ curious. _ What a way to wake up.

\---

“I— Um... D-depends on which part.” He keeps his face hidden, words muffled slightly by his mouth against Michael’s skin. “I don’t want to talk about the— Bad stuff right... right now. Michael?”

\---

"Me? Oh. Oh! He fucked me, in... Oh, what was that? 2008. I think! We met at a club. Atrocious night. He saved the day and then I took him home. Marvelous. And then he abandoned me and it turns out that resentment was unfounded! And fake, all of this is fake. " He nods, and pats Martin's side.

Jon blinks. "I-- okay?"

\---

Martin groans, head-butting Michael’s cheek at the horrifying rendition. “I didn’t— The Spiral pulled me out. I kept— Going into false memories and forgetting who I-I was, we had... He painted me. In a dress. Sorry, it’s— Hard to put in order.”

\---

"It's hard to put in order because it's not true!" Michael rolls his eyes. "Except it is. Because they're my memories. Fun. Jon, I'm glad you're taking this well. I'd let you fuck me too, if that makes things better." He pauses, and then laughs. "Sorry. Martin's made me crazy today."

\---

_ “Michael,” _ Martin growls, facing him head-on just inches from touching. “I didn’t—  _ You _ moved me— Ugh.” He goes back to pouting, head sideways over Michael’s chest like a pillow. “I’ll explain later. I don’t— I don’t want to get up.”

\---

Jon is wide-eyed and the bedhead is the only thing undermining the intensity of his look. "Martin," He starts, and then sighs. "... Michael. I--"

"Oh, is he shy?" Michael asks Martin, and Jon makes a frustrated noise.

\---

He grabs Michael’s shirt with a few of his fingers, not pulling, just grounding. “I’m not saying anything.” 

He figures keeping his mouth shut is a smart enough move, and lets him go to pat at the arm he’d been biting instead.

\---

"Oh, you're not?" Now Jon's got a spark of something amused in his face.

\---

“I’m— I’m preserving your dignity.” That’s his excuse, anyway, still pawing at Michael’s arm and looking more ridiculous by the second.

\---

Michael laughs and shoves his wrist into Martin's mouth. "Martin's a little busy right now, Jon. See? Preserving dignity. I'm guessing you're shy."

"I'm not-- I'm not shy, I'm--!" Jon splutters and glares at Martin.

\---

Martin has just enough focus left in him to squint judgmentally in Jon’s direction as he hums around Michael’s wrist. Blame it on the sudden anxious energy thrown into the room, but he bites harder the next time he does, holding patiently still. Very, very busy.

\---

Michael grins. "See? Jon? He's easy to shut up if you just let him bite you. I'm sure you're not too shy, if you let me and Gerard in your bed." He laughs.

Jon blinks. "Okay. I think we all need coffee now."

\---

Martin adds evidence to the fact by keeping quiet, up until he shudders against Michael’s hand and opens his mouth. “Don’t think I need coffee.” 

It’s vaguely hoarse, and that’s a surprise judging by the way his face scrunches up a little, and maybe he should be a little frightened that he’s being placated by blood, but that’s how this morning is currently going.

\---

"Amendment;  _ I _ need coffee. I'm- - I'm okay with this, by the way. Just for the record." He slides over the edge of the bed and stretches upwards. Awkward as he feels, he is okay with this. It seems to be something Martin likes. And he, Jon, likes Gerard. So it's all good.

\---

“Love you,” Martin says sheepishly, hiding slightly behind Michael’s hand. Ah. Yes. He is needy, isn’t he. “Come back soon?”

\---

"Of course. We've got that meeting at noon. I-- I still want you there?" Jon cocks his head. He's not pretending to understand this, but that's alright.

\---

“‘S’in four hours. Mhm.” He gives a polite nod, and it makes his head swirl. “I’ll be— Right here.”

\---

Jon rolls his eyes, but there's a small, confused smile on his face. "Alright. Love you. Um-- I shouldn't be concerned with the biting, right?"

\---

Martin glances down at Michael, pausing the weird teething. “I— I think he’ll stop me if— Right?”

\---

"Right." Jon opens the door and slips through it.

Michael, for his efforts, grins up Martin. "Wiiiiiill I?"

\---

The moment he’s sure Jon has left earshot, whether that means anything in this new world of Knowing, Martin growls down at Michael. It’s a weak, tamed thing, considering he’s still pressing his mouth close to Michael’s wrist. “Why did you _wake him_ _up?”_

\---

Michael laughs. "I dunno. Thought it might be funny."

\---

Martin maneuvers his head so Michael’s palm moves up into his hair. “Maybe a little. Still mean.”

\---

"Noooo," Michael says, and begins to scratch his scalp lightly. "He was going to wake up eventually, anyways. And that was the perfect time. Because it was funny. And you were so  _ scared." _

\---

Martin holds out with a grumpy squint at Michael’s face even as he tilts up into the touch. “I wasn’t  _ scared. _ It just looked like—“ He gestures vaguely between their bodies with both hands. “—something.”

\---

That earns him a roll of the eyes. "Well, he ought to know. Sleeping in his bed, being intimate with his boyfriend…”

\---

“I mean I’m - I’m on top of you, and... and leaving teeth marks on your hand! I-It looked like we were— I don’t know, like it was f-foreplay.” He wishes he could will away the stutter, but it’s already come back full force, now.

\---

"It might've been? It definitely could have been." He snorts. "But it wasn't, I guess, so that makes it all the more reason to wake him up and talk to him."

\---

“It was a little.” He mopes as he falls back down to Michael’s chest again. He can’t argue with that, so he nods slightly with half his face pressed there. “My mouth is all numb.”

\---

"Mm. Well my wrist hurts, but you don't see me complaining."

\---

“Sorry,” Martin says with genuine feeling. “I didn’t— I didn’t bite  _ that _ hard, did I? I don’t really— I don’t bite people. Usually.”

\---

"It's fine. Getting used to having human hands again. I wouldn't let you do it if I didn't like it." He snorts.

\---

“No more magic knife hands for Michael.” Martin moves one hand to lace fingers with Michael’s. The one he’d bitten. ”At least your blood’s not full of clay, now.”

\---

"Mm.  _ You're _ the one who put the clay in there." He takes hold of Martin tightly. "Not my fault."

\---

“I didn’t put clay in there, you did! The— The glass was me! Or— You? I don’t know.”

\---

"Who knows. You had clay on your mind,  _ a lot. _ It was distracting. " He slowly starts to sit up, fidgeting and pushing on Martin to go with him.

\---

He does, sliding down from his waist to his lap as he goes upright. “I did? I-I thought that was you. I’m pretty sure you told me about clay, once.”

\---

"Maybe both of us. The Worker of Clay made Sannikov. And Jon has those nasty little visions of mud and clay." He shrugs. "It's all wobbly, the memories."

\---

“It’s all pictures, like moving paintings. Movies. Maybe— “ Martin’s mouth drops open with realization, lips swollen with blood and prior pressure. “Oh, God. I should— I should find out if all the people at the movie theater turned out okay.”

\---

"You didn't hurt them, did you? I thought you just- a little psychological damage never hurt anyone." He snorts.

\---

“Yeah. Yeah, I— I think so? I mean—“ He doesn’t agree, exactly, for several obvious reasons, but he holds his tongue by worrying his bottom lip. “Have you ever seen, um, Willy Wonka? With Gene Wilder?”

\---

"Yeah? As a kid. With all the chocolate and the like, sure."

\---

Martin looks down at the space between them, plucking a stray pink hair that’s attached itself to Michael’s shirt. “You know the part where they take a boat ride, on the chocolate river?”

\---

"Uh-huh. Trippy. I always liked that part. Made everyone in class scared." He snorts.

\---

“Yeah. It was, um, sort of like that.” He keeps looking Michael over, brushing away fuzz while he shifts in his lap. Grooming him, technically, but he’s not calling it that.

\---

"Oh." Michael thinks, and then laughs. "Then I think it's okay. Besides, any nightmares produced just feed your boyfriend."

\---

Martin pauses at that, moving both hands up to his shoulders with just enough pressure to push him gently back against the headboard. “Only if they come to us, though, right? Oh— I guess, maybe not. Eyes.”

\---

Michael goes with the pressure. He's pretty sure he'd let Martin do whatever he wanted to him. Blank canvas.

"For now, maybe. In the future..." He clicks his tongue. "Who knows."

\---

That earns him a vaguely irritated squint. “I hate when you’re all vague. I-I wish he’d stayed in here. But— I don’t want to weird him out? You’re... kind of the only person who doesn’t make all this Hunt stuff...” Martin sighs to himself before pulling one hand back enough to flex his fingers like claws.

\---

"What about your ghost? Is  _ he _ mean about it?" Ugh. Martin always gets so down in the dumps. Michael takes Martin's hand and pulls it up to his mouth, but instead of kissing it or anything equally chaste, he draws his tongue over it from fingertip to palm.

\---

“He’s had to pull me off Jon. Calls me...” His voice slows down and fades off as he follows Michael’s mouth with his eyes, thighs tensing on either side of him. Well. That thoroughly distracted him. “...ah. Growly.”

\---

"Those are mean bites," Michael says, and giggles. "This was all good growly."

\---

Martin echoes the giggle, this special kind of laugh that seems almost reserved just for Michael. And then he shakes his head to clear it so he can do the somewhat awkward combination of pressing two fingers against Michael’s lips and letting his throat relax into an easy growl.

\---

Michael laughs and gives a mock growl back, wholly human, but cute enough. He maintains eye contact as he opens his mouth and presses his tongue against Martin's fingers, and oh yes, he is all but begging to suck them now. Meeting's not until noon. They have time.

\---

Where his gaze throughout the morning so far stayed consistently lazy and heavy-lidded, Martin’s eyes widen with curiosity as he crooks his fingers to push deeper into Michael’s mouth. It’s not aggressive, just resting the pads of them against the flatbed of his tongue. “You’re weird, aren’t you?”

\---

Michael wraps his lips around his fingers and sucks, and then gives a small nod, his eyes dropping somewhat so he can look at Martin from under his lashes.

\---

Martin full-body shivers, easing his fingers nearly out and then back in to the knuckle. It’s vulgar, but there’s something inherently silly about all of it, the kind of immature he’s not really allowed to be, most of the time. 

“You—“ His voice is high enough to surprise himself, and he clears his throat before continuing. “You make me feel really good. Like- Like not just this, um. About me. Myself.”

\---

Michael sucks a few times, and then slowly leans back, pulling himself off of Martin's with a soft noise, drool connecting the fingers to him. Vulgar indeed, Martin, but that's the point. "Well, good. 'cause you're perfect. And you let me do whatever I want."

\---

Martin isn’t sure whether Michael’s eyes or his own fingers are more appealing to look at right now, so he flicks to both in equal measure. “Thank you.” 

He says it like he’s been given an unexpected gift. All of Michael’s compliments feel like that to him. Butterflies. That’s the right word. He laughs a little breathlessly. “What— What do you want to do?”

\---

Michael shrugs, and wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. "I could ride you. Or suck you off. Hah! If I knew ahead of time we were doing this I could have edged you just until the meeting and then set you loose. Think Jon might kill me, though. I dunno. Anything. I just like touching you."

\---

Martin pulls his own fingers back to his mouth and licks Michael’s spit from them idly, ignoring the way his hips roll forward once at the ideas until he’s ready to speak. Down, boy. 

“Oh. I— Really like that idea. In... theory. I’ve never had— Never had anybody I could just, um, mess... mess around with. C-Creative stuff. It’s fun.” He pauses, lowering his hand. “Whatever we do, I want your mouth free? I like— You say things I like.”

\---

"Hm." Michael all but whines, pouting. "Guess sucking that gorgeous cock is off the table. Fiiiiiiine."

\---

“Can’t still communicate t-telepathically, right? Wish we kept that.” He forces himself through the words to cover up a whine that almost runs through him, hands moving to rest flat against Michael’s chest. “M-Maybe you can convince me.”

\---

"To convince you, I'd have to do it," Michael all but purrs, and leans close to ghost his nose over Martin's. "What do you want?"

\---

“I-I’ve... sort of just wanted to hump you since you moved me here,” Martin says quietly, the next best thing while unable to cover his face this close up. “I like being on top of you. And— And the things you say. About me. God, I’m really bad at— At thinking about what I want, I think.”

\---

"We'll work on that," Michael says, and smooths his hand down Martin's back, fitting it back under his shirt, and then summarily pressing him down. "Go ahead now, wouldn't want to deprive you of your urges, dear."

\---

Martin groans at the added pressure - though, what Michael’s saying and how confidently it comes from his mouth definitely gets him going just as much - hips jerking forward once before he realizes the angle they’re at, completely upright like this, won’t let him get the right friction without twice the work. “Ah— Can you— Can you scoot down a little?”

\---

Michael does as he's asked, and scrunches his nose halfway down. "Like this? Or all the way?" He shifts the pillows with him, so that he has some kind of leverage in how he's half-sitting up.

\---

Martin does his best to abandon any embarrassment and rocks his hips forward once, twice, settled just below Michael’s navel. He braces both hands on the pillow at either side of Michael’s head and sighs, heavy and pleased. “Oh. No, that’s perfect.”

\---

Michael grins up at him. "Oh, good. You're so gorgeous like this." His hands smooth on either side of him, spreading up and down, and eventually landing on his hips, thumbs digging in low over the curve of his hip bones. He gives a breathy little noise just looking at him.

\---

Weirdly enough, he’s not tempted to shut his eyes completely, like watching Michael is half the part of understanding his words. He holds back until hands find his waist, and then he tries a few experimental movements until he finds the right angle with a satisfied huff of relief. 

His pace is more of a slow crawl than a rhythm. He’s half-hard in his briefs, but it’s definitely not something sudden. Must have been for a while, most likely from some point between petting and biting, like even his  _ dick _ was too polite to call attention to itself before they got here. Figures.

He talks as he moves. “Wow. This— Should not feel this good. I-I mean it should, but, it— Usually—  _ Oh-kay.” _

\---

Michael hums, and jerks his hips up to meet Martin once or twice, just to add to the movement and watch Martin's face. This isn't exactly what he had in mind for the morning, but he likes it nonetheless. It's  _ weird, _ a word Martin has so delicately put into his mind, and Michael loves it. Depraved, in a way, chaste in another. Dichotomies that fit well in him.

And it helps that it feels good. He knows he's supposed to be letting Martin rut against him, but his legs open a little, an instinctive little movement. "Aren't you wild," He murmurs, his voice thick.

\---

Martin near-instantly loses his will to watch, and by the second time Michael tries to match him his eyes fall shut, relaxed and easing into the comfort. Sorry about that. Very beautiful and all, Michael, but your blood-tipsy companion is too easily blissed out for any of that complicated nonsense.

He’s just about fallen into a steady back-and-forth when Michael shifts a certain way that makes him want to go lower, just barely reaching awareness in his brain. “Not—“ He doesn’t stop moving, like he’s not in control enough for it, and that makes talking a bit of a dumb challenge. “Not wild, I’m n-not even biting. Should I go lower? I-I can do that.”

\---

"You should go lower," Michael repeats, and spreads his legs more. "You are wild, you're just very kind and sweet. Such a caring, feral creature you are, to take care of me in such a way." His voice is breathy, finally starting to pull himself up to the level that Martin's at, the hands digging into Martin's sides tightening.

\---

Martin has to physically lift himself straight up on his knees to stop moving, and he’s almost upright enough to get his center of gravity in order when Michael’s hands make him jump with a cut-off laugh. “Careful.” 

He waits for his grip to loosen before he thinks about moving again, back stiff with how still he’s holding himself.

\---

"Maybe I don't want to be careful," Michael says, but he loosens his hands. "Maybe I don't want  _ you _ to be careful."

\---

“Sorry I don’t want to laugh myself to death while you poke my sides, Michael,” he shoots back with no weight behind it, his own fingers digging slightly into the backs of Michael’s thighs so he can re-situate with his own below them. 

He grinds up between Michael’s legs, an uneven jerk of his hips that’s so gentle it’s almost hesitant. He’s still getting used to doing this, with someone he cares about. 

However light it is, and however the feeling is dulled by the fabrics separating them, Martin still whines. “I’d like to be caring and feral. My— My two favorite things to be.”

\---

"Mm. And you always are, with me. It's sweet. You're so sweet. Make me feel nice," Michael says, and his voice is low, quiet, stuttering just slightly as Martin moves against him.

\---

Martin shakes at the praise, and there’s something so calming about this, the warmth, how good it feels, how little judgment radiates from Michael, that all he can do is lean into that energy like he wants to live there forever. 

He treats the last sentence like a command, rocking without commitment, at first, until he thinks he’s lined them up properly and can deepen the forward motion of his hips into a solid grind. He scratches lightly down Michael’s thighs. “Yes, sir.”

\---

Michael shivers against him, and makes a soft surprised noise of pleasure. He wasn't expecting  _ that _ dynamic, but who is he to argue? It drives him wild.

"Oh, very good, very good. So sweet. Maybe you'll earn actually fucking me, keep this up." His laugh is breathless and hoarse and ecstatic, his words babbling fast and slurred.

\---

Martin’s hips stutter with something damn-near a whimper from his throat, like he’s only just now considered that being an option he’s allowed to have, and now he wants to earn it. 

Oh, Christ. It’s a game now. That realization is nearly lost in the way he’s passed the point of controlling how he’s rutting up against him beyond trying to prove he’s good. “Christ, Michael— It’s like sleigh bells and petting, d-does that make sense?” He laughs, something dumb and needy, as he shakes his head. “Praise. Better when I earn it— Ah, testing me? Usually can’t say I like that without stuttering my way out of it.”

\---

"You're doing so  _ good," _ Michael says, and gasps a little, squirming in his position beneath him as Martin pushes up in just the right way. "Test I know you'll win, of course, you're doing good. Lovely. Just can't help yourself, can you? I can't either. But your instincts are so  _ pretty." _ He's rambling, words without filter.

\---

Martin manages a short pause, hovering just short of contact with one hand splaying out flat against Michael’s stomach. He dips lower, into his shorts, just barely not holding in his own appreciative noises as he gathers up slick with his fingers and spreads them wide along the folds on either side of his cunt. 

It’s a quick motion, and his hips press close again as Martin slides his hand out, lightly ghosting fingers over his clit. Just to tease. With damp fabric clinging to every outline it’s so much easier to grind up against him, much closer. He sounds far away, though. “Ah— Thank you. Thank you, Michael.”

\---

Michael moans, and bucks his hips upwards at the touch, and he chides, "Impatient, impatient..." but he does not sound displeased in the slightest. Quite the contrary.

His hands slide upwards, over the plane of his stomach to his chest, spreading his hands out along them and tweaking his nipples, exploring, exploring. He fidgets, wanting more access to his cunt, loathing that they're playing his game and he is still clothed.

\---

Martin works himself up into something rough and needy, insistent enough that it doesn’t take long for the pressure to build. He actually almost realizes too late, grabbing harshly at Michael’s thighs to hold him still while he leans over him. 

“Oh— I didn’t—“ He laughs breathlessly. “I didn’t realize how close I was.” 

As if in response, his cock twitches where the underside of his shaft settles maddeningly close over Michael’s clit. He will not cream his pants here. He refuses.

\---

Michael scoffs, and pulls back to glare at Martin. "No, no, not allowed, you're not even  _ in _ me yet, ugh, fine, you won the game, impatient brat. Calm down for two seconds?" He hisses it all as he starts desperately pulling his shorts off all the way, one palm flat on Martin's chest to push him back.

\---

“That’s what I’m  _ doing,” _ Martin huffs as he pushes his own weight against Michael’s hand, trying to conjure up an air of patience even as he practically shakes with excitement. “I’m not— a brat.”

\---

"Uh-huh, sure you're not, you know I love lies," Michael huffs out a laugh and sits up some to pull off the sweater he slept in, something that's too short and has a uni he didn't go to emblazoned on the front. He tosses it across the bed to the floor and then fully kicks off the sheets, and it's only then that he grins up at Martin, running his hands back down his sides and to his groin, anticipation clear in his face.

"Okay," He says primly, and pushes his hips up enough that his wet cunt brushes against the underside of his cock again. "You may proceed, Not-A-Brat."

\---

Martin sets about on his own mission to rid himself of his briefs in the meantime, keeping all his oversensitive inhales to himself as the world spins around him. 

Yes. He is very, very needy. He’s also back in place just in time for Michael to move up against him, and that gets a sharp inhale and a jolt forward that’s in no way controlled. His hands snap to Michael’s hips to keep him from doing it again too soon. “Do we... do we need lube?”

\---

"I dunno, I don't care, I'm wet," Michael pants. He tries to buck up anyways, scowling at Martin as he's held in place. "Do whatever, anything, please?"

\---

Martin digs his fingernails deeper into Michael’s flesh, and then suddenly he has no choice but to grin. 

“I thought I was the impatient brat, Michael,” he says with no small hint of fondness, lifting one hand from his hips to line himself up. He sinks in so slowly it’s essentially self-inflicted torture, but hey, it’s not a race, and he quickly puts his hand back on Michael’s hip before he can get any ideas.

\---

"Maybe we both aaaaa--  _ Oh."  _ Michael sinks back into the bed, his eyes fluttering as Martin enters him, a pleased exhalation following.

He's so  _ slow, _ though, and Michael bucks, wanting him faster, immediately, c'mon, please, and one of his hands shoots up to grab a fistful of Martin's hair and pull, trying to get him closer.

\---

He should growl, but the tug surprises him into a quiet whimper as he bottoms out instead, holding still with his lips parted and eyelids heavy, soaking in all the foggy details before him. “Just... a second. You’re so warm. Shit. Not allowed. Just... just a second.”

\---

"You're perfect, so lovely, look at you," Michael laughs, breathless and keyed up. "Under my speeeelllll, again, I caught you, c'mon, more please." He is not patient, not at all, and squirms and wills him to move, wanting more, all of him.

\---

Martin takes his hands away to fist them in the sheets instead, moving just short of pulling out before snapping his hips back flush with Michael’s. “Oh, God, you’re—“ He repeats the motion once, and then again, and it’s almost embarrassing how quickly whatever his body wants to do instinctively takes over. He almost forgets to finish his words. “—Killing me.”

\---

"Good, die then," Michael pants, and keeps his hand fisted in his hair, tighter now, his breathing rising to little moans and gasps and whimpers. Oh, this is nice. Much nicer than normal. Much nicer.

\---

_ There’s _ the growl, pain cutting through the haze as he bows his head for better purchase. He lifts one hand to move between them, fingers ghosting over Michael’s clit with each press in. “I’ll die after. You first.”

\---

_ "Fine,"  _ Michael growls right back, and increases his own tempo, letting himself fall away into the mindlessness, the pleasure, the feeling of Martin all around him and in him. It really, really isn't hard to wrap his existence around this moment, and it's not long after that his voice rising in crescendo, his thighs twitching, and then he's gone, pressing back Into the mattress and his hands pulling on Martin like he's going to keep Michael stable.

He doesn't, and yes, Michael dies a little. Much better than the first death.

\---

“Wh— Can you do that on command?!” The sheer surprise as Michael tightens around him hits hard, but he’s still not there, coasting on the edge with a frustrated whine.

\---

"Kinda," Michael says a bit dumbly, and looks at him through hazy eyes. "It's not hard. Just gotta think right." He jolts a bit, oversensitive. "It'll happen again, don't worry."

\---

Martin considers before he slows down, unable to help the little motions of his hips completely. “Again? I— Oh, I can only—  _ ah _ — once, does that mean I can keep going?”

\---

"If you don't, I'll kill you myself," Michael pants, and drops his hands to Martin's hips, as though to push him forward with his strength alone.

\---

Martin follows, and tries to think right, until he’s making soft exhales with each - God, he hates this word - thrust up into Michael, and it’s not until he’s past the point of babbling little barely-coherent ‘thank you’s that he realizes he never asked if—

He doesn’t get a chance to warn him, which is about a minute ahead of him, before a gasp stutters into a way-too-pleased moan. He’s never that loud, but in his defense it’s been a long, long time since he’s done this, and he braces both hands on Michael’s stomach while his own climax cuts through him.

\---

Oversensitive, Michael has to ride through each thrust with a mind that keeps plunging into pins and needles, and it's only once Martin is almost there that he starts to feel again, frayed nerves building themselves back together enough to tighten his thighs around Martin and begin to build himself up once more.

And then Martin is coming inside him, and Michael moans, and  _ "Yes,  _ yes, gorgeous, so very good, breed me, yes, Martin, Martin,  _ Martin, _ " and he rocks his hips up, to feel him as much as he can.

\---

The encouragement gets a few more strokes out of him, and it’s not until he’s squirming between overwhelmed and trying to help Michael along that he realizes what he said. “Ohhh, n— You can’t—  _ mmph _ — You’re just playing, r-right?”

\---

_ "Playing?”  _ Michael says, but he's not paying attention, not really, too caught up in his own whirlwind of pleasure that's building again, and he all but ignores Martin's confusion until he reaches his second climax, giving a soft pleasure exhalation and dropping his hips back onto the mattress. He breathes for a few seconds, and then mutters, "What was that again? I wasn't listening?" and spreads his fingers through Martin's hair.

\---

Martin doesn’t pull out, breaths worn and ragged as he balances over Michael. His elbows shake with the effort to hold him up, and his hips make one last jolt that goes nowhere with the grip on his hair softening. “The...” Oh, he’s out of breath. “You can’t... get pregnant... right?”

\---

"Like, probably? Not. Most likely not." Michael gives a breathless laugh. "Oh, maybe that was stupid. Oh well! It was fun, really fun, you're very good. Relax? Please. I doubt the Spiral was good for my virality. Hah! That would suck."

\---

It’s enunciated like a question, but Martin chooses to interpret that like a command, too, easing out the tension with a deep exhale. “We’ll... figure that out later. Good  _ morning.” _

\---

"Good morning!" In the post-fuck haze, he can't help the cheery smile, and he leans up to press a peck of a kiss to Martin's nose. "Love how enthusiastic you are. You're so sweet."

\---

“You felt good,” Martin sighs, exhausted and spent as he slowly pulls out. “Need to... clean the sheets before Jon... gets upset.” 

He makes no effort to do that, though, shifting so he can fall onto his side up closer to Michael’s face. “Less afraid for that meeting now.”

\---

"Hah! As intended." He wrinkles his nose. "Is Jon really such a prude that it has to be done noooooow?"

\---

“Mmmh.” Martin presses the side of his face to the nearest pillow. “He’ll forgive me.”

\---

"He's bringing us coffee, I think. Have to kiss him for letting me get you to do all that for me."

\---

“He’s nice,” Martin says quietly, practically dripping fondness from his mouth. “You’re nice.”

\---

"Mm. Seems all your boys are  _ nice, _ huh? Wow, how lucky are you?" He laughs.

\---

“Very.” He shuts his eyes, then opens them, and they fall back shut just as quick. “Hope I deserve it.”

\---

"Oh, shush. Of course you do." He clicks his tongue. "Don't even pretend you don't."

\---

“I’m getting used to it.” What a revelation. “Need a nap.”

\---

"You can. I slept for, like, fourteen hours yesterday.” Michael snorts. “And also, I need to shower."

\---

“Mm. Have fun.”

\---

"Ugh. I take it back. You're awful. Ta!" He extracts himself from Martin, and as a little obscene present to leave behind, draws his hand over his cunt and then wipes down Martin's chest, marking him. He cackles and jumps out of bed, keen to find the shorts he'd discarded and the hoodie, as well as some sort of sweater to wrap around himself.


	54. Chapter 54

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In her shadow is Tim, who reflects much the same exhaustion, but when comparing the two, the redness in the whites of his eyes certainly hints at more crying than reading.

Michael is slipping down to the showers when Jon returns, and they pass one another in the hall. Jon hands him the coffee he so nicely bought, and is jolted from his thoughts when the man leans in and kisses him wetly on the cheek; his "thank you" holds heat and gratitude and  _ flirtatious _ energy in it, and Jon is surprised enough that by the time heat floods to his cheeks, the smell of Michael wrapped all around him for a moment, he's all but skipping down the halls, the shower caddy swinging from his wrist like a picnic basket. His aura is still a kaleidoscope of bright, twisting colors, but it no longer hurts to behold, and Jon is forced, in this moment, to admit he looks quite handsome like this. Half-human and glowing.

Well. It seems he and Martin had a good morning, if that's anything to go by. Jon presses his fingers to his cheek as though he can feel the kiss, balancing the other two coffees in the drink holder, and then blinks to jerk himself out from his reverie. 

He has to focus. Not that he's scared of Sasha or Tim, but, well-- Yes, actually, he quite is, if only a fear borne from deep-set shame and embarrassment in his own actions and behaviors. 

Setting his own coffee down on the desk, he shuffles and moves some of the files that won't be needed to the top of the filing cabinet, producing a neat collection of what he assumes they'll need. Once everything is pristine and perfect and looks like a boss' office, he steps into their bedroom. 

He knows Martin doesn't care for coffee, but, well-- There he is. Sleeping. And he needs Martin awake. "Martin?" He asks, loud enough, hopefully, to rouse him.

\---

Martin jolts dutifully from a pleasant, dreamless sleep, and the first thing he notices outside of Jon’s voice is that the sheets have come back over him. They fall to his lap as he sits upright, sleepily announcing, “I’m up. I’m awake. Am I late?”

He blinks to the source of the sound, then, hair a wreck from sleep and a bit of hair tousling. Jon doesn’t seem in a hurry, by first glance alone, and he relaxes somewhat. “Oh— Hi, Jon.”

\---

Jon rolls his eyes. "No, you're not late, I don't-- I wouldn't allow that." He holds out the coffee. "But you should get up? Probably? Michael's certainly in a good mood, by the way. He kissed me?"

\---

Martin takes the cup in one hand with a satisfied, lazy smile, pulling off the sheets so he can climb out of bed. He’s still naked from the waist down, but he’s not aware enough to be embarrassed about it, and he moves to the dresser. “Oh. We, um— I promise I’ll wash the sheets before we go back to bed. Got a—“ He giggles a little. Definitely put him in a good mood, too. “— a bit carried away.”

\---

Jon wrinkles his nose at the sheets and then at Martin, and whines, "Oh my God, you fucked the second I left. Gross. Okay. No wonder he kissed me. God, he's weird with you." But he's not mad. And Martin doesn't look mad anymore, and, well, really, Michael is quite sweet, even if he's a  _ bit _ much, and Jon isn't thinking too hard about it right now.

\---

“No, we didn’t,” Martin corrects with a little scoff, resting the coffee on the dresser before pulling on fresh pants he’s deemed presentable. “We talked a lot. He— He helps, when I’m...” 

He gestures with both hands on either side of his head and shakes them in random directions. “I had to calm down. I was— I was really nervous, about the meeting. I think I’m okay, though.”

\---

"...Okay. Good. I'm-- Thank you, for... For coming with me? I think it'll help. You know? To have you there." He pauses, cocking his head slightly. "I've got most of our-- Story?-- Sorted out, already, anyways."

\---

Martin squeezes in a sip of coffee with a mostly concealed grimace before pulling his shirt over his head. Before it’s fully off, he makes an inquisitive, “Oh?”

\---

"I mean-- Mostly. From my side, anyways. In case they ask? I think it's at least... Fair to tell them what we've been up to. That's more important than the Unknowing, at least." He snorts.

\---

“Anything I should know before, or— Or not say?” He reaches for an undershirt, watching Jon curiously as he puts it on.

\---

"Just not--  _ him _ yet. That's all. I think? Anything else... I want to be honest."

\---

“Right. Moon-Prince in the room. Like an elephant, but he’s— He’s small.” He pauses, scrunching up his face as he looks for a sweater. “I’m proud of you.”

\---

Jon squints at Martin for a long moment, trying to find the condescension in that comment, but there is none, and he feels awkward about the exchange, so he just nods, and mumbles 'thanks.' He doesn't know what to do with pride.

\---

He’s not exactly subtle about the gears working in his head, is he? It gets a stern ‘hm’. 

“I’m serious. I-I know it’s hard, talking to them, especially with how... complicated it is, so I’m—“ He holds up two sweaters. One is Jon’s, a soft turquoise thing he’s worn before. The other is a tan cable knit with a high neck. “Pick for me?”

\---

Jon immediately points to the turquoise one. Of course. He likes it when Martin wears blues and greens, and with the pink hair, he makes quite the tourmaline. 

"Yes, well-- T-thank you. It-- I'm glad? I'm glad. I feel better? With... You know. You've... Put me back on track, I think."

\---

Martin smiles after he pulls it on, smoothing it out in front of him. “Good! I can’t— I can’t say it was all me, I mean... you knew you had to, and you... you wanted to, I just... helped.”

\---

"... Yeah. Do you want to-- they'll probably be here soon? We should get ready. I mean-- they were, um, intense? Yesterday? So I'm expecting more of that."

\---

“That’s— I’m putting on— I  _ am _ getting ready!” He huffs with another sip of coffee, finding a pair of sneakers he can slide into without laces as he walks towards the door. “Do I need to do anything else?”

\---

Jon shrugs. "Dunno. Honestly? They kind of ran the show yesterday. So I just prepared what I could."

\---

“Ah. Okay.” He sidesteps Jon, brushing a hand over his shoulder as he does. “How much time do we have?”

\---

"Half an hour? Give or take. You slept in." Jon snorts.

\---

"I woke up early, and then I went back to bed." Martin stands at the center of the office and stretches with both hands above his head, giving a soft hum. Maybe he's in way too good of a mood for this. "Are we... oh." He blinks. "Are we telling them about my... um.  _ Grr." _

\---

Jon shrugs. "Unless you don't want to-- I mean. It kind of helps the whole... Saving me? Make sense? And-- Well. Michael and Gerry."

\---

"Right. Okay. We're-- And we're telling them Gerry's a ghost? I just-- Making sure we're on the same page."

\---

"Are we being honest or  _ not,  _ Martin? I don't get-- I'd imagine? Should we not?"

\---

Martin sighs, sitting down on the floor, close to the wall, criss-cross with his coffee. “It’s not a trick question, Jon. We can tell them.”

\---

"Right." He maneuvers around the other side of the desk and then grimaces. "Do we have more chairs... anywhere? Wow. I'm a horrible boss."

\---

“We could always get in a circle over all the papers,” Martin hums absent-mindedly as he drinks again, and now that he’s focusing on the warmth the taste isn’t so bad. “I can stand. Not that big a deal.”

\---

"You and Tim get to have a stare-off competition." Jon sighs, but in the end, what can he do? He sits down in the Archivist chair and pinches the bridge of his nose. "You are so chipper this morning."

\---

“Oh, I’m not good at those. He’d win for sure.” He glances over to Jon, tilting his head slightly. “Is that— It’s not bothering you, is it?”

\---

"Hm? No, of course not, I, um--" He glances down at the papers on the desk, and idly searches for a pen to occupy his hands. "It's just been a while. Um-- I missed it?"

\---

Martin glances down, thumbing the edge of his coffee cup. “Me too. I’m— I’m trying, and trying to get myself, um, together.”

\---

"Well. I think you're doing good. I mean-- you're more on track than I've been. So..." He shrugs and filters him a small smile. "I-- I think it's better? A little?"

\---

“It’s not a contest, Jon, I want you with me. I, um, I want us both to feel... better.”

\---

Jon huffs. "I know it's not a contest, Martin. I was-- complimenting? You? Okay, nevermind. We're both doing a little better. Okay? Does that suffice?"

\---

Martin looks up, then, with a sly smile. “I’m glad you’re doing better, Jon. Thank you for the coffee, by the way.”

\---

Jon gives him a Look, and hums, ducking his head down to the papers on the desk. Ridiculous man, who he can't even be mad at, because Martin deserves the praise, always, even if it means being kind to himself in the process. Ugh.

\---

Martin sits content in their mutual silence, nursing his coffee and organizing his thoughts while they wait. A few minutes down the line, he gets the feeling that this moment is about to be ruined, and he clutches the cup cooling between his hands about half a minute before the door knocks.

It's a light knock, and it doesn't startle him. The kind of polite, controlled backs of knuckles making contact with the wood in quick succession. It's not the way Elias knocks - a different, charged sort of politeness - and it's certainly not the way Tim knocks. Sasha, then. 

Not that he's heard Sasha knock in quite some time, now. He looks up from the floor to Jon's desk like he's waiting to see what his first move is, keeping his own expression neutral and calm. Little support animal, he is. Is that degrading? Maybe so. Maybe not.

\---

Jon glances to Martin a few seconds before the knock comes, and his smile is a bit strained. He's excited, almost, to get everything off his chest; it doesn't make the anxiety of actually having to do it any less stressful.

"Come in," He calls, as friendly as possible, and straightens in his chair.

\---

Sasha enters first, as the knock had implied, and the only notable differences between her as-now and her last appearance is the dryness to her eyes that marks someone who’s either cried or spent a good portion of the prior day reading, and the frizzled sections of hair for a lack of sleep. She brings another stack of papers in one hand, marked up with colored bookmarks jutting out from the tops of several pages. 

In her shadow is Tim, who reflects much the same exhaustion, but when comparing the two, the redness in the whites of his eyes certainly hints at more crying than reading. Not that there wasn’t both, mind you, but-- well. There’s a careful stiffness to the way he moves and he doesn’t quite look at Jon as he scans the room, but he’s made the effort to put on a small grin. Sasha has, too, but they’re preoccupied with a different focus.

She’s taking stock of the papers at Jon’s desk. He’s latched on to Martin. 

Who stands to greet them, figuring that looking small and dejected at the edge of the room doesn’t do him or Jon any favors, and gets as far as a little, polite wave before Tim is breaking the silence with an energized shift to his being.

“Oh, look at  _ you, _ still alive and intact as ever! What is that,  _ pink?  _ Come here--” 

Martin has no time to prepare for what happens before Tim’s grabbing him into a hug that wraps around his upper arms, nearly lifting him off the floor as he squeezes. All he gets to do is make a surprised, vaguely positive noise in his grip, but he’s not afraid. Just-- Shocked, plainly. Confused, for sure.

Sasha spares a moment of gazing something like warmth at Tim’s back before tilting back to the desk. “Is there anywhere I could set these, Jon? We really need a decent meeting table around here."

\---

There's a half a second where Jon tenses as Tim moves towards Martin, some instinctual defensiveness and fear that dissipates into genuine softness and humor a moment before Tim actually hugs Martin, Knowing making the tenseness seem more akin to a twitch than anything else.

His smile is true when he shifts to look at Sasha, and he runs a hand through his hair, nodding. "We really do. Seems neither Gertrude nor any of the other previous archivists were much the group meeting type. Erm, you can--" He shifts some of his journals to clear up some space on her side of the desk. "Right here's fine?"

\---

Sasha gives a quiet ‘thank you’ just before Tim claps Martin’s back and pulls away so he can grip him by both shoulders. It’s not nearly as tight a grip as his energy gives off, and it certainly feels genuine. “I’ve been getting my own little conspiracy theory going, actually— They check a box in the hiring process, and if you’re flighty like this one you fit right in.” 

He lifts a hand to ruffle Martin’s hair, messing it up on purpose. He... forgot how physical Tim was. With everything. “The other one that gets you in is if you’re distractingly attractive. Research experience doesn’t really matter, does it?”

The bastard winks, and, seemingly satisfied with Martin’s sheepish, dumbstruck look, steps away back to Sasha. “All ready to start, then?”

It’s a question posed to the whole room, but Sasha is quick on the draw. “Right. We have... honestly, a lot of questions. But I— Hm. I think we should start from day one. Is that okay, Jon?”

\---

"Yes! Well-- considering the, ah, linearity is a little confusing, you know, on my end, I suppose that's-- yes, probably for the best." He glances at Martin, and his smile is tight but genuine; so far, this isn't horrible. And Tim doesn't seem--

Well. He won't get his hopes up too much. They haven't even gotten into it, yet.

"I'm assuming Tim gave you the gist? I won't-- I won't read your minds, hah."

\---

She squints, just slightly, but moves on. “...Sort of, but I’m not counting on him to relay all the facts. Right now— Yes, fourteen loose organizations, the Institute has some clear connections with what you called the ‘Eye’, there are cults in a race to change it up, and, um, you’re from the future. But they’re not all equal. The... Corruption, those worms, you clearly stopped those this time, but I’m guessing that one was simple, compared to this. And the next one is...”

Tim has nodded her sagely on throughout, but he stops when she pauses. She inhales to keep going, and he doesn’t interrupt. 

“...on its way in. My first question, Jon, if that’s all correct— Why  _ were _ you sent back here?”

\---

"I..." His fingers find his hair again, and he lets out a heavy breath. "Honestly? I'm not... entirely sure. Punishment was my first guess. I... Attempted to remove myself from the Institute, and the Eye's... Gaze. At... That point, I was firmly it's Archivist, though, and... I don't think it appreciated the attempt at removing its sight."

\---

“Oh!” It’s a pleased noise from Sasha, as grim as this is. “That answers... okay. I’m sure with what we know, it’s not... It’s not hard to see why trusting you wasn’t... it actually helps to hear that.” 

Tim rolls his eyes. “With how suspicious you were sneaking around like a little weasel— I mean, it came up that you were throwing a wrench in it. We don’t really  _ know _ you. Now it makes sense, right? You’re just bad at talking!”

Isn’t he good at lacing bitter insults into his camaraderie. Martin wipes at his mouth to cover something, and Tim notices, figuring it’s a decent confirmation.

\---

"Bad at-- I'm not bad at talking!" Jon scoffs and has the audacity to look offended, his eyes narrowing. "Just-- just because what I'm talking about is complicated, I-- does it help? Really?"

\---

_ “Yes,”  _ they both say with equal conviction. Tim nearly vibrates with the want to prod at him, to get in a dose of good-natured bullying, but he trusts Sasha to keep them on track. He’s just as invested in getting to the bottom of this, beyond his own inclinations by way of personality. 

“Elias isn’t helpful, and that’s on purpose. I don’t think you’re trying to, at least— You thought we’d be safe if we didn’t know. And then we...”

She struggles to find the wording, and Tim gladly helps. “Ripped the band-aid off?”

“...Yes. So Gertrude was punished for working to stop it the way she did, right?”

\---

"I'm... Still unsure," Jon says. "She was certainly murdered, though I don't have-- one hundred percent conviction on who. I think I know. But." His eyes drift to the ceiling. His smile is thin. "Eyes watching."

\---

“We’ll... get to that. So, it was...” She pauses just long enough to get herself back on track. “Martin happened to be there when you came back, then, right? It could have been any of us. But he—“

She seems to remember he’s in the room, and she smiles gently. He doesn’t stop her, despite how nervous he looks. “He moves around more than we do. Since we’re telling the truth, I know you’re not exactly a researcher, but I know that’s not part of why he told you, now.” 

He doesn’t even bother hiding the mortified, wide-eyed shame settling into his face. She softens her voice, like she’s talking to a frightened animal. It’s not condescending, though. “It’s okay, Martin. That stays here.”

“I didn’t believe him, a-at first, I told him to go to the hospital. I thought he just hit his head, but— um. It— It wasn’t that?”

\---

"Other than just monsters and entities, I've had a longer time to get to know... The majority of you," Jon says, and grimaces somewhat. "If it weren't for knowing things about Martin that I couldn't have, I might have... Might have eventually believed him on the head injury front."

He places a delicate hand on the topmost notebook stacked on the desk. "I have everything written that I can remember from 2016 to 2019. I was afraid of losing it."

\---

“Good idea. We can reference it, but I want to stay in order— It’s... well, you said  _ complicated,  _ and if you were sent back here like, um...”

She snaps once to indicate something quick and unexpected. “...If I was sending you back in time, I’d want it to be confusing. So. Staying on track is hard, but— We can catch each other, right? We’ll have to, if we want anything done.”

Tim starts to get antsy, now, and he paces until he’s standing between Martin and Sasha. Not protectively, but it’s more comfortable there, somehow. “So Sasha was replaced, by that—“ He doesn’t say fucking Clown, but it’s on the edge of his tongue. “We read them, the whole gift basket.  _ Thank you, _ by the way. How do we keep that at about, maybe, pole’s length, this time? What do we do? We should record each other. ‘Yep, not a fake, come right in’ sort of deal?”

\---

"We should, yes, I keep expecting--" Oh. Yes. Of course. He points, to the top of the filing cabinet, where a tape recorder is running. He relaxes somewhat. "There we are. They sort of have a mind of their own." He laughs nervously. 

"In regards to-- Well. That, the Not-Them, just don't mess with the table, in, um, Artifact Storage? Simple enough. And definitely don't take an ax to it? It's-- Well. Bound in webs, right now. Sometimes... Sometimes being bound in webs is good, for our sakes."

\---

Three pairs of eyes turn immediately to the file cabinet, concern filling the room like a living presence. Martin, who remembers the whirring things in the bag, on the bookcase, the reactions they caused. Tim, who’s first thought is that Jon was already ahead of them and said nothing, but cares more about the fact that there's supposedly a table that takes people in the building. Sasha, who seems to have no desire to get involved with recording at all, and seems afraid to move, like the idea of this being a set-up for something terrible has just crossed her mind as a possible reality.

Tim holds both hands up, forcing a pause. "Wait, wait, wait-- It's here? What, it's 'well, my work is done, I told all of three people not to mess with a table in a place we're not the only people, but who cares', or, or what?" He looks to Martin, who seems the most easily command-able among them, and speaks straight to him. "Turn it off."

And, well, he's right, because it spooks him enough to have him muttering 'okay, okay' as he goes to the cabinet to grab the thing, hurriedly pausing the recording so he can drop it on the desk like it's alive and might bite.

\---

Jon takes the recorder the moment it's put to the desk and presses it back on, holding his hands around it as though guarding it. No need to spawn another one of the bastards. It clearly wants its audience. Its subjects.

"I don't- Hm." He stops before he starts, giving both of them a severe look. "I wouldn't know how to-- destroying it only gives it more power. The table is its coffin."

\---

Martin is about to object, but something about the way he covets makes him pause long enough that Tim makes a frustrated noise, gesturing to Jon as he looks at Martin. “What is he talking about?”

“I-I-I don’t know.” One of Martin’s hands comes up to clutch the locket tightly in his palm, hard enough that the design over it leaves indents in his skin. That doesn’t really do much to de-escalate this, though. 

Neither does Sasha’s reserved, “Jon, put it down—“ that’s swept up by Tim continuing on with, “He can’t  _ do  _ that. Just leaving vague bullshit in front of us expecting us to accept it and move on, what, like that? Oh, the webs are  _ good _ sometimes, then he stops talking, and by the way, guys, there’s a Sasha-eating table in the Archives! I’m— apparently recording every word, and you can’t stop me! What is _ wrong _ with you?”

\---

Jon stares between them, and doesn't particularly like the way his cheeks color at being talked about, when he's right here. Right fucking here. His mouth twitches, and he runs a hand down his mouth, smoothing through the facial hair, and he frowns.

"We don't-- I'm  _ sorry I _ don't know how to explain it without questions, Tim. I'm trying, I'm-- I didn't start the recording, okay? Not, not the first time. Okay?" He lets out a breath, already frustrated and heated, and self-conscious.

\---

“And we all just watched you turn it back on! Fuck, this is infuriating. Can’t we just douse it in petrol and light it up? You’re leaving corpses, and evil tables for other people to find, keeping blackmail tapes,  _ Eyes watching, _ is this supposed to be funny?”

Tim braces both hands on the desk, and Sasha firmly grips him by one wrist. Martin only notices at that point that Tim’s started shaking, and he backs up a few steps to avoid something he can’t predict. He’s more controlled the next time he speaks, but it’s strained. “I didn’t like you back then, either, did I?”

\---

Jon flinches. "No," He says, and his voice is low, flat, ashamed. "Maybe once. I--" His finger shakes, as he reaches forward to turn the tape off, his brow knit low. He's frustrated, but it's trumped by something deeper.

He takes on a deep breath, before he can snap something despicable and angry. When he sighs, it's to let all that energy out. There's a flood in his mind, and he has to snap it shut. "There's a lot. Please. I'm _ trying _ to keep on track."

\---

Tim narrows his eyes, only pulling back once he’s sure Jon won’t start up the recording again. “Right. I didn’t think so.”

He doesn’t shake Sasha’s hand off, arms stiff at his sides. She holds tight as she speaks. “Who started the recording, Jon?”

\---

He pulls his lips on and shakes his head. "I don't know. I-- it just happens, sometimes. I think the Eye wants to know the important things. I don't know."

\---

“Just another thing you don’t know about and don’t care enough to find out, then. Fantastic. We’re all wiretapped. Just accept it and move on! I’m supposed to believe you stopped the end of the world the first time?” 

Sasha pinches the bridge of her nose and tugs on his wrist, pulling him back just a hair. “We’re _ all _ upset, Tim. That’s not—“ She sighs, world weary and exhausted already. “Jon, we don’t know what we’re supposed to ask, alright? I thought it might be better to go in order, but we don’t know what any of the pieces look like.”

\---

Jon sighs. "It's less that I don't care, and more that there's been more to worry about, in--" He squeezes his eyes shut to avoid looking at Martin. "No, it's not-- I just don't see the harm in having a record of what we say. It's technically our job.”

Okay. There's more than one end to the world. Each entity has its own. The Unknowing is just one; it's just the most pressing, right now."

\---

_ “We know,”  _ they both say in tandem, again, and Tim finally looks down at her and softens up a bit. There’s a jinx, there, and he can’t even say that, because he’s too ticked off. 

Martin has faded off in the background, somewhere, and he’s content where no one rounds on him for answers. Not content in the pleasant way, but he came into this thinking he was ready, that he could talk, that he could help, somehow, but all he’s doing is nothing. 

Sasha reorients herself. “So let’s focus on that, first. What do we do right  _ now? _ Do you know that?”

\---

"To an extent. I want to do it better, this time." He presses a hand to the top journal again. "I've stopped it, already. But... Ah. I'd like to do it better, this time. I should... Hope it's easier. Considering-- well. I don't think I can die from an explosion, this time?"

\---

“And why is that?” Tim sighs with a deep set exasperation, an almost comically upset lilt to his voice.

\---

"Well-- We're out of order now." Jon scowls, and looks downtrodden. They said they wanted everything in order, and now it's not, and he's upset about it, even though he shouldn't be, and he has to squash it down with an audible grumble. 

"Fine. Okay. I died, the first time, in an explosion. This time? I-- Well. That's already happened?"

\---

Tim inhales deep, until his lungs hurt with it, and then he breathes it all out like it’s the only thing stopping him from having a complete meltdown. “Right. Right. Sasha?” He rests a hand on her shoulder. “Do you have this handled?”

She nods carefully, and he nods back, and it’s almost funny. But it’s not. “Yep. I’m just—“ And he gets on the floor, tilting until the back of his skull finds the ground, shutting his eyes. “I’m just listening to my favorite podcast, right now. Nobody talk to me.”

Sasha’s nose scrunches up a bit. She wonders if he learned that in therapy. Maybe? Who knows. She turns back to Jon. “Did you die on your vacation, Jon?”

\---

"Yes." Jon tilts up in his seat, to look down at Tim, and his expression is not confident in the slightest. He looks back at Martin, and his expression is pleading.

He lightly touches his throat. "The Hunt. They kill-- Um. They kill monsters. I qualify."

\---

Martin can’t read his mind. He wishes there was a cave here he could crawl into and hide, and the next best thing is holding the locket between both hands in mock prayer while his mouth refuses to work. 

“Why do you qualify?”

Ah. Now he’s shaking. He’s not even the one being interrogated, here.

\---

Alright. No help here.

He sighs. And his mouth begins to work, something deep inside him that moves his words for him. An explanation. But how to explain a great Thing, a great being? He knows the answer; he won't let that thing come to, right now. His mouth moves for him, low and gospel.

"There's a great unknown in the world, and my position in it is to uncover it. All of it. All of them. To see and know and hear and understand and  _ Behold.  _ And to Know you must Hear and to Hear you must See and to See you just pry, and pry into the deep dark crevices of skulls intended to stay hidden, and to do that, you compel, and you pull, and you tear, and it gives you abilities. It pulls you from humanity. It negates you from it. And when you die, you're given a choice, because you're already a monster, and the monster could say 'no' , and stay in the ground, but the monster can say 'yes' and ascend. And ascend. And--"

He presses a hand from his mouth, wide-eyed, and he shakes his head. " I don't-- I don't know what that was."

\---

Martin’s first instinct is to call Gerry. His second instinct is to keep Gerry as far away as possible, to keep him safe from the thing in Jon’s mouth that’s just taken over at the cost of his own dependent comfort. 

Tim is sitting up again. Sasha is motionless where she found herself sat in the chair opposite Jon’s desk. The tape is running again. Everything feels like it’s been paused. 

Except for Martin, who cuts the silence with a wavering, distant voice. “I can’t do this, Jon.”

\---

Jon doesn't look at him, but makes a high, plaintive sound, his hands still cupped around his mouth. He's trying. He's ready failed. They've hardly started and he doesn't know how he's gotten to this point where he's fucked up this hard so fast, so swiftly.

"'m sorry," He mumbles, and his hands slowly spread up his face, fingertips just touching his hairline.

\---

Martin gets to the ground, because it’s all he can do right, and pulls his knees to his chest up against the wall. “It’s like you— Like you want a reason? To not solve anything? Anything that happens to us? To Sasha? Tim? ...Me?” 

He curls in on himself. “You’ll just use this and say that’s why you didn’t tell them, because it went bad, but they tried. I’m— I’m a monster now, too, but... am I supposed to feel how you feel about you? I killed someone bad, and I used it to save people, and to help you, I—“

The words fizzle out and he sits, dead-eyed and alone, staring through Tim and Sasha into the other wall. All Tim can offer is a deeply concerned  _ ‘Fuck’ _ under his breath as an exhale, like he’s considering something he’s never thought about doing before. Sasha keeps hers hidden inside her own thoughts.

\---

"I'm trying right  _ now," _ Jon says, and he can't help the heat in his voice. It's either frustration or tears, at this point. He opts for the former. "I'm trying to tell them and do it in order, and I'm sorry it's not perfect, Or - or what a boss should do, but--"

He shakes his head. "This isn't how I wanted this to go. I had it-- I had it all in my head, and now-- ugh. Martin--" He turns to him, and wants to reach out for him, but he keeps his hands to himself. "Martin?"

\---

“How are  _ they _ supposed to know the right order? What am I... What am I supposed to do? Compel you?” He’s still fixed to the wall. “I don’t want to. You keep looking at me like I’m supposed to save you. I can’t fix anything.”

Tim stands up, caught between something violent on both ends, a sick balancing act over a wire. He’s not afraid to touch Martin, when he walks over, crouching next to him with a hand on his shoulder. There’s something fraternal about the gesture, tapping into something grounding to keep himself sane. “Hey. C’mon, let’s get up, you. That’s it—“ 

And they’re both standing, but Martin doesn’t feel any better. Not in any way that matters. Tim just keeps him stable. 

Sasha takes off her glasses to rub an arm over her eyes. “Where do you want to start, then, Jon? Get it out of your head, because we need to start making decisions now, and, I’m sorry, but— but right now you are really not helping your case.”

\---

"My _ case? _ Am I on-- No, no--" He sighs, and shakes his head. 

He doesn't know how to explain to Martin that he doesn't want  _ everything. _ He just wants  _ something.  _ And he doesn't have the name for it, and it's not fair, and he knows that it's not fair, but what is he to do? Well; he supposes he can Not want it. The comfort. The comfort who’s name eludes him. He doesn't know how to turn to Martin without crying and ruining everything, every last salvageable piece, and so he doesn't. Perhaps it was selfish to ask Martin to be here.

He lets out a sullen breath, and he says, "I can work on telling you what has happened, or how to work through the Unknowing. I can do both, but not at the same time. I can't-- I can't juggle them both, right now, right here. Does that-- We keep going back and forth between it all and I want to give you what you want, because you deserve it, because I've been lax, trust me, I understand that now, but--" 

Another shake of the head. "It's just hard to keep everything organized when we keep jumping around. The Truth gets muddled, in-- In my head."

\---

“You’re not being interrogated, Jon—“ She wants to say, but shit, that was completely off the rails, wasn’t it, but she holds her tongue, going instead for, “Yes. Okay. You’re right. You just say, um, really, a lot of things that beg more questions.”

Tim huffs loudly from where he’s still holding onto Martin, who’s seemed to have tuned out of this altogether. “Unknowing first, people. Can’t have a lovely chat over tea about our new kill counts if we aren’t alive to  _ do it.” _

\---

Jon turns to glance at them, and his expression turns unreadable, his jaw tightening. He focuses back in on Sasha. She's easier, right now.

"It-- I mean. We blow it up." He says it very clearly. "But, I want it to be tighter. Smarter, better this time. No risky moves. She makes it easier to-- ah, slip up. The-- Nikola."

\---

There. Back on track. Sasha joins up with him there. “We blow up the ritual site? Do you think it’ll be the same place as last time?”

\---

"I don't see why it wouldn't. We haven't... As far as I know, we haven't changed anything surrounding it. It's at the Wax museum in Yarmouth." He pauses. "Though, I guess the Anglerfish isn't helping this time? Since it hasn't taken anyone."

\---

“Stoker on Artifacts for five hundred. Are you  _ sure _ about that?”

\---

"No. I just know it's not one of you. It-- at the very least isn't pestering us here."

\---

“So it might still be right under our noses, then?” Tim grimaces. “Seriously, if we can explode a whole entire wax museum, why can’t we do it to a table?”

\---

"It's not under our noses. I'd know if someone else was taken, here." He scowls. "The table isn't-- Tim. The table is a prison."

\---

“So is a wax museum full of clowns,” Tim grumbles, almost to himself. 

Sasha taps twice on the arm of her chair. “How do we make it ‘tighter’, Jon? What do we change?”

\---

"... I'm, not entirely sure, yet. Not that I haven't been thinking, but-- I just need help with the planning of that part. It worked, last time. I just don't want--" He tilts his head up slightly. "Our people dead."

\---

“Well, we appreciate that. I like being alive!” She means to lighten the mood a bit with that, but she gets the feeling it’s a bit much. “So, um... You know the materials, you know where, how about when? Are we still working with the same timeline?”

\---

"That, I'm not sure. They need-- a skin, for the Dance. And they certainly didn't take me, this time! So, um, I assume they're still looking."

\---

Sasha leans an elbow on the arm of the chair, resting her chin in her hand as she thinks. “Oh!” 

She sits upright again. “We... could always bait them, couldn’t we?”

\---

"... Yes, I suppose so, yes. Nikola... Likes frivolous games." He shivers slightly. He's with Tim on this one; awful clown.

\---

Martin snorts, and the noise surprises him as much as it surprises Tim. He looks more or less the same, empty and confused and vacantly lost, but he does pipe up quietly. “Maybe Helen would help.”

\---

Jon blinks, and turns to him, and his smile is surprised. "Yes...yes, maybe. The Spiral doesn't care for the Unknowing." He gives a small breathless laugh. "Michael tried to kill me, when I was kidnapped, to prevent it."

\---

Sasha looks between them, settling again on Jon with a stern finality. “Michael? No, wait, I don’t want to get us off track again. It can’t be just... any skin, right? What makes it important, Jon?”

\---

"Ritualistic energy and intent. The first skin was a gorilla skin from Carthage. They couldn't find it, because Gertrude had it locked away, so they attempted me, until-- I was stolen away. And then-- ah. Gertrude and Leitner. All of us are very symbolically charged with-- intent, for lack of a better word."

\---

“So... We have Gertrude.” Sasha says it like she doesn’t want to entertain the idea, but is also capable of being convinced under the right conditions. “And... you?”

\---

"Maybe me. We don't know if I'm.... Tainted, now. But-- Gertrude. Yes. That's--" He huffs. "Guess that's helpful, yeah."

\---

“Not it,” Tim says immediately, and Martin’s eyes widen in something close to childlike horror before he echoes his own hurried, “Not it.”

Sasha doesn’t indulge that game. “It might be risky, but we could let them think we don’t know what’s going on, maybe. How smart is this one?”

\---

"From my estimations, it's one of the rituals that almost succeeds. So I'd say rather smart. She has a whole circus working together." He rolls his eyes. "I'll do it, relax. Anyways. It's not just the single-minded focus of the Great Twisting, or the futility of the Dark's ritual."

He blinks. "I've felt what her world would be like. There's a comfort to her confusion, to not knowing who or what you are. It's... Easy to get pulled in."

\---

Tim makes a confident hum of disapproval. “Hm... no, no, boss man, that doesn’t sound comforting at all. What’s so special about a wax museum? In Yarmouth?”

\---

"It's uncanny. It's bodies. It's not special, it's-- it fits the motifs. Clowns, wax figures, mannequins-- it's all I Do Not Know You to the nth degree. These rituals just...." He glances at Martin for a moment. "You can create your own, with enough will, but it helps to focus when it's... Charged? With what suits it."

\---

Martin looks down. He doesn’t want the attention on him. 

Tim nods. “Like a convention, yeah, that checks out. We need a checklist, then? Bait, skin, switch? Explosives go in at the last second or else it won’t matter and that’s why it’s so risky sort of deal?”

\---

"Yes, and also maybe more of an escape plan, um, this time? We didn't exactly-- plan correctly to leave, last time."

\---

“Spiral,” Martin mutters, itching at one of his wrists. “We need to - to check up on them... a-anyway.”

\---

"Hm. We'll need to make her promise to keep them safe. She's not like Michael. She eats." Jon purses his lips. "It's a good idea, though. But I'm barred from her Hallways."

\---

“But I-I thought you said you can’t die?”

\---

"Well, I don't think I can, but I'd love to not be stuck in the rubble of a busted out-- Nevermind. I'll figure that part out. I'm just not sure," He gives Martin a flat look, "I want to get that close to bodily harm in the midst of other entities."

\---

“Right,” Martin says flatly, and leaves it at that. 

“Sooo... Mind sharing with the class who this ‘Helen’ of yours is?” Tim pats Martin on the back, but it doesn’t seem like the kind that’s supposed to spur him into talking, and he takes it as a sort of... praise? Maybe? He’s not sure, so he leaves it alone.

\---

"Yes-- Well. Some key, ah, players? That I suppose you'll have to meet eventually. Helen, she's--" Jon cocks his head from side to side as he thinks. "She's an avatar of the Spiral. She's-- Well, at least. Partially on our side. It used to be... You'll meet him, Michael, he's... Somewhere." He thinks of the kiss on his cheek from earlier and has to blink to push that thought from his mind. Now's not the time, Sims. 

"The Distortion; she's essentially... A hallway. Not exactly on this plane of existence, I'll give you my notes on how that works. But Martin's right; if she's willing, she could... Easily give us an escape. Well. You all. Not me."

\---

“Right. We’ve been taking a look at the other ones on the list you gave Tim, but we...” She casts a glance that’s almost shy in his direction “...I, I guess we’ve been using our own names for them, so we’ll just get used to using yours. Right, Tim?”

He looks visibly displeased, but he keeps his tone conspiratorial. “We’ve been calling that one the Twizzler.”

\---

"The--" Jon cuts himself off and leans back, his eyes blinking wide. "Okay." He can't help the small laugh that bubbles up from him. "That's-- Huh." He wonders what Michael would think of that. 

Maybe it's something in the water. He turns back, and his face is carefully, carefully neutral, so he can say in the flattest voice possible, "Martin, are you ready to... twizzle, today?"

\---

“Um, m-maybe? Later. Not right now.” He stops scratching at his wrist, shoving his hands in his pockets instead. No one laughs, but Tim’s tonguing the inside of his mouth like he’s forcing away a smile. 

Sasha clears her throat. “So all we can do for the Unknowing right now is keep track of all the pieces and see who’s on our side as it all develops. We’re leaving her down there, then?”

\---

"Should we move her? I-I mean, genuinely, it's not as though most people know how to get down there. I've been there, and it still took me several trips to remember the way." He glances to Martin again, but not about the tunnels. He just feels his joke was perhaps a little dejected. Oh well.

\---

Sorry, Jon, Martin’s not feeling very funny. 

Jack doesn’t know how Michael the writer manages three characters at once, because coming up with ways to introduce their dialogue is infuriating. 

Sasha speaks. “We don’t ever go down there alone, then. I think moving her might attract attention, but if you happen to know how we might send off a message that she’s there for the taking... I don’t like it, but I— Honestly, I don’t think she’d care if it saved the world, maybe. I never knew her that well.”

\---

"I don't think she'd mind. So-- Bait. How do we go about baiting a clown mannequin into stealing our previous archivist." He squints. "Because I think it was you, Sash-- Well. Not you. Last time, what tipped them all off. We could bait Breekon and Hope, or-- I'm not sure."

\---

Martin pulls one hand out of his pockets and grabs a fistful of his sweater, squeezing and relaxing a few times in succession. “Do you think Helen might want a-a housewarming present?”

\---

"You think Helen would want Gertrude's body?" Jon cocks his head.

\---

“...And a table? Or— Or a thing from a table?”

\---

"...Oh. That's-- That's smart. That's--" He blinks, and then smiles. "She could do it. She kept, um, she kept Jared Hopworth locked in her hallway for a while, the first time."

\---

Martin’s heart does some kind of leap, and he thinks maybe Tim felt it, but he almost hopes he didn’t. 

Sasha squints at Jon. “Then it looks like a conversation with Helen is up next? I think, maybe, we should work through the narrative you have once we know where we stand with her, and know we have a basic plan. Easier to work through our, um... emotional... issues, if that’s in order.”

\---

"Yes, that--" He clears his throat and nods. "That makes sense. It seems we're on a decent track? As far as I can tell. We know far more than I did the first time we stopped the Unknowing."

\---

“Yeah. Well, you figure out a whole lot more when you use the assistants paid to help you, eh?  _ Ehhh?”  _ There’s a humorous lilt to his voice, but Tim’s being very generous, here.

\---

Jon sighs. "Yes, Tim. We'll be better prepared moving forward." He pauses. "Oh! I understand we're saving context for later, but Michael and another man named Gerard Keay will be, well, running about as well. They know what we know." He glances away for a moment. "They live here, too."

\---

“Sorry, did you say Jared, or Gerard? Keay rings a bell, though. And— Michael was... affiliated with the T—“ Sasha tries not to get flustered over that. “—Spiral, but he’s not now? Is that it?”

\---

"Gerard, as-- we call him Gerry sometimes. And yes. Gerard is--” he makes a frustrated expression and looks to Martin for a moment, eying the locket. "A ghost? I think Michael's taking a shower. He's not the Spiral anymore."

\---

“He—“ Martin moves the hand on his sweater up to the locket, like he’s protecting it from too many eyes. “He’s a person, and he was, um, bound to a-a Leitner. Maybe we should wait to... to introduce everybody, until we... until we’re... stable.”

Tim groans. “You guys need a flat. Seriously. Shacking up in the Archives, Isn’t that a little risky with the whole place apparently bugged in more ways than one? Not that I’m complaining, except that I wasn’t invited—“

Sasha cuts him off. “Speaking of, we should have our next meeting somewhere else. I don’t think we should say where, yet, but you tell me when you can meet with Helen and I can figure something out for after.”

\---

"Good idea. I don't think it matters too much, but good idea." He gives a thin smile and pointedly ignores Tim. "We'll contact... Helen? Or at least figure out how? And I'll let everyone know."

\---

“It matters enough that we’re on edge about it here. Okay. First part handled, but you have to let us know. Okay, Jon? Pick a day this week to try, and let us know what happens, even if it’s nothing.”

She seems satisfied with that, though not satisfied in the total sense. Too many other threads. But they’ll let this end on a high note. They have to. “Anything we should do in the meantime?”

\---

"Just keep researching. I can give you other entities' files if you want to keep diving into their... Machinations. Tightening up ideas, brainstorming, etc." He shrugs. "We can combine everything when we get Helen."

\---

She nods. “Right. Okay, we can do that. Anything helpful for the Spiral, right now? Might help prepare us for talking to her if you get that far.”

\---

"The Spiral likes games. Don't-- try not to get frustrated? Going off track is the name of the game, for The Distortion."

\---

Tim nods. “Sure. Think you prepared us nicely for that. I— I think we’re done here for today, team. Pack it up, I need a smoothie. Sasha?”

She blinks, first at Tim, then at Jon. “Thanks for the warning. So, we’ll— Pick this back up by the end of the week, then, Jon?”

\---

"Tomorrow's Friday, so Monday? We can do that."

\---

“Monday. Yes. Um, take care of yourselves, okay?” Sasha moves to stand up, and Tim jostles Martin a little before he pulls back, like he’s trying to shake him back into itself. 

It actually helps a little. Enough for him to give a pleasant-sounding “Bye.”

\---

"We will. Thank you both. Genuinely." His smile is soft, and real, and though it's awkward, and though wasn't as well-planned as he thought it was... At least there's no outright hatred in the air. That's enough for him, for now.

\---

No hatred in the air, not enough to pick out, but there is fear. They leave the two of them behind in the office and close the door, and Martin is afraid. Not of Jon, not necessarily, but of something he can’t quite name. 

“Sorry,” he says into the quiet of the room, still standing awkwardly off to the side.

\---

"For--" Jon jerks from his position, staring at the door and then at Martin in a moment, shaking his head. "For what? Martin?"

\---

He shifts where he stands. “Um, I— I don’t know. Not— helping? I just— I  _ stood there.  _ While things got worse.”

\---

"Not your fault." Jon says immediately, and slowly presses his elbows to the table so he can hold his head in his hands. "Not at all. I don't know-- you were fine."

\---

“I don’t want them to hate you b-because I made myself look like a hostage. Not— Not on purpose, I mean— I’m worried, about... about how much you’re worried? About— What you did, the... speech?”

Shit, he needs to get his stutter back in control.

\---

"Yes, well-- I haven't. It was like a statement of myself. I didn't realize I could-- I--" He shakes his head, and presses his fingers to his hair and groans. "I'm a mess."

\---

Martin pushes himself to sit down across from Jon, stopping the recording as he does. He hesitates, for a moment, before trying again. “When I’m a mess I-I try to find ways people can help me. Um, I— Getting my hair dyed won’t fix it, and neither will being kissed, but... it’s a lot easier? To feel like I can... control the bad things, when I let myself feel...“

He shrugs, like he’s not sure where he’s going with this. “...good things, too.”

\---

Jon sighs, and slowly sits back up, looking at Martin through weary eyes. "I'm glad you were here. It-- even if that wasn't good, you make me better. We have a gameplan. I shouldn't worry about-- about myself."

\---

“No, you should worry a, um, a healthy amount? But I still... I still want to talk to him, and... maybe that could help, and we can see about calling Helen this weekend, um— But, Gerry wanted to come around today.” Martin tries offering a white flag of a smile. “He wanted to test how far he can go from the Page.”

\---

"Oh! That's- that's good. That's. Less terrifying than most things, right now, yes." He blinks. "I'm not sure how far it'll be, though."

\---

“No idea. I’m... planning on cheering him on no matter how far he gets, but who knows. Power of friendship knows no bounds.” He seems to have recovered a little, enough that his smile is more real. “Maybe you and Michael should do something fun, today? You— It was bumpy, but you did work it out, I think you can— Take the rest of the day, relax a little?”

\---

"I don't know what to do with Michael," Jon says, and grimaces. "He's not exactly predictable."

\---

“Neither are you, sometimes—“ He shoots back, and he means it fondly, but something anxious creeps up into his next words. “—It’s not, not always a bad thing. He... did threaten to kill me, sort of, the first time we met, and... even after, but it got less... scary? I didn’t just know, it—We’re all weird, Jon. He obviously likes you.”

\---

"He likes me?" He wrinkles his nose. "I mean-- I know he kissed my cheek, but-- I felt that was kind of..." Oh. How does he say this without implying something? "Well, he just seems kind of touchy."

\---

“What? Why would he do that unless he liked you? Gerry’s the touchy one.”

\---

"I don't know? I don't-- he just does stuff! I don't understand it." He's blushing and he doesn't know why.

\---

“Does...  _ stuff. _ Jon, you’re being vague.” Martin sits back in the chair, crossing his arms. “Spit it out.”

\---

"I don't know! He's tried to kill me multiple times! And he woke me up to freak you out this morning! It's just.... I don't know how to react!"

\---

“He didn’t do it to freak me out, I just got... I was— I was licking his blood! I don’t know, I didn’t know how to react to... It’s just learning!” Jon’s blush has infected him. “You share a bed!”

\---

"That was for-- oh my God. I'm just getting used to it." His blush deepens. "It's just new. Okay? And he isn't exactly slow like you were."

\---

“...Slow? What are you talking about?” Martin blanches. “I’m slow?”

\---

Jon squints. "The-- no? Not like that? Martin, I meant you didn't just randomly kiss me in the hallway without warning? I mean-- you two had sex today and it's been barely a week, which is fine, it's just surprising! Is all? God. You always make me sound like such a prude."

\---

"Like-- I didn't mean it any way, Jon, I'm just trying to figure out what definition you're..." He sighs, covering his eyes with both hands. "It wasn't a week. I-- In the Spiral, it was-- A lot, lot longer than that. Okay?"

\---

"It was--" he wiggles his fingers in the air. "Time travelly? Not that I would know how long we were even gone. God-- Okay, no, it-- I'm just processing it, okay? I'm not used to-- affection? So quickly. I mean, it took me-- three years? With you?"

\---

"I-- Yeah, and-- And a few weeks for... us, this time? I mean, I-I mean we... the worms." He splays his fingers to peek at Jon. "I bit him up in Chicago way before we... did anything. You don't have to-- I'm just talking about talking about hobbies, or something! Not having sex with him! You don't have to have sex with Michael!"

\---

"I don't-- I don't have hobbies?" He says it like it's a question. When has he had time for hobbies? "Does-- Does he?"

\---

"You're allowed to get hobbies, I... He liked to paint, once? Um, he likes... watching things? That's what he does on your phone, I dunno, he's-- He didn't have time for hobbies when he was... dead?"

\---

"Oh my God." Jon drops his face to the desk. "Can we all-- After the Unknowing? Go on a date? Pretend to be normal for two seconds? I hate having to juggle all of this constantly."

\---

"All of us?" 

Oh, Christ. He's going to die after the Unknowing, and it has nothing to do with clowns.

"I-- Um, yeah. I'd-- I'd like that?"

\---

"I mean-- If we're getting a flat together, it would be nice? Right? Or am I-- Maybe I'm just being ridiculous."

\---

"No, that's not... It's not ridiculous. I want you... I want you all to like each other, I-I think you can, we're just, you know, all over the place right now. But that's why I--" He huffs, and shrugs without knowing exactly what he's shrugging about. "That's why I think it might be good to spend time with him. Not... have to be alone."

\---

"... Okay. Well. He probably needs... things, being alive again? I can take him shopping?" He shrugs.

\---

Martin tilts his cheek into one hand with a fond smile. "He was talking earlier about, um, going to the bank, seeing if he's still got an account, too. Do you _ want  _ to go shopping?"

\---

"Oh! Banking, that's-- probably.... Gerry can't exactly be a citizen, I imagine, but Michael is.... Technically alive again, yes." He nods. "Alright. I'll take him around. While you and Gerry.... Experiment." It's almost mundane. It makes him smile.

\---

"I think he'd like that. Then we could come back and talk about our days. See? It-- We're a team, right, we can..." This is going extremely well. It's almost pleasant. Hopefully that lasts longer than five minutes. "...help... he's been down there for... a long time, hasn't he?"

\---

"I mean-- he knew we were doing a meeting? Maybe he just stayed down there. I don't know. Maybe he just takes forever to get ready. He seems the type."

\---

Martin doesn't disagree, though he sure makes a lot of assumptions about Michael. "I don't know if us being in a meeting would matter to him. I could, um, I could call Gerry, first? See if we can catch him on the way out, or...?"

\---

"Are we _ taaaalking  _ about me?" Michael may not have the wherewithal to appear through doors unnoticed, anymore, but evidently Martin and Jon talk to each other like they're the only people in the world, laser focused, and he gets no small satisfaction from the way Jon jumps and widens his moon-shot eyes in blatant surprise.

_"Fuck,_ your timing, Michael," He mumbles, and rubs his fingers at the bridge of his nose. "Were you waiting to scare me?"

_ "Noooo,  _ just a coincidence," He smiles.

\---

Martin jolts, and they’re already talking by the time he swivels around in the chair to face the doorway, surprise smoothed out into dulled confusion in the space between. 

“Hi, Michael. We— We were thinking about Jon taking you out, um, shopping? If you wanted to?”

\---

"Oho!" Michael steps into the office and lets the door shut behind him, swinging the shower caddy with all his things stuffed in it from his hand. "Bit cliche to be a sugar daddy named Jon, huh?"

"I-- what!?" Jon splutters, which earns him a laugh.

"I'll go shopping." His hair's drawn up into a loose side braid, and he's changed from Ill-fitting pajamas to ill-fitting day clothes.

\---

Martin covers his own laugh with the back of one hand, but Jon’s reaction sobers him up enough to pull it away. “I— I mean, that’s sort of what you are, isn’t it?”

Maybe that’s not the best way to go about this. He flicks at the locket so it jolts around on his neck. “Gerry, you awake?”

\---

"I am not--" Jon starts to bristle, but he cuts himself off the moment he can feel the air shift as something fills it, and a moment later Gerry's Eyes press into this reality with a sudden wakefulness. He's not going to deal with Gerard immediately making fun of them all. Not today. 

Gerard yawns and stretches when he manifests, which gets him a massive eye roll from Michael, who mutters, "Dramatic," and sets down the caddy on one of the lower bookshelves in the room. 

"Not dramatic, just waking up," Gerard says, chipper, with a tilt to his head.

\---

“Let him be goth, Michael.” Now he’s confident enough for his own jokes. “Are you still up for today? We, um, had our meeting, so I’m... yeah. I’m ready to go. Whenever you are.”

\---

Gerard fields Martin a smile, and nods, a nervous tinge to his expression. He glances to Michael and Jon, and asks, "Are you two coming wi--"

"No. We're going to the bank to see if Michael  _ needs  _ my money, at all," Jon says, and pushes back the chair from the desk to go get his wallet from the bedroom. From down the hall he says, "But you two have fun!"

\---

“Yep, you - you too— “ Martin calls after him, standing up from his own chair to head towards the other door. As he does, he brushes Michael’s hand with his own, and there’s a  _ good luck _ in there somewhere. He turns just enough to find Gerry’s face. “Let’s go?”

\---

"In an awful hurry, huh, Marto?" He snorts and pulls himself to Martin's side, though, raising his eyebrows. "Yeah, I'm ready."

\---

“Just want some fresh air, it was a... big meeting.” He smiles as he opens the door back up, leaving it cracked for when the others leave. “Is there anywhere you want to do this? I don’t mind where we go.”

\---

"Park? I don't know. Somewhere public that isn't going to be insane for us to-- Do this." He grimaces. "Considering I don't know what will happen if I get too far away."

\---

“Right! I can do that. There’s one nearby, actually.” He walks down the halls, quick but not  _ too  _ quick, and he’s content not to say anything until after they’ve at least gone down the lifts a floor, and maybe even a bit longer, maybe even the front doors of the place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> adding the tim/sasha tag just so it's there for the future...


	55. Chapter 55

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first of several developments in the afterlife of one Gerard Keay.

Gerard lets the silence drag on at first, but he keeps his eyes keyed into Martin's back, watching the tension that sits there. By the time they're standing on the front steps, the sun glaring down at them, he says, "So. Your meeting went okay?"

\---

“It  _ ended  _ okay,” Martin starts with a heavy exhale, looking up at the sky as he walks. “It was mostly the middle that was bad. I, um, I sort of freaked out, and Jon... Jon kind of monologued like a scary preacher, at one point? That’s why I freaked out.” There’s a pause that’s so quick it barely counts as one. “Gerry, can you Know, capital K, whether, um, whether someone we know can get pregnant?”

\---

"Know-- is Jon  _ pregnant?"  _ He stops dead in his tracks. "What? Is that possible? It's only been a  _ night _ since you woke me up, you dog!"

\---

“Not  _ Jon,”  _ Martin whines, stopping with him even as he twitches, antsy in place. “Nobody’s— No. Can you, or - or not?”

\---

"I guess I don't know until you ask me." He wrinkles his nose. "Did you really--  _ Martin,"  _ There's a certain amount of humor in his voice, like he's trying not to laugh, "That was stupid. You know Michael would be an insane parent."

\---

“I know— I  _ know,  _ I was— I didn’t— Gerry.” His cheeks are impossibly hot, and it’s taking every ounce of his will not to pace. “Oh, I deserve this. Can Michael get pregnant?”

\---

Gerard blinks, and his voice takes on that flat, informational tone as his gaze drifts to the sky. "No. Michael Shelley received a hysterectomy in the fall of 2009." The dazed look falls away, and he bursts into laughter.

\---

Martin snorts, the completely, astonishingly ugly kind, before he’s doubling over with a breathless  _ Oh, thank God.  _ “Okay. Okay. Right! Right, right, right. He— He acted like he didn’t know!”

\---

"Idiot. Just know I'm spiritually slapping you for not wrapping it up, Martin, Jesus." He rolls his eyes. "You're just lucky Michael's a forgetful dipshit instead of a neglectful one."

\---

“Don’t— Don’t lecture me, Gerry, okay, it was— I realized, but in— You know, I’m blaming it on the blood. Can we  _ please  _ keep walking?”

\---

Gerard stays still for a pointed five more seconds before he starts up again, and then he's laughing again. "I mean, guess it doesn't matter now, but-- ugh. You two and your blood. It'd be metal if it wasn't so gross."

\---

“I didn’t know it would... feel... l-like that. The whole thing was weird. And— Jon was there, not— God, not for that part, I didn’t— I didn’t plan on waking up this morning and—“ He makes an incoherent noise to fill the space while he tries to word it. “—Getting drunk on Michael’s blood. I didn’t even know that was a thing!”

\---

"So you're a vampire now, too. Just racking up the mythological titles you can appropriate, huh?" He rolls his eyes. "Was it really-- drunk, or just.... horny?"

\---

“I’m not a vampire!” Jesus, it’s just like America all over again. “I— I don’t know, I didn’t— You  _ really _ want a play-by-play of my...” Physical pain. “...foreplay with Michael?”

\---

Gerry bursts into laughter and presses a hand to Martin's shoulder, his grin wide across his face. "If you're gonna be this flustered the whole time, yes. You're so fucking funny when you start blushing."

\---

Martin grimaces up at him, face contorting into a mock snarl that’s not intentional. “No— No. I’m not handing you ammunition, you stupid - stupid ghost.”

\---

"Hah! Ammunition. Ammunition for me to know what you like for the future, maybe. That's not being stupid, that's being pragmatic for your benefit." He holds a finger up as he speaks, like it's of the utmost importance.

\---

“I...” That does nothing to help how disgustingly flustered he feels, so he crosses his arms. Indignant. Pouty. “I can’t tell if you’re baiting me or not.”

\---

He snorts. "I am. But it's not like I wouldn't take notes. And I think you like it when I tease you. Just a little."

\---

“He just...” Yes. He does. Go ahead and gloat, Gerry Keay. “He lets me be weird. I-I like how he pets me with his nails. All his nicknames give me... butterflies? God, I don’t— It was a lot. That I’d never done before. I mean— I mostly just humped him for a while, that’s not— Not what I mean, I mean... I just kept thanking him.”

\---

"You humped him. Wow. I'm actually disappointed you didn't wake me up for that. Maybe I should have. Sex referee; 'hey, fuckhead, don't cum in Michael fucking Shelley without knowing he can't get knocked up during the Apocalypse!'" he laughs again and brushes his hand over Martin's wrist, a soft little gesture to undermine the harshness of his words.

\---

“I didn’t realize I was that  _ close,”  _ Martin mumbles down to their hands, desperately trying not to die on the spot. “I just got nervous, b-because...”

Well, now he doesn’t have much of a choice to say it, does he? “He— He told me to breed him, while I— Okay, so I— Oh, I hate you.”

\---

Gerry's laugh turns into a howl, and his hand slips into Martin's, entwining them, and he lifts the back of his hand to press his lips to it. "What a gift you've just given me. Hah! Can't wait to--" He snickers and his voice gets mocking (but, notably, not to the point that he isn't a little serious), _ "--breed  _ you, oh my God Martin, you're the funniest man alive."

\---

Martin glares through him, even though he’s not actually translucent, and sinks deeper into his heated embarrassment tugging six different directions. “I thought with how he is, he might be serious.”

He squeezes around Gerry’s fingers. “You— I mean, I-I mean you can, I— How is that a  _ gift?” _

\---

"Because I think it's quite charming when you blush. Told you already. And now I know another way to make you do that." He grins and drops their hands. "Well, hey. Least he can't. Last thing we need."

\---

It’s definitely working. “I’m never letting you two alone to scheme.” Martin keeps his hand tightly wound in Gerry’s. “At least I get to spend a good part of my day watching you fight a locket for distance. You’re just lucky you advanced past hand jobs.”

\---

"Ugh. Don't remind me." He rolls his eyes. "The things I could do if I wasn't bound by skin."

\---

“You... Gerry, you can do a lot of things. You’ve done way more than we thought was possible, you don’t—“ He brushes his thumb over the side of Gerry’s hand. “You’re doing really good.”

\---

"Okay, yes, thank you for the affirmations. What are you, my spiritual guide, now? 'take three deep breaths to see the universe fold within you'. Garbage." He rolls his eyes. He doesn't step away, though, and he stays corporeal for Martin.

\---

“No, I just _ care  _ about you. It’s not garbage.” He pulls their fingers apart and keeps walking.

\---

Gerard sighs and quickens his steps, pulling on the ends of his hair. God. Martin and his affections. He's getting better at demanding them, which is good, on his part, Gerry's not callous enough on his part to deny that, but it's not like he himself has been making the same leaps and bounds forward.

"Hey," He says, and wrinkles his nose. "I also want to try changing my clothes, and uh, appearance, today? Then I'll have actual days I can show off to you."

\---

“Sure,” Martin starts up again softly, shooting him a glance with a warm smile to show he’s not too upset. “All yours today.”

\---

"Mm. Well, considering Michael was all  _ yours--" _ He cuts himself off with a snicker.

\---

“Don’t make me toss your Page at a moving car,” Martin growls, all bark and no bite.

\---

"Wow. We got  _ Growly, _ today, huh." He knocks against Martin's shoulder. "So, meeting all good? Jon being less of a prick?"

\---

He knocks back, and that’s a comfort he’ll never get sick of. “Yeah, it’s just— Hard, really, trying to keep track of it all. Would’ve been more simple months ago. Um, I still need to talk to the Archivist, for sure. I barely said anything the whole time.”

\---

"Ugh. Being  _ proactive _ with him and not just ignoring him until he goes away. Bummer." He wrinkles his nose.

\---

"He won't just go away, Gerry, you know that. It's fine. I need to talk to Helen, and him, and-- Definitely not at the same time, o-obviously, wow." Martin blinks. "I talk to-- I talk to a lot of monster people."

\---

"Just figuring that out now? Not a human among your romantic partners. Unless Michael counts, but he didn't, so I'm counting it as a tick against you."

\---

"Against me? Okay, hold on-- You're still human, you just happen to be a ghost. Michael's human, he's always been weird--"

He hums in thought, squinting as he walks forward. "So we're all monsters. Fine. We're people, too."

\---

"Yeah, obviously, no one was ever making that distinction. Maybe Jon. But he's an idiot."

\---

"He makes it complicated. I actually, um-- I brought it up in the meeting, but we couldn't really talk about it. About, um, how he--" Martin sighs. No need to filter with Gerry. "How he's horrified at, um, at himself, and how... you know, I mean-- I think you can use it for good. You just need... well, for me, I have you, and - and Michael, and I have rules, sort of, so."

\---

"He is in a bit of a different position than you." Gerard shrugs. "I mean, I agree, with you, but he's-- he's an Avatar. You know? I don't know if he  _ can _ use it for good."

\---

"Well, why not? Plenty of bad people with secrets to feed off, right? Oh, tell me about the time you embezzled money, 'ah, my career is over!'." He waves both hands in a frustrated, directionless way. "I don't know. I can't solve that. I'm-- I don't know. We'll keep working on it."

\---

"Mm. Getting on a flat basis with you-know-who will definitely help, hopefully." He shivers, his form wavering as he does. "And the more I can stay awake, the better for us all."

\---

"Oh, Christ, don't call him  _ that. _ I'll see how that conversation goes. Flatmate rules, he can even have a spot on the chore wheel." It's so much easier to joke around, to ease the tension around something he's scared shitless about.

Not fear of the Archivist, per se, more about going about this the wrong way. He wants to do it right. 

"If he doesn't want to kill Michael anymore, I-- Oh, God, I sent them off shopping together. Do you think they'll both come--" He laughs, despite himself. "--Come back?"

\---

"Jon's greatest test: not saying yes to a terror God behind our imagination, not dying, not being possessed, but shopping with one Michael Shelley and trying not to lose his mind." He snorts. "I do not envy him."

\---

“You know, at first I was worried about Michael, but I think— I think you’re right. Did you know Michael tried to kill him all the time, first go around?” 

Martin actually giggles. “It’s bad, but it’s really funny.”

\---

Gerard gives him a fond look. "I feel like Jon is very tempting to kill when you're a different avatar." He huffs. "And also, even human, Michael seems the type to just go batshit psycho."

\---

"I guess you did have to stop  _ me _ from doing it," he mumbles just under his breath. "They'll be fine."

The comical way the silence falls around them is almost too much. At least they're not far from the park, they'll get properly distracted from Michael and Jon's shopping adventures soon enough.

\---

Gerard lets the silence envelop him, and the closer they get, the more nervousness wraps around him. It's a stupid thing to he nervous about; but he's realizing more and more that he hates the limitations imposed on his ghostly spirit being made known to him. Ugh. Anxiety.

"We placing bets?" He asks, when they reach the outside perimeter of the park.

\---

Martin can tell what’s going on in Gerry’s head, to an extent, and he’s determined not to add to it. 

“On what, distance or which of them is dying first?”

He scans the park for somewhere quiet. It’s a nice day out, it’s the same park he once sat at a bench and took Michael’s statement. He walks over to a clearing where the walkways aren’t too close, not like a field, just a big patch of grass.

\---

"Distance, obviously. We both know Jon's a goner if Michael chooses to throw a fit. Get a text message all 'uh so sorry but it seems jonny here had an aneurysm and gave up after I tongue twister'd him to death'." 

He glances at the pendant. "Okay. Great."

\---

Martin snorts. “Hm. I think you can get...” He scans briefly for landmarks, unclasping the necklace from around his neck for the sake of mobility, then points at a rock a good sixty feet away. “I think you can do that. Remember when I threw your book at that tree? It went pretty far.”

\---

"Yeah. I remember that." Gerry says flatly. "It hurt. Okay." He sucks in a breath, and starts walking. He makes it there quickly, easily, without really any hassle, except for the strange peculiar sensation that he's left something behind. It's nothing actively uncomfortable, just... a prickle in the very back of his awareness. 

"I can feel it!" He calls, cupping his hands over his mouth. Thinking on it, though, it probably doesn't matter how much he yells, if Martin's constant allusions to how his voice sounds means anything. Like he knows. "But it's just-- Knowing it! I can go farther!"

\---

Martin beams over at him, gripping the necklace part of the locket as it dangles just below his palm. He can hear Gerry just fine, the ghostly static he just now imagines might show up on tape in his voice a buzz at the back of his brain. 

“Can you Know it? It might depend on a couple things—“ He calls it across the space, taking a few steps back to increase the distance by inches. “Stress, or - or how long you’ve been out, too! Unless it’s one of those things that doesn’t change?”

\---

"Exhaustion makes sense!" Gerard starts inching backwards as well, thinking. "I'm freshly awake, so let's set this as-- as a standard? 'peak condition'?" It'd be infuriating to even have to do this, if-- Well. The nervousness is gone, in its place the pursuit for the curiosity deep in his gut. He's curious, and though it's no hunt, he's often found himself afflicted by it. Hypothesis to theory. Find the books. Get the answers.

He gets another dozen or so meters back and he can feel the pull from the book increasing. It changes from a small inkling in the back of his mind to a discomfort; the knowledge of a leash, so far invisible, beginning to slowly lose its laxness. "Starting to feel it more!"

\---

“Once you find the spot, we’ll figure out how far it is, exactly? Maybe try walking around in a circle there, after?” Gerry’s so sweet when he’s focused. Martin doesn’t get to see this often, but he adores it. Much like Jon, a little excitable in the pursuit of knowledge. 

He holds himself firmly in one spot. “You move, I don’t want to accidentally walk too far. I can’t feel it the way you can!”

\---

He keeps walking backwards, and slowly his steps slow. Just in case. Who knows how cruel it'll be? Will it be a slow buildup of fading? A snap? He gets a few more meters back and wrinkles his nose, opening his arms to feel the way the tether tightens. His hand falls to his chest; it's where he can 'feel' it, if any of his sensations are physical at all. It is and it isn't.

"If I pass out suddenly, just call me back!"

\---

“Okay. I will— Be careful! You said you could feel it, maybe it won’t surprise you?” He tries to keep the locket as still as he can without clutching it in his palm, like that would bring more tension into it with another physical barrier.

\---

Gerard nods, and as he keeps backing up, his shoulders hike up too, and the small, curious smile starts to turn a little strained as the tether starts to get just the slightest prick of painful. His hands wrap around each other, squeezing, trying to stay physical.

\---

“Do you think breathing might help ground you?” He has to raise his voice, though he’s not sure if it matters to Gerry, whether he hears with the Page or with phantom ears. He couldn’t, unless it taps into the range of hearing he had before, as a memory. Maybe that’s possible.

\---

Gerard does just that, holding himself stiff as he breathes, and breathes, and breathes. It certainly makes himself feel more of this earth, but that just means the uncomfortable, tight pain wrapping itself around his heart and spine like a vice are more pressing, felt harsher.

He takes another step back, and he knows he's at the end of his rope. He's about two football field lengths away, give or take. His form wavers, and when it solidifies, and he takes another step back, he's translucent, like he's not quite here.

The pain is easier to manage, though. The numbness that so haunted him, at first, is harder to keep at bay, this far away from his anchors. He wonders if ghostly spirits from homes and houses would be like this; cut off from their anchors except in the softest of echoes that keep them tied here. What a miserable existence. Without such heavy anchors in his soul, he's not certain he'd want to try so hard, to be here. 

Maybe it is predicated upon mood, then, because with that, he stumbles another step backwards and blinks out of existence, and his eyes don't even bother with heralding his leave.

\---

Martin doesn’t get to see his struggle, his being a blip at the center point of his focus but so far away. He’s surprised he’s not worried, a calm meditation to watching him step away because he’s not, not really. 

He’s still in his hand. Martin likes that. Gerry grows harder to see, not just by distance but by lack of corporeal capabilities, and he’s slowly lifting the locket up to his chest like he knows it’s about to happen. 

And then it does. There’s no snap, no tug, no nothing from inside the locket, not one that’s ghostly, anyway. He keeps his own pangs of worry at bay and flicks his eyes to the locket. 

“Gerry? All okay?”

\---

All is quiet for nearly a minute, before green eyes on the grass start to blink their way open, out of sync and almost, if it were possible, out of breath.

Gerard appears sitting, holding himself up with his arms stretched behind him, and his hair is pulled up, like he, too, has overexerted himself. "Okay," He says, and huffs. "That was a lot."

\---

The silence is nerve wracking, like he’s never once considered the possibility of Gerry stretched too thin to ever come back. Ah. That’s not a nice thought. But Gerry’s back quickly enough for it not to spiral into something bad.

Martin crouches beside him so their eyes hit the same level, relief washing over him. “You can go far. Did the breathing help? I could tell you were pushing, by the end you went slower, but— I couldn’t really see.”

\---

"The breathing-- it made me feel more like a sentient thing, but it made the discomfort more.... Pressing? It takes energy, to feel real. Otherwise I just--" He purses his lips, trying to think without freaking Martin out by utterly dissociating into the fog here and now. "It's easy to fade into the environment. So-- give and take, on the breathing."

\---

“Depends on what you’re after. Okay! That makes sense. It’s a-a headspace. Emotions for here, ghost-stuff out there.” He points to the general area Gerry disappeared from, keeping his smile bright. It’s not difficult, actually, he’s blatantly proud. “Tired?”

\---

"Very. Don't think I've gone much farther than when you threw me at the tree before. I don't-- I don't anticipate being away from the locket but-- " He cocks his head. "Good to know."

Falling back into the grass, he sighs out. "God. I feel like a girl after her first track meet, or something."

\---

Martin falls back with him. They’re just two normal people cloud watching on a normal day. Jon is right. “Jon proposed all of us going on a date when we move into a real place. I— I’ve never had a place, with people.”

\---

Gerry blinks, and can't even pretend to hide the smile on his face. "Me either. Do you-- do you want that?"

\---

“I mean, yes? To both? I kind of— I’ve never thought about it before, but— Owning a place? Getting to do stuff to it? A  _ house?” _

His tone is a mash-up of many things. Nervous, excited, confused at his own excitement, confused at his own wants, at how often what he wants is important, now. 

“I have no idea what kinds of things we’d all do together. I’m just glad you like each other.” His own smile dents his words. “Michael kissed Jon’s cheek and he’s all over the place, now.”

\---

"Hah! Flustering Jon is the easiest thing in the world and yet it never ceases to be so fucking endearing." Gerard turns his head to look over at Martin, his cheek pressed to the grass. "Quite the matchmaker you've turned out to be. Ugh. Making even  _ me _ a romantic, and yes, I know you've won even just getting me to admit that. I want-- I'd love a place. Normal. Is that possible, for us?"

\---

“When you win, we both win. I’d like you romantic. In— Obviously, with what you are already.” He scrunches up his nose, still looking up at the sky. “It’s less about normal, more just about being happy. I think we can be happy. Normal? I don’t know, but I think I’m starting to care less about that. Weird and happy.”

\---

"Weird and happy." He hums. "How sweet. I don't mind it, though. If we're the stoppers of Apocalypses we might as well have a house."

\---

“Michael wants us to do sigils or whatever all over it, so I can only hope for our sakes we own it. It’s— I like that you can all get along. It feels— It’s a weird feeling, um, like, like at the center.”

He doesn’t mention that the cloud rolling over them looks like a mouse holding a croissant. “I just go back and forth afraid it’s all going to turn out bad, but hoping it doesn’t.”

\---

"Maybe it's about-- you know, all that chaos stuff. Crowley, again. Believe it, manifest it, will it so." He snorts. He doesn't fully believe it, but... It gets easier, with time, to think it could. Gerard's never had hope, before. It's such a small, fragile baby bird in the palm of his hand right now.

"Sigils are smart. I can help whip some up."

\---

“Yeah.” He scoffs, like he doesn’t fully believe it. He does. “I’ll make poems to stop the end of the world.” Martin turns on his side to face Gerry head-on, like they’re at some kind of slumber party. “Too tired to try changing your wardrobe?”

\---

"We can do that back home. Remember how hard it was for me to take my clothes off? Let alone make different ones appear."

\---

“I’ll bet they’re gone by now. Unless you have any other stops you, um, want to make?”

\---

Gerard shrugs. "Alive as I am, it's not like stores hold much sway for me, anymore. And it's not like I'm gonna find the kind of books I like from casual window shopping."

\---

“You can still see movies,” Martin starts as his mind works, “And hold things, or... I mean. You could probably put on one of my scarves and keep it on for a while. And— What kind of books? Not just for burning, right?”

\---

Gerard blinks, and says flatly, "Yes, Martin, I only ever want to burn books. I never ever actually read them. Ever."

\---

Martin pulls up a chunk of grass between them and dumps it on Gerry’s face. “Just tell me, you jerk.”

\---

Gerry wrinkles his nose and lets himself go incorporeal so the grass falls away without sticking to him. He rolls his eyes.

"Academic shit. Occult. You know-- our line of work. Weird shit that might not be part of our work but is still cool. Like-- Oh, when I had time, you know, to be.... Frivolous? Loved unexplained shit. Like Dyatlov Pass. Or-- Skinwalker Ranch. Weird disappearances. Shit like that. I mean, could sometimes pin it on entities, but sometimes not. I line that stuff. So interesting. "

\---

“You can find those in stores, Gerry. Or— Or something like it. And— You’re allowed to just, go walk around the library.” He picks up more grass, dropping blades of it over his arm to keep his hand busy. “We’ll stock a bookcase for you, if we get our own place.”

\---

"More than that, probably. Jon reads like a maniac. He was telling me-- you know, we talked a lot, that week you were planning. Fucker has a gift for reading and just treats it like it's a mundane thing. Hate him."

\---

“I hope things calm down after the Unknowing. I want to see him get all bookish. I like when you do it, too.” He says it quietly, half into the grass, like it’s something to be shy about. “I... I want to be able to see it, you two— Just working on things. I hope the Hunt... stuff stays quiet.”

\---

"And if not, we'll deal with it." Gerard smiles, and it's one of his rare kind ones, that glimmer of hope pushing through into the wrinkles of his eyes. "We should, um, figure out how to get you guys out of the Institute. At some point. Y'know? Do our own thing."

\---

Martin pauses with his hand in the grass, watching him smile and committing it to memory until he can return it. “What do you mean? Like... leave?”

\---

"Well, yeah." He rolls his eyes. "Don't think it's doing Jon-- or frankly you-- any favors, being under Elias' thumb and eyes."

\---

“Jon doesn’t think it matters, that— That he can see us anywhere. And— And we can’t quit.” Martin pulls his hand back to his body, just under his mouth. “And we can’t... leave other people behind, I mean— I don’t know how.”

\---

"We'll figure it out. I mean-- well. Guess you could just not work. Employed in name, laid off in practice." He snorts. "There's loopholes. You're good at those."

\---

“Maybe. I haven’t seen him at all since we got back, and it’s been— A long time. I’m starting to get worried about it, I’d rather— You know, know where he is?”

\---

"What's he gonna do? It's not like he actually does anything but watch. He's just imposing." Gerry shifts to look back up at the sky. "Maybe he's scared of the Archivist."

\---

“I don’t know what he does, I’m just told he’s scary, and plans things, and I don’t trust him.” Realization dawns on his face, and he sits up. “Do you think he could be?”

\---

"If he hears everything.... I mean. No way he could have planned for this, right? I mean-- fuck, imagine worshipping something for decades and suddenly it's here and it didn't even choose you to run its mouth through? I'd be a little paranoid I've been worshipping wrong. Right?" He shrugs.

\---

“Unless that’s not what matters, like— I mean, if he... he’s not doing things like the Archivist, right? He’s like— Like a manager. I had the idea, um—“ 

Martin makes a high, noncommittal sound at the back of his throat. “—I thought maybe he— He was the only one who knew anything about our vacation. And then, then Hunters show up? He just— He shows up, and checks on us, like we’re... incubating, or something. Ew. Okay, I don’t know where that metaphor came from.”

\---

"Incubating." Gerard wrinkles his nose but doesn't dismiss the idea. He hums, and slowly sits up himself, and busies his hands undoing his hair and starting it over, pulling it up and wrapping it into some semblance of a tight bun as he speaks.

"A chrysalis. You think he-- sent the hunters. Why, though? He ran the risk of killing--" Gerry blinks. "Unless that's what he wanted. I mean-- if Gertrude figured that out, I'm sure he knows."

\---

“Do you remember when we... when we talked about the Crown? When I was spiraling, right before Michael? You visited me down in the Archives and we, um, we role played.” Martin turns back up to the sky, mostly so he can scratch at his wrist.

\---

"Oh." Gerard grimaces. "Oh. Your fucking Spiral scenes. Yes-- well. Oh. You think Elias wants him marked. The Archivist, too? You think it--" He clenches his jaw.

\---

“I— Maybe. Yeah? Yes. I don’t know. I just throw guesses at the wall and see if they stick.” He moves to stand up, looking back down to Gerry to see if he’ll follow suit. “That’s why I want to know what he’s doing.”

\---

"But that's what I'm saying. He's not doing anything. Just nudging Jon in the right direction. Or-- well. I guess Jon's doing it all to himself, this time, really. From what I can tell, Elias has been doing little to nothing. Jon's playing his role."

\---

“I almost said it in the meeting, but I thought it was too cruel— Especially in front of Tim and Sasha, they already don’t know if they can trust him, but— Jon thinks he got sent back as punishment. We don’t... we don’t know that.” 

It hangs in the air, and he wants to rip it apart with his teeth. Martin swallows.

\---

Gerard tilts his head. "If not punishment then..." He blinks. "Acceleration?"

\---

“I don’t know,” Martin says hurriedly, walking a step back where they came. “It’s sort of hard to, um, entertain that idea. I... I mean, it’s  _ Jon. _ You know how— How I feel about him.”

\---

Gerard pushes himself to his feet and follows behind. "I know. I fancy him too. I think we'd be stupid not to see that he's a little too good at the whole Beholding thing, though. Like-- I'm not going to be willfully ignorant here."

\---

“I know. And— I mean, they’re... They’re fear powers. I don’t think I know enough about psychology to really, um, explain it, but I’m... There’s a reason I’m drawn to... mm.” He sticks his hands in his pockets. “I’m not good at talking to him about it.”

\---

"Maybe not. But I'm not sure he's helpful, either. I learned fast there's just things you don't talk to him about." He wrinkles his nose. "I like him, but he's infuriating. At least he finally talked to his assistants."

\---

“They came to us— Him. And now we’re meeting more. We talked about you, vaguely, I’m sure they’d like to meet you, but— We’re focused on the Unknowing first. They don’t know about...” He sighs roughly. “God, there’s a lot.”

\---

"Always is, in this line of life, huh." He reaches out and grabs hold of Martin's hand, refusing to look at him, as they walk. "I'll meet them. All good." He's quiet for a moment. "It'll be weird to stop it. That's what we were researching I-- you know. America."

\---

“Really?” Martin takes it gladly, growing used to the lack of temperature. No shortage of warm bodies around here, but there’s only one Gerry. 

Okay. Weird way to phrase that. “I think it might be good to have you at meetings. You’re a... You’re a good mediator. Not as a book, or - or for trivia, just you.”

\---

"I'm okay with that. Think I'm the only one who actually worked with Gertrude, huh?"

\---

Martin quirks an eyebrow up at him. “What do you mean?”

\---

"I mean, we're continuing her work, aren't we? Especially with the Unknowing. I worked with her? For like a year. None of you did."

\---

“Oh, I thought— I thought you meant I thought you were her only assistant. Yeah— Well, Sasha seems to know a bit. I don’t think they  _ worked  _ together worked together, though.”

\---

"Guess she had Michael but-- toss up on if he actually knew anything before he spiralled, huh." He shrugs.

\---

That earns Gerry a venomous glare. “He did. You know he has a degree, right? It’s people that are hard.”

\---

"There's a difference between having a degree and knowing monsters exist, Martin." He gives Martin a nasty face in response to the glare. "I'm not disparaging his uni career. Sheesh."

\---

Martin only turns it into a glaring contest. “His friend was eaten by the Spiral before he even met Gertrude. I-I don’t think there’s anybody who works there who didn’t see something before they came here.”

\---

"... Huh." Gerard loses the contest, because he's never thought of that. "Where's yours?"

\---

He’s only able to bask in the satisfaction of winning that one out for a second before it turns to confusion. “Where’s my what?”

\---

"What'd you see? Y'know? Why'd you find your way to the institute?"

\---

“I dunno,” Martin says with a distantly defensive shrug. “My mum, I guess. Eugh. Mother. Things that happened with her? B-Because of her? That’s why I took this job, anyway— I lied on my CV. I thought it might be, um, easy. But I believe in stuff. I— I dunno.”

\---

Gerard can't help but snort. "Ah, yes, the fifteenth entity: mums. Beware!"

\---

“Right. I guess— I just, most of my life I never got to tell anyone anything. About her, about the things I saw or - or got scared of, or even the things I liked and wasn’t scared of.”

He follows the pavement with his eyes as he walks. “I tried talking to Michael about it, but— I mean, he’s just come back to life. I didn’t get far.”

\---

"I think you're doing good. I mean-- you're telling me. That's a start." He's kind enough not to stare holes into Martin's face, watching the other people walking as they continue. "Your mum and mine would have snogged on first sight, seeing the others’ fucked up kid."

\---

Martin pulls a hand up to his mouth and bites at one of his nails. “Ha! Asking for tips. But— Her, I can talk about now. Well— Parts of it. I mean— I mean the other thing. It’s, ugh, I just brought it up and I don’t even want to.”

\---

"What other thing? Now you have me curious." He does turn to look at him now, squinting.

\---

Martin doesn’t look up this time. “I don’t... really— He laughed, and I’d never told anyone before, and I didn’t even get very far, but now I’m more nervous about saying anything and - and we’re out here walking in public on a Friday.”

\---

"I hate it when you're vague," Gerard mumbles. He takes up a truly horrendous impression of Martin's voice. "'Oh, I'm Martin no one ever listens to me except when my ghost explicitly asks me to say things and then I get shy and blush and refuse to ever talk ever and it's so infuriatingly cute.' ugh."

\---

“I try n—“ He cuts off to listen, and he hates it. He scoffs, puffing his chest out to shoot a bad impression right back. “‘I like manipulating my locket-keeper into telling me all his embarrassing personal history by complimenting him so he gets flustered enough to let his guard down because he knows I’m not lying!’ Shut up. I’ll try. Just— I don’t know, be - be gentle?”

\---

_ "Manipulating."  _ He scoffs and waves a hand. "I'll be gentle. Fine. Just tell me. Sheesh. It's clearly eating you up."

\---

“It’s not _eating me up!”_

He says it too loud, too bristly, but it’s not because of anything to do with it. “I didn’t even remember it until I went into the Spiral. There was— One time, in there, I was younger and I remembered it better because it happened closer to... to that age, I guess. I don’t— I’m good at not remembering things. From a long time ago.”

\---

"... Okay. But you remember it now. What happened?"

\---

Martin gives him a plaintive, dog-begging look. “...Can it wait until we’re home?”

\---

"I-- yes, yes it can wait till we're home. Not gonna force you, Jesus." He huffs.

\---

“I know you’re not. Do you— Do you want to rest, before? Or are you okay?”

\---

"Nah. Disorienting, to wake up in different places. I just needed to, um, catch my breath, so to speak?" He holds his hands out and flexes his fingers in and out of his palms. "I feel fine, now."

\---

“Mm.” He gives him a neat once-over to make sure that checks out, and decides to leave it at that. Luckily, it’s a short walk, and Martin is certainly happy to be able to enjoy walking around without having a crisis. 

People aren’t terrifying him. Not to the extent they did. Maybe people in America are just like that. 

He’s lost in his own thoughts up until they come up to the Institute, and Martin pulls a few feet away from Gerry before coming back as they hit the stairs. “This place looks so much more sinister now that you know it’s kind of evil.”

\---

Gerry snorts. "I think all places of academia are kind of evil, at the end of the day," He says, but looks up at the building like he's regarding it under a new light himself. "I still can't believe you willingly choose to live here."

\---

“I had a flat,” Martin shrugs. “She— Prentiss sort of kidnapped me there, before. Less safe than here, I-I guess.”

\---

"Until she followed you here." Gerard pauses and hums. "Under Elias' watch, again. Curious. I think your theory holds weight."

\---

“Right. Fun. Yay.” It’s the world’s most pitiful ‘yay’. He holds the front door open for Gerry like a sad butler. “I don’t know enough about him to know how to keep an eye on him.”

\---

He shrugs. "Guess we can't. Better to just continue on as we are. At least we're closer to knowing what's happening."

\---

“Unless we’re wrong. I-I guess it’ll come up in our meetings. We were talking about finding somewhere new for them, so maybe that’ll help.” Martin takes them back to the lifts, which he’s getting completely sick of. Make him feel like something bad is going to happen in them, some day.

\---

"Maybe." Gerard says, and gives a casual shrug. He leans against the wall, and looks up at the lights as they traverse to their floor. "Think some of those details are hard for me to care about, sometimes. Being dead and all."

\---

“That’s a funny thing to say when we’re going back to the office so you can try putting on a runway show,” Martin hums smugly, trying to rope back in the tone. Mostly to gear Gerry back up for what he wants to try. Feelings matter, here, he thinks.

\---

That gets him a scoff. "Runway show. I'm not Michael. Please. Maybe I'm just bored of a coat that was out of style when I was alive."

\---

“Aww, but I love Gerry Keay’s ugly coat,” Martin says fondly as he reaches to tug on the edge of it. “What, are you bored of things I can pull?”

\---

Gerry blinks, and lets out a very, very controlled voice. "You say terrible things sometimes that I could really be bad about, Martin Blackwood."

\---

Martin buries the way having his full name said sends a shiver up his spine by sticking his tongue out in Gerry’s direction. “I doubt it’s that bad.”

\---

"Probably not. But you already shot your shot today, huh. So what's the use." He sticks his tongue right back at him.

\---

The lifts open, and lucky for them both he doesn’t try to throttle Gerry right then and there. “Would you  _ quit it?  _ That has nothing to do with— ugh!” 

And off he goes down the halls. Big day for Martin.

\---

Gerard is so busy laughing at his reaction that the elevator closes on him, and he has to hurriedly incorporate himself to the extent that he can glide through the door entirely, and it leaves him shivering from the translucency he has to recover from when he steps back into the hall. He hurries after Martin, and he's grinning ear to ear by the time he manages to catch up.

\---

“I’m not looking at you, but I— I can tell you’re smug, so cut it out.” He doesn’t quite growl, but it’s a near thing. He pauses with his hand over the doorknob, still refusing to look at him, just long enough for one last comment. “At least I _ can.” _

\---

That just gets Gerard snickering again. "Already had my breakdown about that one, I'm immune to it now," He says, and yes, it is smug, but it's the last thing he'll say on the matter. No worries, Martin.

\---

“We’ll - We’ll just get a can of whipped cream and pretend,” Martin laughs despite himself, shutting the door to the office behind them.  _ “And _ we’re back. And I don’t think... I don’t hear anyone, so! Just, um, us?”

\---

"Right. Okay." He takes a breath and rounds the corner of the desk so he can sit down in the Archivist chair and prop his boots up on it. He folds his hands together, fingertips together. He's quiet for a second as he gathers his thoughts, but his eyes get brighter and brighter-- not the green ones, mind, just curiosity and excitement in very human ones-- as he thinks. 

"I want your help. I have a theory, right-- it's all. All the other stuff we talk about. Intent. Magic. Chaos. I'm a spirit, and you're the keeper of my anchor. Therefore-- I think your intent could change me. Right?" He's quiet for a second. "If I am right, that's a  _ lot  _ of power I'm giving you."


	56. Chapter 56

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Oracle's introduction.

The tone shifts completely, so suddenly that all Martin can really manage is bringing his hands up to the back of the guest chair to face him without sitting down. 

He forgets, sometimes, that Gerry can be quite the commanding force when he’s serious. 

“But... “ He says it slowly, like he’s not sure how to process all of this completely, eyes wide with wonder. “Do you really— No, I-I won’t get sappy. Okay. Um, I guess I have... two things? One, do you - do you  _ want  _ that? Two, how— how would I intend for you to change?”

\---

"I was thinking the clothes could be a start, to get you-- thinking about it, essentially." He tilts his head slightly. "That would be a visual change to my-- breaching? Into this reality. Your own energy and brain directly formulating my own existence." He shrugs-- it's still just a theory, but one nonetheless.

"I've been thinking about it, since Michael's ritual. A ritual  _ you _ created, wholesale, just by virtue of belief. And a ritual during which it became very obvious to me that I'd like a second person capable of manipulating my reality that isn't our patron god. You're the only person I've ever trusted. Ergo--"

He unlaces his fingers to kind of gesture towards Martin.

\---

“Right. I— Well, I like experiments. I’d just have to, um, think about it! I-I mean, think about how to change it, not whether I want to, I—“

His heart thumps, that messy, heady concoction of love and power that makes him feel… weird. Maybe that’s just his word for love. Weird. 

“Okay. I’m... I was proud of that,” he says with a nervous giggle, looping around the chair so he can sit down. “Only problem is, um, whether... what’s the word, subconscious? Whether that matters. I-I guess it does if I’m thinking about it, but. I guess we’ll just have to see?”

\---

"Kind of why I was thinking clothes and appearance might be a good start." Gerard quirks an eyebrow. "Plus, maybe I want to see how you see me. Lots of reasons to try this."

He leans back in his chair. "You have my physical anchor. Maybe that will help, to start with. To focus on? We'll work up to making you a-- a wholly spiritual one yourself?"

\---

Martin keeps the locket looped around his palm, eyeing it once before he turns back to Gerry. He grips it at the center of his hand and balls it up into a fist. “I can do that. What— Um, what do you mean, though? By spiritual anchor? Thoughts?”

\---

"Um-- Hm." He hadn't thought to define that. But the more he does, the more he gets the telltale signs of his ghost-blush. All but his skin, but that slight nervous waver in his visual form. He gives the most casual shrug he possibly can. Too casual.

"I guess I just. Like. You more than anyone else? So hopefully it's-- it's your opinion, and, ah, presence? I defer to?"

\---

“Oh.”

He doesn’t mean to let that sit there, heavy with care and understanding, dwelling longer than he’s sure Gerry would like to. 

“You mean if - If you were more attached to me than— Okay! We’ll— We’ll work on that. Clothes first. I think...” He spurs himself into movement, up out of the chair so he can move it away from facing the desk, facing the walking space of the room instead. Not have Gerry need to figure out where he is relative to the other furniture when he comes back. “Let’s try it. Maybe if we agree on picking something specific, um, it’ll be easier to start?”

He talks a little too fast, not because he wants to hurry this along but because he’s flustered, and not in a bad way, not in an embarrassing way, just _ a way. _

\---

"Yeah. Any thoughts?" Gerard slowly stands, grateful for once in his fucking life that Martin moves conversations along with a ferociously whiplashing speed.

\---

“Hm.” A few ideas get tossed around in his head, trying to parse what might be the easiest to imagine and to change. That’s a tough one. “What about... a different jacket? Everything else the same, just more— I’m thinking, mm, like one of those leather biker jackets. Something like that?”

\---

Gerard nods. Not too far off what he has, just... Different. Perfect. "Think of it when you summon me again. I don't really have much conscious thought until I'm here." 

He lets out a breath and he winks out of existence, following the blinking of green eyes.

\---

Oh. 

Bye. 

Martin lets out a puff of breath that might’ve been an affirmation, or something, he’s not sure, but now he’s taking this very seriously. 

He settles back in the chair, driven by how much he wants to see Gerry happy, how much he wants to see him able to change something he’d once resigned to. It doesn’t have to be what any of them thought it was, and Gerry’s still alive. In— Well... he’s  _ real.  _ He’s here, and he can interact with this world, all the other aspects of life are arbitrary. 

He thinks he might be gearing up to this idea by pouring all the positivity he feels into what he wants Gerry to see, and it’s gotten him off track a little, but he can weave it back through. Gerry, who fought to take an inch with every fiber of his being dedicated to an action he’d never have to fight for before. Gerry, patiently patching him up on the side of the road after dropping thing after thing after thing and still seeing it through. Gerry, who despite the occasional apathetic front, wants to be here. 

It wouldn’t work if he didn’t. Maybe one day he’ll be able to do anything. Maybe he’ll even learn how to possess a car by way of tying the locket to the rear view mirror, get that stupid, smug look on his face when he summons himself into the driver’s seat and leans out the window to wave. Or flip him off. Probably that one. 

Actually, the way his brain seems to think an Impala is the only car capable of being  _ attractive _ sort of works with what they’re going for. 

Okay, enough of that. Martin puts a little bit of force behind this one, since they’re testing things today, and he wants him back. “Gerry, come here.”

\---

The thing that's peculiar about, well, the magic that this is, is that it takes two to tango. Martin's intent mingles with Gerard's being, and though he may not consciously  _ feel _ the thoughts and will circling the call that brings him back to the Archival Office, the particles that make up his existence do.

The eyes, when they signal Gerry's return, almost seem to squint at Martin, curious in the attention given to them. Is there a difference between seeing a ghost and molding one? What trust given to a ghost who gives himself willingly. What prostration to believe so fully in one's cause to follow it even in death.

Something got mingled in the transfer. Martin went with an _ aesthetic,  _ not just the jacket, even if he didn't mean to. Maybe Gerry has his own subconscious understandings of these impressions. All the vagueness, the consciousness of the wishes.

His hair is short. Well. Shorter. Fucking Grease. His hair hasn't been this short since he chopped it when he turned thirty for summer and hated it profusely because he never learned how to use hair gel to push overlong hair from his eyes. Hated it so much he refused to even dye it, for the first time since he was a child. Virgin fucking hair. 

The jacket-- well. Martin sort of dictated that one, didn't he. Never ceases to amaze Gerry that Martin can snarl and growl all he wants but deep down he obviously finds Gerard  _ sexy.  _ That's okay with him.

That Impala certainly gave its impressions to him. Only thing missing is a cigarette, really.

\---

The closest hand to his face is the one holding the locket, and his grip softens so the palm can cover his mouth. He isn’t hiding anything, but the last thing he wants is an ambiguous look shying Gerry away from their practice. 

Well, maybe he is hiding something. His eyes give away the shock, but behind his hand there’s an embarrassed smile aimed mostly at himself. Yep. Went a bit off track, for sure. Good to know. 

He’s _ adorable.  _

“I’m sorry,” Martin says with the tone of someone who’s mostly only sorry he’s been caught and has to explain himself, “I started thinking about— cars? We, um, we got the jacket, Gerry...” He titters, the metal necklace against his lips. “...Your  _ hair.” _

\---

Gerry hums, and smooths his fingers through his hair, and the grimace on his face is palatable embarrassment. "The one time I didn't dye it. You tapped into the  _ one  _ time."

He slowly focuses on Martin, though, and oh, his other experiment is certainly looking good. Operation 'what turns Martin on' is off to a good start.

\---

“No, no— That was you. I didn’t think about your hair at all! It’s— I like it, though? You look so  _ young.”  _ Not that he looked old, but it gives off this immature, vaguely rowdy look. 

What a couple of loons they make. Martin, sitting back in the guest chair of an office, and Gerry, playing dress-up. He isn’t aware of the other game his ghost is playing. He’s staying committed, excited but not distracted. “So we learned... we learned that it can combine a few ideas that branch off, and it draws from... the past? At least— You sound like you remember your hair like that before.”

\---

Gerard shrugs. "Summer before I turned thirty. 2009. But-- yeah. Yeah. Muscle memory. Soul memory? Combined with what we insert."

He's leaning against the desk, not sitting in the chair, and he pushes off of it to look down at himself. "Never had a jacket like this. Looks good, honestly."

\---

“Better than the old one, but— I mean, harder to grab. Good thing, maybe?” Martin makes a high, noncommittal sound from the back of his throat. “That, um— So, part of it was subconscious. I hope that’s not a... an issue.” 

Moving on. “Still tired?”

\---

"Not an issue, because I can just blame you." He snorts. "Okay. Nah. Let's do another. Something-- not similar to what I normally am?"

\---

“No, you can’t. It’s teamwork. That’s - That’s how it works.” Martin squints. “I’ll punish you by thinking about floral shirts, like - like that poor girl you harassed back in Italy, or whatever.”

\---

"Harassed...  _ harassed?  _ I saved her life, I'll have you know." He glares. "Just-- oh, think of something different but that I won't buck against. I want to try that later. Experiments. Increments."

And then, because he's a dick, he presses two fingers to his lips and winks, hair falling nicely over his eyes, and then disappears.

\---

Martin considers throwing the locket where he faded out in retribution, but decides that’s too childish. Gerry wouldn’t feel it, anyway. 

Something different. Gerry’s normally a lot of things, but not in dress. For working so close with Gertrude, as wickedly smart as he is, he never got to that state of prim decorum that Jon had once tried to embody through image. 

Actually, it’s sort of a nice thing, that he gets to live as long as he wants to, now. That he gets to have this as the defining point of his early afterlife. He’ll get to read, and— Well, he can technically get all the degrees he wants to, if he wants to, with a well-made fake ID and a few connections he could build. Maybe even change his last name, if he wants to. Research, if he wants that. Not just be the book preserved, but— Records. He’d be good at that. 

He wishes he could’ve seen Gerry stepping back into that place he mentioned, with all the books he thinks he can’t find anywhere else, without his mother having to be there. Just for him. 

Ah. Okay. This one’s a little too on the nose, isn’t it?

He doesn’t think Gerry will fight whatever happens here, he always gets so upset about not having gone to school, but there’s no look in mind. That’s up to him, he guesses, what he thinks he might look like that way. 

Martin smiles fondly, voice reflecting much the same. “Round two, Gerry Keay.”

\---

If Gerry Keay had ever gone to university, there is absolutely no way he would have dressed for the occasion. He's not, and has never been, a try-hard. And there would have been something quietly satisfying about looking like absolute shit and still outperforming his peers. Just a little. 

But it isn't just him influencing this, is it? 

This time, Gerard doesn't know what he's wearing when he appears. There isn't that deep-set knowledge of ‘oh, yes, this is me’ that he got with the last round. The green eyes are surprised when they come, and then so is Gerry, appearing back in the Archivist chair and looking down. 

His hair is pulled back, but not in the messy, disorganized bun. Pulled neatly behind his ears and tidied down his back in a tight ponytail, and his nails are neat and trim, and he's wearing, oh for God's sake,  _ Martin, _ a blazer. A black button-down underneath, at least, thank god, but that still doesn't ruin the illusion. He looks positively well put together. Ugh. His piercings are even gone, when he runs his hands over his face, all of them empty save for small, respectable black studs in his ears. 

"You made me a  _ yuppie?" _ He asks, but. Well. He can't deny he feels quite professional. Maybe even Elias would give him a job like this.

\---

Martin doesn't bother keeping his reactions in check, this time, his laughter far from nervous. Oh, how the tables have turned. That's what you get for letting this one into your soul. 

"I didn't  _ make _ you anything. You-- Honestly, you do look sort of evil." He shakes his head, trying to keep on track with this. Sharing his thoughts with the class. "Okay. This time you mentioned something different, and-- I was thinking about what you said about books today and, I mean-- There's been other times, but--  _ bookish." _

He keeps it like that. No explanation. He's grinning stupidly. "I think I hate it."

\---

"Me too." Gerard says, and pulls his hair out of the ponytail, and flicks the tie at Martin. It goes through him, incorporeal, but whatever. Point made.

It's both him, and it's not. 

"Still. Clearly something my mind had thoughts about. I want-- next time? Something you know I won't like. So I can see how it feels to be twisted into something I don't want. Got it?"

Before Martin can argue about God who knows what, that boy can argue for hours about anything, Gerry finger guns him and disappears.

\---

"Wh--" 

Stupid poltergeist. What is he supposed to do with that? 

It takes him a while to even open up to the idea of it. Something Gerry doesn't want, and if Martin's in some level of control over that it's-- 

No, overthinking it. It's a test. They're seeing what's possible, and the more they do it, the more they'll understand it. Hopefully, too, the more Gerry will be able to control it. As much fun as it is, he wants Gerry not to have to bow to anybody, not unless he wants to.

But that's not where they are right now. Once Martin accepts that, the hard part is actually coming up with something he thinks Gerry won't like. He's surprising in a million different ways. Clearly he must've liked floral shirts, at some point, so colors might not be the best bet.

He's honestly worried about accidentally revealing that Gerry secretly wants to wear the things Michael does when he gets to choose, so he tries not to think about that. His next thought is priest, something annoyingly Catholic, but-- that aesthetic  _ is _ a bit dark and broody.

Hm. What else does he do, besides wrangle-- Oh, wait. That's a good one. He's a  _ zookeeper.  _ Wow. Actually, the idea of him wearing shorts is bad enough, but that's a start. 

He lifts the locket up and shakes it like he's bullying the poor ghost. "Oh no, the Hunt's come back and I've gone all feral, Gerry."

\---

The Eyes are positively glaring when they come back. It takes a minute, two, like there's an internal struggle; the soul is being wrenched from a place it has never been nor wanted to be. 

Gerard's hair hangs humid in clumps around his face, like he's in a swamp, a fucking safari hat on his head. The shirt-- something he or Martin must have seen with, like, Steve Irwin or something-- doesn't look bad on him, tight on his arms as it is, but it's such a startling reminder of how white and red and blotchy his skin is, where the burns have healed incomplete where he wore clothes during the fire, that his clothes normally hide. 

He would refuse to stand and show everything else, but it seems the manifestation has other ideas. He comes to the world with an angry finger already pointed in Martin's direction, standing over him, and the angry pout to his face is utterly ruined by the tactical hiking boots and socks and cargo shorts. 

"Stay feral, you asshole."

\---

Martin holds completely still while the Eyes watch him, gripping him in place while Gerry winds up for some punishment he knows he's earned. 

Oh, it's so much worse than he could've possibly imagined on his own. 

Gerry  _ helped.  _ He barely gets to take in all the details before he's covering both eyes with his hands, startled laughter punched out of him with the short glimpse of the world's grouchiest Gerry. 

"Oh, Christ, take it back, take-- " He peeks, just with one eye, and gets just barely a second of composed silence in before he's laughing again. "Take it back. This one's  _ awful. _ I wish I was feral right now."

\---

_ "Ugh." _ Martin gets one roll of the eyes and a middle finger, and he says, "Something  _ nicer,  _ this time, because this is fucking awful," and then he disappears, hardly wanting to even entertain this one. 

It's useful to know that Martin can do that, and Gerard knows how it feels, now, to be wrenched into a form and being that is foreign but still him, but it doesn't mean he likes it.

\---

Right. Gerry's earned something nice. Something more like him, but maybe, maybe something extravagant? Something he might not have been able to afford, or-- Or never really indulged in, much, but still fits him. 

His thoughts follow a few paths, and this time Martin lets them run amok. It starts with a nickname, one he'd spiraled into life, prophet-witch. They've yet to have their candle-lit vigil and act like Satanists, but it's not quite that--

At the time, he hadn't really thought to analyze the nickname. But there's something otherworldly about him, not just from the ghost thing, like by nature of existing he's able to tap into things beyond a veil none of them ever get to see. He just brushes it, mostly, but he gets to Know it, things he shouldn't, soak up knowledge like a sponge. 

He thinks of constellations, of runes, the sigils he wants to see, of moon cycles and fog and whispered prophecies to a half-circle where he has eyes on him, wide with love and respect and awe at who he is. Someone cherished, and special, who holds people together in spite of them all threatening to tear each other apart.

He kisses the locket, and it's an apology as much as a beckoning. "Are we close enough now that I don't have to say your name, or - or a nickname I've used before? Can I ask for my Oracle?"

\---

Oh, as bold as Gerry Keay has been with Martin in the past, no one has ever asked for  _ this.  _ Never, ever, in a dreary life where a mother did not care so long as her son obeyed, never ever in a world where time was never afforded to play these games (not games, not really, but easier, in this previous life, to pretend they were) except in the briefest moments of confused culture shock. 

The Oracle-- what a name, what a _ name--  _ is heralded with eyes wide with shock, wide as though taking everything, everything in. What atmosphere would want this? And Gerry, herself, manifests with the smallest of smiles, something akin to aloe vera being pressed to her soul. 

She brings her own to this, little frivolous aspects to what she is that Martin could never guess, not if he wanted. The dress might be his, tight and black and simple and hugging, but he couldn't know that Gerry always liked the idea of her hair being french braided, the care and devotion and skill needed for it, the tightness of the strands of hair pulling on her scalp a constant reminder of all of it and more. Couldn't have known that if given the chance she'd do liner and mascara, but was way too old to do all that newfangled contouring. 

She's at the Archivist chair again, her hands pressed together under her chin, and her nails are once more black and chipped, but that's alright. A dress and makeup doesn't negate curb-stomping boots and a willingness to fuck someone up.

\---

So she arrives, and Martin is breathless. His imagination fused with Gerry’s reality into something he knows he couldn’t possibly have come up with alone. It’s simple, as opposed to the complicated, confusing stream of ideas he tried stringing together, but Martin supposes that’s how it feels, in some way. 

Martin forgets to say anything for a long moment, glad to take this one in as long as he’s allowed without making a fool of himself. He supposes it doesn’t really matter, Gerry’s already seen him at his most foolishly ridiculous. 

He’s not teasing for it, when he does manage to say something. Just sits politely, both hands in his lap with the locket between them, returning the smile with one of his own on a face flushed with all their laughter from before. “You seem happy.”

\---

"No one's ever believed me before," she says, and she's honest, truthful in a way that feels easier right now, in this moment, in this swirl of Martin and Gerry intermingling to let her exist. "Or really cared for this." 

There's an awe to her voice, too, but after a moment, she wrinkles her nose and leans forward, leering at Martin. "Like what you  _ seeee, _ Martin?"

\---

“I— I mean, yes, but—“ It’s an odd thing, actually, the way his pupils widen to fit just short of eclipsing the green and brown flecks of his irises. Tapping into something awed, in the part of him shaped by the Hunt that’s shaped by him, who he is, what he values. 

The Hunt curls itself around the Eye and the Eye is not and is Gerard Keay, facets to who that is just as the Hunt or the Spiral or any of the others are facets of Martin. Like recognizes like, though, and there’s something beautiful about it beyond even the aesthetics. The part of him that desperately needed Gerry to see what he was in that cave, at his most desperate, most loving, most vulnerable and simultaneously most powerful, it’s not just the Hunt latching onto Gerry or the Eye as both something that can control it and be controlled, it’s just the truth. 

“Oh. Maybe they like each other so much because they’re not... they’re not afraid to be what they are.”

He didn’t mean to say that out loud. Martin blinks, but the starry-eyed haze doesn’t go away. 

“Sorry, I’m— I believe you— Did you say something else?”

\---

She snorts. "No. You look like you're about ready to cream yourself. Ha!" She pulls back away from the desk so she can lean back and put her feet back up, heavy boots resting on some of Jon's folders.

"I like the dress. Think you know my size better than I do."

\---

“It’s not like  _ that.” _ There’s no layer of defensiveness to it, and Martin scoots closer in the chair so he can lean forward with his elbows on the desk. He rests his chin over his forearms where they cross, eyes stuck on Gerry. “Did I do that?”

\---

"I.... Think? I mean, I can't know for certain." She cocks her head, thinking. "I don't exactly come to with an, ah, awareness of what's what? It all intermingles. Especially if it's something that feels true or accurate to me, versus... Something that's an artificial intrusion."

\---

Martin tilts his head to one side, keeping it there against his arms. “It’s— I just thought of something real. About, um, about people listening to you, like they respected you? It’s hard to explain how it gets there, with... words. I like you.”

\---

"Hah! Yes. I like when you get... witchy with your perception of me." Her smile is soft, the quiet surprise at feeling so seen beneath Martin's care that the hard edges of her face fall partially away.

\---

Martin spends another minute watching her before he speaks up again, soft and polite. “It makes me feel like that night on - on the lake, when Jon was so sure of himself and... not afraid of anything, and I-I howled for him. And I felt really good about it, like there was nothing wrong with it. It was just me.”

\---

"You," Gerry says, and jabs a finger in his direction, "Are a true blooded romantic. It's nauseating sometimes." she wrinkles her nose. "I think I love it. Ugh."

\---

Martin bites down on his own dismissal at the idea, opting instead not to shatter the reverence he feels. “Do you like dancing?”

\---

"I mean-- like. I don't really have an opinion on it? I've never done it with someone else and not in my room."

\---

“Oh— Oooh.” He thinks on that, the second one drawn out with wonder. “I mean, I don’t know enough to teach you, but maybe you could... could you Know how? Or is it just facts?”

\---

She snorts. "I think-- I think it's just facts. Else I'd stop underestimating how crazy you are." she pauses. "You want to dance with me?"

\---

Martin moves his head back up straight and nods wordlessly.

\---

She squints at him for a long, long moment, and then finally slides her gaze away, and gives a short nod, standing slowly and brushing her hands down the length of her dress. "I'm telling you, I don't know how."

\---

“I don’t... I don’t really know, either,” He says with no small amount of anxious fretting, tracking Gerry’s motions as close as his eyes will let him. “I just got the idea I’d like to— With you.”

\---

"Okay." She blinks. "You have to pick the music, though, Casanova."

\---

“Ah. Oh. Um.” 

Get it together, you dumb idiot. “Okay. I was wondering, earlier, when you could hear me from far away, if— How sound works? For you? I just have my headphones, but... um.” 

He stands up, and at least he doesn’t feel underdressed. It’s a nice sweater, Jon. Thanks for that.

\---

"Oh. Huh. We can give it a try, at least. That's-- yeah." It puts her at ease, almost. Good. Another experiment, embedded in what's likely to be very embarrassing for her.

\---

“O-One second,” Martin excuses himself poorly, trying to find where exactly he’d put the things in the bedroom. It doesn’t take long, and the noise he makes when he finds them half under the bed somehow is audible from the office. 

“Um,” he says again, eloquently, as he steps into the doorway and forgets it’s rude to stare. “Any preferences?”

\---

Gerry purses her lips, and a wry smile grows on her face. "Well, you're leading the dance, as my man, sooo... Your choice."

\---

Christ. He doesn’t know how to dance, it was just a _ fantasy.  _ “Okay, I just— Let me find something.”

He moves the headphones up over his ears, connecting them to his phone as he searches. The familiar pressure on either side of his head actually helps with the butterflies, and he steps over to Gerry with that same starstruck expression. “Can you hear this?”

He presses the screen to play whatever he’d had up last, which is apparently something from Arcade Fire. Gerry told him about that one. His thumb hovers over the pause button, like it’s not what he’s planning to stick to.

\---

Gerry stands still and cocks her head, and gives the smallest of nods. "A little. Maybe--  _ want  _ me to hear it more? That might help?"

\---

“I—“ Martin makes an indignant sound, softened by the doting expression he can’t shake. “Of course I want you to hear it!” 

He spends a second finding one of his older playlists, one he used to... well, it doesn’t matter. They’ll start slow to figure things out, if it even works, Louis Armstrong. Sure. Play it and be done with it, his phone is shoved deep into his pocket. 

He holds out one hand for Gerry’s. Oh. He didn’t even think about their height difference. That’s fine, spinning is mostly on her. Wow. That— Sounds nice to see. Argh. “What about now?”

\---

Gerry blinks and her eyes widen a bit, as the music floats through her ears. It's a strange sensation, if only because of its novel. It's new. And the song...

She takes his hand and says, "Yeah, I can hear it now. Wow."

\---

Martin grins, focusing on her. Not like there’s anything else he wants to do that with, right now, but. “Right.  _ Right, _ um. So, it’s... When I step back, you step forward, like—“ 

He moves back with his other hand at her side, making sure they have enough room in the office for this as he checks behind him. Not like they’ll be doing anything completely crazy, still good to know.

\---

Her smile grows the moment Martin wraps a hand around her side, and she moves with him, lost for a moment in the novelty of the skirt of her dress moving around her waist with the step. She looks down at him, and her eyes are alight with excitement. Guess the cheat code to Gerry Keay is 'new experiences'.

\---

Oh, no. He needs to stop falling in love so much. It’s becoming a real non-problem. “Good,” Martin says through his own delight, pushing just slightly so she’ll step back. “And— Back? Just getting, um— Getting used to it.”

\---

It's strange, to let someone command her steps, but it's not unwelcome. There's a pleasure in it, the sheer privilege of trusting Martin enough not to make fun right now, or hurt her, or betray, or, or, or. When did she fall in this deep? Must have been a while ago. She's almost exasperated how head over... Well, boots, it seems, she is.

Gerry steps back, and the music is a cascade in her ears, and she's grinning without it being a conscious thing at all. "I can almost feel how warm you are."

\---

Martin starts trying to keep track of the pace as he steps forward, and then back, then back again, keeping an eye on how Gerry keeps up. Seems corporeal enough, with their fingers laced together and the hand at her side not slipping through, but it’s a lot to keep track of. 

“I’m barely aware enough of what I’m doing with - with my body, and I don’t have to worry about phasing through anything. If anyone could somehow figure out how to sense temperature, I mean, it’s definitely you.”

\---

The more they move, the easier the movements become, and the music begins to leave her with this slow-trickle of knowledge, easing in and out with the melody, like a tide, and though Martin is leading, there's a point where it equalizes, and only just, and then she's letting him lead in name alone.

Curious. Her movements become more confident, and though it's still a slow, calm, sleepy dance, she at least knows what she's doing, and she pulls Martin close in one of the steps and says, "Maybe I do know."

\---

“Maybe you do,” Martin says with some delay, color high in his cheeks. This sure is happening, isn’t it? “Know how to spin? Hard to keep our hands together, you—“

He laughs, a tiny, happy thing, as they keep moving. “—Even without boots on it’s a stretch. I should just will myself taller.”

\---

"Aw, your poor pesky physical body. Can't even chaos magick new proportions for you." But she's kind enough to step back and pull away from him, crouching down to start unlacing her boots.

\---

Martin rolls his eyes, but the dopey smile that sticks as he hums through the notes says enough about what he actually thinks. Elated, is what he is. Something painfully good about being teased for having a body. Like Gerry’s finding ways to own it. 

Erm, the ghost thing. Not Martin’s body.

\---

When she gets the boots off, she tosses them to a corner of the room, where they promptly disappear the moment they aren't connected to the Visage of her soul, and she stands back up to meet Martin where he is. Still taller, but she's knocked at least a couple inches off.

"Okay. Back to it," she purrs, and takes his hands once more.

\---

“Back to it,” Martin parrots back, definitely without the added purr. “It really is a-a good joke, tossing it off— You could, um—” he laughs around it as he moves, just breathless enough with the lingering awe. “—I just imagine you throwing knives at random people but - but they just go right through.”

\---

Gerry laughs against him, wrinkling her nose in amusement. "Hiding the very real knife you throw at them. Yes. I like that."

\---

“You mean me, right? I’m the knife? Definitely not a knife person.” More of a hands-on sort of guy, isn’t he, he thinks as he takes a half-step forward and tries to corral her into a spin of some kind. They probably look ridiculous. That’s perfectly fine.

\---

Gerry let's herself spin, and she can't help but giggle at the motion. She cuts it off with a growl deep in her throat, at the end of the spin, and pulls Martin to her, taking the lead in one swift motion. She presses her nose to his, and her smile is sharp. "You're the knife."

\---

The sound she makes that crackles through his ears beyond the physical boundary of headphones is enough for him to melt into the motion, eyes wide and lips parted just a bit by the time her face is closer than anything else. 

He gives his own responsive growl, like he can’t help himself, a show of teeth that couldn’t be further from a threat. “I like being your guardian,” said with the fondness of a disciple, oh God, “Maybe if he tries yanking it again I’ll bite his fingers. Won’t do it a second time, I’d bet.”

The song starts to fade, and the next one is faster, a la Frankie Valli, but he slows to her whim just to see if she’ll know this one, too.

\---

"You won't," She says, and she's serious, "But I appreciate the gesture anyways." Her half spins quicken in time, stepping backwards and pulling Martin with her.

While the song builds up, she pulls him close, and she stares at him for a long, long beat, working herself up to something. She looks away when she says," I like it too. You."

\---

“Maybe not,” He says as an afterthought, delayed after the burst of eye contact he can’t break until she does. And she does. Martin follows her close, and this really is a chase, isn’t it?

He likes that very much. “You’re living up to the new name. I— I called you my Oracle. I’ve no idea where I get this stuff.”

\---

"You always think I tell the future. Prophet. Oracle. Witch." She rolls her eyes, and cocks her head a moment, listening to the music and hearing something more than just the music.

"Maybe you make me that."

The music swells, the horns having already hit their peak, and Valli's voice swelling enough for Gerry to pull Martin into a sudden dip, pulling him back up and spinning him.

\---

“I ju—“ He’s cut off with the second word a punched-out ’ah’ as he falls back, and then he’s up again, and it’s just like spiraling without any of the consequences. Fantastic. 

“Fantastic,” he repeats out loud, like he’s accentuating it twice over. “I-I mean, you are. Both.” He shakes his head. As if that could possibly stop him from being mesmerized by this. “Sorry— All of them. More fun than reading facts off a-a search engine, right? Have to work for it? Make it, um, magic?”

\---

"More fun than being used as a search engine, at least," she says, and is utterly delighted by all of Martin's reactions. "How are you so endearing?"

\---

“I just have one of those faces,” Martin huffs, like he can’t believe he’s the one being focused on. “Still wrapping my head around everything— Like, like it all happened so fast, but it feels like... like ages. I can’t wait to see how you change.”

\---

"Oh, you want me to change, huh?" Her voice is soft, though, only halfway mocking. She's too lost in whatever... Whatever this is to really have too much of a bite to her words. She's too elated.

\---

“Not like  _ that.  _ I mean, with, you know. Autonomy. This. I’m excited to see how it turns out. How you find ways to just...” He tries to gesture, but he can’t really do that with neither of his hands free. “Exist? Right?”

\---

"Yeah," she huffs quietly against him. "I knew what you meant. Still getting used to that kind of attention."

\---

“Guess we all are.” They really are ridiculous people. “Anything else you wanted to test today? I-I’d say we’re on a roll.”

\---

Gerry thinks for a moment, and then slowly shakes her head no. Curiosity sated; much to think about. "Not really. I think-- the clothes give a good baseline for what we can do. I'll have to think about what it all means later."

She huffs. "Too entertained by you right now. You're actually Competent for once."

\---

“I’m... okay at it, but it’s mostly just— We’re doing basic stuff, and apparently I can follow, and—“ Martin makes a face, like he’s trying to snap out of a spell. “—You’re getting me caught up in it. Hard not to think too much, usually.”

\---

"Well, I'll get you even more caught up," She says, because she.... She's having fun, which is kind of a startling revelation, and she doesn't want to stop. Normally, she doesn't really care.

So she loops Martin closer to continue, and uses every ounce of her - frustrating at times - Knowing to dance well, and she gets caught up in it herself. Who knows how many songs. She isn't paying attention. Stupid, to do that.

What was it Gertrude used to say? Well, nothing specific. But a thousand 'stupid boy's' and condescending snaps at how he's going to get himself killed are what float to the forefront of her mind when the office door opens and a bedraggled Jon blinks in surprise with a Michael grinning ear to ear right behind him, a peal of delighted laughter following a solid clap to Jon's shoulder.

\---

Unlike Gerry, Martin tires out the very human way, but only long after he’s snapped the point of tension keeping him locked up in his head. It’s clumsy, at times, but in ways he can’t help but laugh at— a misstep, mostly on his part, the headphone cord snagging on some part of him, some other ludicrous aspect of physical corporeality. 

Damp curls of freshly dyed hair cling to his forehead by the time something in the air changes, though he’s not sure what it is until everything pauses. He has to look upside-down to the office door as Gerry’s focus stutters with him nearly at the height of the next dip, and that plus the sweat slides the headphones off his ears before he can straighten up. 

Which continue playing something that definitely has the saxophone in it on the floor where they drop. At least Martin has the dignity to look embarrassed on display.

\---

"What a busy day you've had, Martin!" Michael greets, and pushes past Jon in order to throw his bags down in the center of the floor. When Gerry lets go of Martin, Michael picks up the slack and laughs, grabbing Martin by the hand and clumsily spinning him on his way to the Archivist desk.

"Fuck." Gerry mutters, and looks mildly embarrassed, but in that chest-puffed way that dares anyone say anything. Jon just looks her up and down and a small smile peeks through the exhaustion clear in the lines of his face.

\---

Martin can do nothing but let himself be herded, the cord connecting to his phone luckily snapping out so he’s not wrapped up in it. 

All he gets out is an exhausted, breathless, “Michael!” as the world spins again, only managing to stop with one hand braced at the corner of the desk itself. It takes him a second to recover. “Oh, wow. You’re back. How—“ Nope, need a breath. “—Was it?”

\---

"Ah-- for the second time in my life, I've convinced the government I'm a real boy!" Michael says.

Jon closes the door behind them. "Considering how much he sleeps on our bed, he sure has boundless energy when he wants."

\---

“Maybe he’s been storing it,” Martin teases, stepping away from the desk to pick up his headphones and check on Gerry, flushed twice over with physical strain and how deeply  _ flustered _ he is. “Wait, you went to the bank? And it worked?”

\---

"Yes," Jon says, and shoots Michael a significant look, which causes Michael to side eye Gerry and Martin equally.

"Yeah. It went fine," Michael says, stiffly. "Or at least, I have my bank account back. Dunno how it means legally, not really, on account of--" He cuts himself off and Jon huffs.

"I got his account reinstated, yes."

\---

“You... used powers to get Michael’s bank account back?”

His tone is ambiguous, like he’s still sussing out how he feels about whatever that entails. They’re clearly on edge about something. “I— Did you hurt someone?”

\---

"Nooooot-- not physically?" Jon says slowly.

Michael rolls his eyes. "He got the teller  _ aallll _ freaked out and then compelled him. It hardly hurt, I imagine. And I have money, so.... Worth it. Who cares. He'll have some nightmares. I can buy clothes now to take care of  _ my _ nightmares."

\---

Maybe he’s just in a good mood. Maybe he’s encouraging something bad, here. Maybe he already has been, from the very start. 

“You two robbed a bank,” Martin giggles, and that one is definitely the flood of endorphins. “Really? I— “ Oh, they’re going to tell each other about their days. That’s a really nice thought. “—We found out today that Gerry has good range. Erm, with, with distance, on the locket.”

\---

"You also clean up nice, when you're not in ugly clothes," Michael says, and Gerry summarily flicks him off.

Jon has the decency to look surprised that Martin isn't pursuing this, but he's not going to put himself back in the doghouse so soon after they fixed some of their issues, so he just comes to sit in the chair not occupied by Michael. "How far?"

"Several hundred meters," she says, and grins. "It's not bad, not really."

\---

“It’s _ far,” _ Martin asserts with an affronted scoff. “So you robbed a bank, and...?”

\---

"Okay, I did not rob a bank, Martin, I gave Michael the funds that belong to him back. Okay?" He sighs. "And then Michael wanted to shop with his new money."

"Bought a DS. And clothes. Bought you a dress, Martin. Look!" He starts to fish through his bags until he produces a dark maroon fabric, throwing it at him without much fanfare.

\---

“I know, I’m just teasing, Jon, I...” Christ, it’s hard to handle them all at once. 

Oh. Michael threw a dress at him. And he’s just holding it. It’s not possible for him to blush any harder than he already is, so he clutches it close with both hands like he’s keeping it safe. He loses track of anything else on his mind. “Um.”

\---

"People usually say thank you, Martin," Michael says primly, holding up a finger that can only belong to a debutante.

"He was very insistent on buying you a dress," Jon says, and rolls his eyes. "He also had to try on damn near every one in the boutique we visited. I think I almost--"

"You did fall asleep. Your God-husband is certainly very rude, Martin."

\---

Their back-and-forth passes through the room, and they’re talking to him and at him somehow at the same time. “Thank you,” he squeaks out eventually, and then seems to snap out of it. 

He’s actually very proud of Jon for taking the plunge, here. Engaging. Getting out of the house, taking care of things. And people. Their people? Oh God. “Don’t be mean, he took you shopping. And, apparently got all your money back. Did you thank him?”

\---

"Oh, don't mother me. I bought him stuff, too. Convinced him of a flattering skirt." Michael scoffs, but then mutters a quick thank you to Jon, who looks a bit out of it, but his smile is still genuine.

\---

All settled, then. Sort of. He has half a mind to mention the skirt, but he hadn’t expected them to show up and Gerry’s oddly quiet. “We, um— Do you want me to talk about it, Gerry? The... updates.”

\---

"By all means," She waves a hand for him to proceed, as Michael and Jon look to him curiously.

\---

“We figured out some basics, with— Clothes. Appearances? I’m never making him wear tan shorts again, so - so you’ll just have to imagine it.” Martin shifts nervously as he folds the dress up, looking down at the fabric so he won’t catch anyone in the room with his eyes. “I kind of like the name Oracle. I don’t know if - I don’t know how you...” 

Ah. He’s really the only one in here that probably doesn’t know how to phrase this. “...If you change what you go by. N-Name-wise.”

\---

Gerry blinks, cocking her head slightly as she tries to parse what Martin means, and then she's snorting, rolling her eyes. "Never thought about it. Didn't think that was-- I like the name, you can... If you want? I'm still Gerry, even when--"

"Oh my God, Gerry, are you  _ she _ right now? Hah! Jon, I told you Gerry was a freak."

\---

Martin squints in Michael’s direction, like he’s trying to telepathically subjugate him. Gives him a way to hone in on something without getting deliriously embarrassed. “Don’t call Gerry a freak, Michael— That’s not—“ He’s not really the authority on that, so he settles for an exasperated, “Be nice!”

\---

"I was being sweet about it. Term of endearment or whatever. Sheesh." Michael crosses his arms and leans back in the chair. "One afternoon with Miss Keay over here and you're snappy to me."

Gerry rolls her eyes and squints at Michael for a second before very deliberately saying as nicely as possible, much to Michael's chagrin, "You can call me whatever you want, Martin."

\---

Hold on, he's stifling how much his heart swells by swallowing it back down his throat. 

And... there. "I'm not  _ snappy _ with you, I'm - I'm... Just making sure." 

And with that, he walks to the bedroom door, keeping it open as he quickly finds a place to put on the dress and leave his headphones. And compose himself. He speaks out to the doorway as he moves around. "It's been a big day. And-- And before you say anything, Michael, I'm not asking this to be, erm, to be any sort of way, but I'm curious... about..." 

He comes back in, feeling disheveled and in need of a shower. It's been a big day. "...Is it rude to ask how much you have?"

\---

"I dunno. Like a hundred, or something. Wasn't paying attention!" He calls back. "Had quite a bit still from when-- y'know. Cut off from mum. But she was crazy and didn't think to close my account. And-- well, I worked here for, like, three years, sooooo-- it's a bit."

\---

In the doorway, Martin can take each of them in, and... well. It makes him bashful. What doesn't, though?

"A hundred." He says flatly, and at least he can manage that. "Getting on me for being vague, all of - all of you are just as bad."

\---

"Ah, yes, Martin, I've a hundred pounds. Maybe Gerry is right and you're stupid."

\---

"I think you'd go on a shopping trip with a hundred pounds," Martin half-growls, hovering there in the doorway like a permanent fixture. "You just wouldn't be happy about it. And--" 

He lifts his nose up. Bratty is what bratty gets. "-- And I'm not stupid, my, um, my con to get you to buy me a house in the English countryside by carrying your corpse out of the Spiral is right on track."

\---

"Oh, so we're moving from flat to house? How domestic." Michael purses his lips around a sheer smile as he starts pulling things from bags and setting them on the desk neatly.

"A house really.... Really is different than a flat," Jon says, his eyes widening slightly.

\---

“Wh—“ Has he not said house? Oh, shit, which one of them did he say house to? Gerry? 

“I-I mean, you were talking about marking it up with - with permanent stuff, I didn’t— I mean, if we’re not renting we can—“ He shuts his mouth with an audible collision of teeth. 

He gets only a brief moment of respite before his mouth decides to move again. “—I mean like - like a - Um. Base? One that’s not, you know, an evil lair f-for someone else? I don’t know! It’s not - not just my decision.”

\---

"A base." Gerry snorts.

"A house is a better word, yes," Jon says.

Michael cocks his head. "No, no, I think we can one-up that one. Demonic laboratory. Labyrinthian safe house. What other words do you associate with houses, Martin?"

\---

Martin sighs out his resignation, talking to nobody in particular. “Well, that’s it. I’m in hell.” 

And there’s not much to busy his hands with, so he’s got to sit in that. “Home. People. Life? I’ve never lived in a house house, it’s just, you know. Space. Lots of space.”

\---

"I was a house, you know. Technically," Michael says, and Jon inhales sharply immediately because--

"Wow, and Martin sure lived in you this morning, didn't he?"

Right. There it is. He can't believe he had a crush on Gerard.

\---

Martin freezes like a deer in headlights, caught between throttling Michael, throttling himself, throttling Jon, profusely apologizing to Jon, explaining his way out of this in a dignified, responsible way, or disappearing into thin air. 

He will do none of those things. Instead, he gives a frantic speech. 

“I’ll just make sure not to touch Michael’s blood in the future I guess it makes me loopy in a weird animal way and I can’t really blame it on that completely but in my defense it was about to be a very stressful day but it’s fine because Michael got a hysterectomy in 2009 according to Gerry who I freaked out about it all to already I mean it’s not like I can say ‘Jon, we’re about to have a scary meeting with Tim and Sasha, let’s have sex’, I think I might die on the spot, but I just remembered I still need to fix the sheets so I’m going to get started on that right now andgotakeashower.”

And off into the bedroom he goes.

\---

"Oh yeah," Michael says to himself, and kind of pushes back in the chair to look down at himself. "I forgot about that surgery. Hah!"

"Oh my God, the Spiral took your fucking brain, Shelley," Gerry says, and has to incorporeate herself when Michael lobs a stapler at her head.


	57. Chapter 57

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin Blackwood has a conversation with the Archivist.

This is going to be a long, long weekend. 

Beyond the prior crises and fledgling breakdowns of the previous day, things have smoothed out well enough. Martin fixed the sheets, did not ruin them again, did  _ not  _ have another freakout, and would like to think he ended on a positive note. 

No mother, not yet. Financial needs can’t even begin to cover his various reasons behind that move, and it’s a horrifying prospect he can’t commit to in the middle of a few planned (or, in several cases, planned from one side) meetings with a couple entities of fear. 

Technically, she does count, but he’s more worried about mending what he can with the Archivist and Helen for the Unknowing than fixing his own personal troubles at the moment. He’s not sure how it’ll end, what he’ll say, what he even wants out of it, and that means he’s not sure whether he’ll be out of commission after it’s finished. He might be. He might not. Unknown variables. That’s why he picked Gerry. Not because he doesn’t trust Jon with this, but— Gerry understands the wavelength in a certain specific way, and he trusts that Gerry can hold him back if he’s a total mess. 

He worries about whether that’s okay. Whether it’s okay to have people who help with different things. He’s not used to having several friends at once, let alone whatever this all is, but no one else knows, either. It’s comforting to work it out together in steps.

Martin doesn’t hide the locket for this meeting, but he does keep it tucked away in the night stand like a precious thing. Funny that way. He’s gotten in the habit of pressing a kiss to the outside, and he knows Gerry isn’t aware of it, but he likes to think his soul appreciates it on some level. He dresses nicely, too, something simple and professional that ends up highlighting the absurdity of his hair a bit too much, but, well, he works around it how he can. 

It’s about eleven in the morning when he starts fretting incessantly about this, getting close to when he thinks it might be decently appropriate to call. All internal, emotional jitters he can’t stuff down deep. Without the locket to press his hands to, the simplest choice is to start making tea in the empty break room. For him, for Jon, and by extension the Archivist if he wants it when… if all this works out. God, he has no idea. 

Michael is out, too, apparently content to be mesmerized by his games on a different floor until someone comes looking. He’s a free spirit, but his aptitude for showing up again once a terrible, less convenient time has passed is growing conveniently predictable, and Martin would like to think they’ll have space until they don’t. That makes perfect sense. 

That leaves him and Jon together, just them and the non-secret beneath Jon’s skin. Martin’s, too, he supposes. That counts. He’s tried to make the morning easy on him, accommodate how he can and leave Jon able to grasp at whatever comes close enough to relaxing as Jon can get, and when he opens the office back up with two mugs there’s a lazy smile on Martin’s face to buffer the nerves.

He relinquished the Archivist chair to Jon for the day, though it’s dawning on him that he’s taken it less and less these days. Usually, it’s Gerry, or Michael, but mostly Jon, working and trying and— Well, Martin is fine with that. He thinks he’s pushed Jon the right amount, and they’re all contributing to solving these interconnected messes their own ways. 

“Delivery for you,” he says to the room at large, voice filled with fake grandiosity. “From one Martin Blackwood.”

\---

Jon is desperately trying to quell his anxiety. It wouldn't do to tear up, or fall apart, or reveal how scared he is, but he's pretty sure Martin knows, nonetheless. They know each other too well, by now. And his body is tense where it sits at the Archivist's desk. He hates that the title has been removed from him; is that the point of it? To claw at his stomach at the guilt he feels for daring to feel as though his title has been robbed by something that isn't the archivist, just wearing it?

He knows Martin wants peace with this... thing. Jon isn't certain that's possible, and more than that, he isn't certain he wants peace. But, at the end of the day, it's not him what has to deal with the the creature. He doesn't have to deal with his tongue being removed for insubordination, or nimble hands wrapped around his throat or vague proclamations of horror. He just has his body hijacked whilst he dreams, and dreams, dreams. 

And peace with this thing is better than strife. 

He takes the tea gratefully, and does not care about the scalding burning sensation when he immediately sips it. The smile he levies Martin is one of fear and gratitude in equal mixtures. "Thanks," he mumbles, and cradles the mug like a lifeline.

\---

Martin sits across from him, his own mug lowered to the desk with a dull, familiar sound. “No one’s in the office today, I’m not riling him up like I did last time, and we’re doing this together.” 

He says the words slowly, not to make sure Jon understands, he knows he does, but to try and set the tone. Hold back his stutter, compose the room. 

He holds out one hand across the desk, something he feels they haven’t done in a while. Anchors, gestures of love. He’s afraid he’s neglected Jon, in this moment, but he pushes that down for later. “I’ll be here, and it’ll be okay. Okay?”

\---

"...Okay," He says, and reaches out to take Martin's hand, holding out the other across the length of the desk as well, to complete the linking of their hands. "If-- If he gets too much, you, um? Have my permission to knock me out, I guess? I'd hope that would deter him. I guess."

\---

Their hands form a loop as Martin makes a face most readily described as silly. “Right. That’s why I bought that can of Archivist repellant at the grocery store yesterday.” 

God, he hopes that lands. Just in case. “Kidding.”

\---

Jon can't help the laugh that escapes him. Not at the joke-- it's atrocious, Martin-- but at the delivery of the 'kidding', landing exactly in that weird spot in Jon's brain that finds things hilarious. "Oh yes, I thought you were  _ serious, _ Martin, of course."

\---

Nailed that one. Go ahead and pat yourself on the back now, Martin, while you still can. 

“I just love your laugh,” He sighs wistfully, brushing over his hands with both thumbs. He shifts in his seat. “Okay. This feels like a, um, like a seance, almost. I don’t - I don’t even know where to start. ‘Ooh, All-Seeing Archivist, I’d fancy a good chat right about now, thank you’.”

\---

Jon wrinkles his nose. He doesn't feel anything... spooky in his gut, even if there's trepidation and anxiety and nausea there. "Maybe-- Maybe less ironic, Martin?"

\---

“I was joking, Jon, of course that won’t work.” He squeezes Jon’s hands as a gesture of comfort and clears his throat to give an honest try with as steady a voice as he can manage. “Archivist, I have a question about an offering.”

He tries to make it a statement and not a question, and it’s true, he does, but mostly he just doesn’t want to make a complete fool of himself.

\---

Nothing happens for a long moment. Ten seconds, twenty, thirty pass, and Jon starts to crunch up his face, about to offer maybe the idea of trying something else; clearly it's not enough, he's not listening, perhaps the Eye isn't watching. He opens his mouth and gets out a solid, "Well--" 

And then his shoulders slump, his eyes fluttering closed and his mouth snapping shut before golden droplets can begin falling from the ether inside of him. He sways in the chair, not quite unconscious. 

When he comes to, the Archivist straightens, sitting with far better posture than Jon would ever attempt. The back that belongs to this body hurts, and it is a strange sensation to hurt in the very essence of one's bones, and the Archivist could-- oh, how does Martin say it--  _ spiral _ into that if he so chose, but he doesn't. 

Because he has been called, and for the first time, and he can't help the excited look upon his face when he regards Martin, and their hands are linked together, and Martin is not flinching yet. 

"Hello, Martin. An offering, you say?"

\---

Martin accepts that his heart starts racing so it won’t control him. Accepts that he wants to pull away, at first, but he won’t. Accepts that Jon might fall over, but that he can’t really help that from where he is. It’s a strange thing, something that tingles along his arms and leaves him shivering up to the back of his neck. 

Electric. Static. Warping in the air, TV fuzz when you ghost your hand just short of the little swirling dots that scream, and scream, and scream. 

Whoa, no, okay. 

“Hi. Um, yes. Well— I had a few questions, but that was the easiest one to phrase. I was wondering, does it feed the Eye more for you to take something straight from me, or - or to take a statement?”

\---

"In this world, if given the opportunity to feed directly-- say, from you, your fear and trauma--, of course it will be more potent," The Archivist says, and he leans forward in the chair, keeping his hands outstretched and connected to Martin's. 

What a strange call, this is. He cocks his head and brushes idly against the walls of Martin's mind, and does not bother to hide the intrusion, curious to see how he'll respond at such a blatant display. He cannot read much from his mind, though, other than abject curiosity and fear and anxiety and hope, and the swirl of emotions is disorienting to his new mind. 

"Our archivist breaches closest, in terms of how direct I can take from his statements. Why?"

\---

“I wanted to… start by apologizing,” Martin tries carefully, pausing only to grimace at a foreign discomfort he can’t place. Shining a flashlight into his eyes, but the source ignites from inside his own optic nerves.  _ Gross _ is the word that comes to mind, or, it would, if something in his throat wasn’t stirring with something defensive.

He almost pulls a hand away, but he grips tighter instead. “I just didn’t know the best way to… to do that, I-I only had ideas."

\---

The Archivist squeezes Martin's hands, and his eyes light up. "Tell me these ideas. I am quite curious."

\---

Oh. He’s being... sweet. “I thought it might be a-a good peace offering, to give you another, um, memory. Or... story, to start?”

He sighs, tilting his head to the mug at Jon’s side of the table. “I also brought that. You, erm, you can drink it? If you want. But I wanted to talk, and - and work through a few things, but I don’t really think it’s fair to call you here and not... start by being better.”

\---

"Ah," The Archivist breathes, and he pulls in a deep, satisfied breath. Such devotion from this one; he knew his path would come back to him.

The body has become more and more familiar each time he takes it. What once was a foreign shell, an inconvenience, an astronaut suit allowing him passage into this world while the rest, the bigger part of him, survives elsewhere in the dimensions beyond, is now pleasing and comfortable.

He pulls his hands back to flex fingers that are his now, as Jonathan sleeps, dreaming and seeing his brethren and their ilk, and slowly reaches out for the mug of tea, enjoying the press of warm ceramics upon his flesh.

He is in a far better mood this time. It is much easier to revel in the small, tiny physical sensations that he ignored that last time Martin produced a fiasco.

Speaking of. One small bit of trauma would never be enough to apologize. But The Archivist likes Martin, and would give him most things with enough pressure, he thinks. "I'll accept that apology."

\---

Martin tracks his movements closely, building up on his internal portfolio of differences and similarities that’s more of a big, complicated Venn diagram than anything else. He makes sure to offer a curt smile as he reaches out for his own tea. One sip, calm down, all good. 

“First, I-I want to explain about the Spiral. Back in America, he rescued us from where the Hunters had Jon, and took us somewhere safe so you - so Jon could come back. I had a deal with him, Michael, and after you left last time, um, I’d just been having problems with the Hunt, and I thought I might hurt you, so I sort of… damage controlled, inside it.” 

He runs a hand over one shoulder, sheepish impressions. “I… learned a lot! About the Spiral. I wasn’t exactly… stable, for a while, but-- Well, it’s not so helpful here, but in there it worked out. I wasn’t eaten. I had to mellow out. I hope maybe that, um, explains my behavior, a little?”

\---

"The Hunt still runs beneath your veins," The Archivist says, and slowly lifts the tea mug to his lips and sniffs it for a second, before giving a cursory sip and making a considering face. Hm. There's a bitterness to it that he quite likes. 

He sets it down. "But it is calmer, yes. I suppose I can allow your Michael to stay, considering my mark upon him is as clear as the one the Spiral laid claim to. So long as it doesn't distract you as it was, before. You almost let it have you; what a despicable thing."

\---

“But I didn’t. Still have to stop the end of the world, right?” 

He gives his tone a comedic importance, only thinking better of it slightly too late. “They help me keep it in line. Michael included. I’m learning, but— We all are, and - and that includes you. I don’t want to fight against you, I want to - I do want to work together, and it’s not fair to expect you to follow, um, our rules, if we don’t include you?”

\---

"Your rules?" He perks up slightly in his chair, his eyes narrowing.

\---

_ “Our  _ rules!” It comes out like a startled bark. Martin shakes his head. “Um, it’s like - like when you have roommates, and you all work together to keep... keep the house clean? So - so all of you can be... happy? As a team?”

\---

He cocks his head slowly, narrowed eyes turning confused. "Room... Mates? I have never had a house. What is--? I do not follow  _ your _ rules."

\---

“I’ve never had a house, either,” Martin confesses, and Christ, he can’t believe he’s the one most qualified to do this. “Again. Our rules. Not my rules. I want— I want to compromise. So you can be happy. And Jon can be happy. And I want to want to call you, but it’s kind of a... Here, in this world, there’s nothing to be afraid of if you’ve got nothing to be h-happy about, too. Right?”

\---

"The world is not meant to be happy, Martin." He leans forward again, and there's a small smile playing on his face. "Why would I want to compromise? I do not; this world is and will be mine. A house is paltry."

\---

“Sure. It  _ will  _ be. But right now, it’s not made in - in your image, and it’s important to me that we get along—“ 

His eyes track his mouth, then returns back up to his eyes. “You’re smiling. At the very least, you - you know the concept of being in a good mood? You’d learn more if you didn’t have to fight against everyone to get it. This—“ He gestures at the Archivist as a whole. “—hasn’t happened before. Don’t you want to see how it could be... special? In a good way? Get the most out of it?”

\---

"Special. Get the most--" He lets out a short huff. "You do not understand. Even the mere fact that I am  _ here, _ doing things, not merely watching, goes against my Nature. You seem to be under the impression that I am a person."

\---

Just hold it in, Martin. No philosophy. 

“If it went totally against your Nature, you wouldn’t be here drinking tea and talking to me with a mouth that works.” 

Well, not always, but it’s the thought that counts. “You can watch, and you can learn about the world at the same time. For your benefit. If - If I’m supposed to be your messenger, that involves both sides. Lots to learn by watching. Here—“ 

He holds out both hands in a gesture towards one of the Archivist’s own. “Let me see?”

\---

The Archivist squints. He does not believe Martin, but so too, is he curious, and before he's even made up his mind, his hands are reaching out to connect with Martin's. "You have finally accepted your role?"

\---

“Mm.” Martin lets them touch for a moment before slipping one hand away, taking the other palm with both his own hands. 

“I need to know what it  _ means, _ since I’ve just had to guess, but here’s an example. You can Know, maybe, that touching here—“ He presses his thumb into the center of his palm, “—or here—“ off to the side, between Jon’s thumb and pointer finger. “—can help with pain, but you don’t know what it feels like or why it matters until - until you experience it. Jon’s bad at taking care of himself. The fact that - that you stood up straight when you came is a message to me, one that I can reply to, and you’re not a person, sure, but you’re in one, and that matters. I’ve got messages from the world I can give you, too.”

\---

He watches as Martin speaks quietly, his eyes wide in rapt attention. He nearly pulls away when Martin begins to press into his hand, but he doesn't, following the strange little metaphor to its completion.

"You are already doing good," He says, and his voice is confident, smooth, haughty, even if the sheer fact of this body is making him realize that perhaps he does not know as much as he could. That pushing and squeezing into this world cuts him off from the greater Eye in a way that threatens to tilt him into... Into something he does not have the name for. "Your... worrying alliances aside, you have brought two others to me, already. And I do-- I want your messages."

\---

“Having the Spiral on our side is convenient, and it was much less work in the long run to get everyone on our side willingly. More likely to stick around, not - not controlled, it’s their choice, so they don’t try getting in the way of your plans.”

He smiles, something genuine, like the worst of the danger has passed. “I’ve spent my whole life watching people _ and _ being one. Not nearly as long as you’ve been watching, obviously, but I think I’ve learned a few things. Including that threatening to kill people when you meet them usually doesn’t go well.”

\---

"They should know the danger I pose, should they choose not to listen," the Archivist replies, but his expression is not the tight, angry thing it often embodies, but softer, listening. It is true that those who choose to submit are far more loyal than those forced.

Perhaps Martin does have experience.

\---

“Do you need to? You know you’ll win anyway, so - so you don’t have to prove it, unless, you know, you’re in danger, but—“ He shakes his head. “—Right  _ now,  _ you’re stuck with each other. But you could work with each other, and be better off for it instead. I mean, you’re already on the same side, right?”

\---

"Yes. Though Jonathan does not think we are. He is... Quite deluded, nasty little lies he tells himself that make the stomach of this body feel as though great nautical knots have taken it."

\---

“Be gentle with him,” Martin says, but it’s not stern. “That’s advice, not a command. He’s afraid, and - and that’s reasonable, for someone who’s lived their whole life being one person, and now has to share. Like you, I-I imagine, suddenly needing to share with him, too.”

\---

"I do not mind sharing. I have never had a body, before. He may have access to it, for now, while he has work to do for me." The Archivist's smile grows. "'Gentle'. Except in dreams, we do not communicate. He is a quiet, mute thing in his dreams."

\---

“He matters to me. He’s why I care about any of this, and why I’m - I’ve been trying so hard to help since the start. I love him.” 

He pulls back, not with the intention of separating them. It’s still a consequence. He leans against the back of his chair. “But— Yes. Sure. I’ll be your messenger. I just want to make sure you listen. Not that you have to agree to what I say, just, you know, consider it?”

\---

"... Yes. Alright. If it will help you focus on the task at hand, then yes. I will listen. I always do, but I shall consider your-- human. Perspective."

The smile he fields to Martin next is sly. "Jonathan is quite the man to love. I have never had an archivist who so eagerly gives into the thrall of the Beholder. Not even... Bouchard, is this eager."

\---

Martin’s shoulders twitch up by his ears with embarrassment, but he shakes it off internally. “...Right. He, um, he sure is. Thank you. Do... Do you want me to call you again, soon? I think it might be good, f-for now, to do that. Then I can plan, um— If you want to go somewhere specific, or see something.” He laughs, small and sweet. “The Watcher’s never been bird-watching.”

\---

"You... Want to call me for... Frivolous activities." He cocks his head. "Why? That is different from roommate rules."

\---

“You can do two things at once, can’t you? Enjoy a sunset and have a talk? Again. Human body. We like those things. Most ‘frivolous’ stuff is actually good for you. Sunlight, walking, games, they’re important if you want a body that works!”

\---

"This body will work regardless of human needs. It is hardly human, anymore." But he isn't against it. He has that curious, open expression again, the kind of naivety that only something that hasn't been in this world would not know to hide.

\---

Martin squints with his own satisfaction. “You tell me that after I find a knot in Jon’s back and work it out of him so you can move without wincing. Optional, right, yep. We’ll see.”

\---

"The body does not  _ have _ to ache? I believe Jonathan might be... Hm. Moronic, then."

\---

Martin gestures with both hands stretched out. He looks actually excited. “More I can teach you, then! Is there, um, an easier way for me to call you? Something we can agree on, like... like a phrase?”

\---

"I rather... enjoy the idea of hearing you herald me, Messenger." His smile grows. "I will come whenever I wish, but if you call me, I shall hear, and push myself through the infinity that is the Eye to return to Jonathan."

\---

“Right. L-Looking forward to it.” Cue a dazzling little smile. “Thank you for answering me.”

\---

"Of course," He says, haughty again. "You deserve answers, sometimes. And I am not so cruel to withhold all. You are sweet to me; unlike my ghost, you did not need such heavy convincing."

\---

“I can handle him. I-I know how he gets, but I don’t think he’ll, um, give you any more trouble.” Nope, just Martin. Trouble for Martin, his little evil Oracle.

\---

"He best not." The Archivist smiles, and it's a harsher one than the previous few. "The End may hold him in limbo, but I can take him and digest him into the greater Eye unto an End of its own."

\---

“Let’s... not… do that. I need him, too. And— He probably tastes bad?”

\---

"So long as he behaves." The Archivist leans forward across the desk again. "You promised me a memory."

\---

Ah. 

...Right. Martin tries not to tense. Bit futile, really. “I know. Right— Right now?”

\---

"Unless there is more you need with me." He scowls. "You promised."

\---

“I’m not backing out,” Martin scowls back, if only to show the Archivist how he looks. “I don’t know how to just— Hand it to you.”

\---

"Let me in, and I will extract one. Unless you wish me to choose, open up to that memory. I will find it." He reaches a hand across the desk. "Come here."

\---

Not his mother. Not today. Something else. Do fake ones count, if they felt real? Not like those hurt any less. Can’t pick something that felt  _ good, _ that defeats the whole purpose. 

A fake eclipse in a fake field after a fake car ride and a fake enforced rip from the ground below away from what he wished was real, maybe. Better than having him poking around wherever he pleases. 

Martin hesitates, like he’s about to be hit, but it doesn’t take him long to own up to his choices. He offered it willingly. Hopefully it’s good enough. He rests his wrist in the Archivist’s palm and bites on his tongue to hold back a flinch.

\---

The Archivist curls his hand around the offered wrist, and the smile he offers Martin is gentle, soft, the wrinkles of Jon's face crinkling in such a way to actually give the strangely young demeanor of the fear-god an older look. And then he pulls from Martin, and plays the offered memory in his own mind, the projection feeding back into Martin equally as potent as it would have been the first time around. 

It's delicious. The fear, the fear of losing this moment with the creature known as Michael, and the-- Oh. Oh, he's scared of the moon swallowing the sun. The Archivist thinks of moon-prince, one of the many titles he's been bestowed by his Messenger, and he can't help the softness of his expression sharpening into something predatory, black eyes starving and powerful and ruthless as they obtain an impossible eclipse on an impossible hill. 

The memory may not be factual, but the psychology is. This memory happened to them. And in it, the Archivist realizes Martin is not just a Messenger. 

"Ah," he says, and his eyes filter close as he continues to play through it, the memory winding down. "You can Create, too. How strange."

\---

The Archivist is not here, in this moment. That’s the worst part of the vulnerability, awareness trickling away as he slips from conscious presence into a past devoid of future without control of his own reactions. The panic of knowing what’s about to happen without the relief of knowing how it really ends. Michael falling through his fingers into a bleak world he’s helpless to change. 

Where a few seconds for him is years for the person he wants to be with. Where the moon is a thing to be worshipped and feared, where the grass sits as a soft bed to lie in only so it can swallow you whole. Where it was doomed from the start, and you knew that, but it was so nice to forget until it wasn’t. 

The door slams in his face, and Martin jolts with a harsh squeeze of the Archivist’s hand, anchoring there with his opposite hand’s fingertips white-knuckling the edge of the desk. He’s crying with that snotty, teenage immaturity of losing a real friend for the first time. Grieving something never got back quite like that. 

Fuck, that was worse than he thought it would be. It’s okay. Michael is still here. He’s in the office. That’s not Jon, but it will be soon. The colors bleed out until there’s hardly any sunlight in the room at all. He thinks each of those thoughts independently as he scans the room, disoriented but crawling back. “Huh?”

\---

"Nothing," The Archivist says softly, and maneuvers his hand to be able to brush his thumb along the back of Martin's own. "That was a good memory. Thank you. Your bond with Michael Shelley, even as spiraled as it is, is quite ripe for Beholding."

\---

“Yeah, well, they - they sort of go hand-in-hand, don’t they?” The residual fear flows out with the tide, and he uses the sleeve of his sweater to wipe away the lingering tears. His other hand stays put, and that’s an odd surprise, that he’s not flinching back. Distracting enough. “You’re welcome?”

\---

"There is a lot of fear and pain in you. Even a cursory brush tells me such; I hope you realize how difficult it is to refrain from peeling you open." He sighs in satisfaction.

\---

“Oh,” Martin giggles, exhausted and hysterical at once, some button pressed on a secondary memory tangentially connected to the first. “That’s what Michael said, too. But he just made me see animals.” 

He sticks up his pointer finger and waves it in a loose circle. “Woo-woo, sugar water on a spoon for bees in summer. Not using the whole bag of it.”

\---

The Archivist scrunches up his face and pulls his hand away. "What? Bees? I am not a bee."

\---

“Queen bee. Just a little one. Making you a hive, doing your bidding.” He shuts one eye so the perspective shifts with the Archivist’s head pressed between his thumb and his pointer as he holds them up. 

And then he realizes how insane that looks. Martin clears his throat. “Sorry. No, you’re— You’re not a bee. Still coming out of it, my - my bad.”

\---

He blinks rapidly, his mouth opening a little before he scoffs in disgust. "Spiral. Perhaps I am metaphorically a queen bee, if those are the stipulations. You-- Hm. Confusing."

\---

“They make a sound sometimes, call it piping. Very murderous.” Compose yourself, Martin, you were doing so wonderfully until the god of fear that occasionally possesses your person took a vaguely traumatic memory from you. Get a grip. 

“It was nice talking to you.”

\---

"Was it? You don't seem to like talking to me, ever. Don't lie, Martin."

\---

"What-- " Martin blinks twice, visibly affronted. "I called you, didn't I? I'm glad it went better than last time, and I'm serious about my apology... can't you  _ tell  _ if I'm lying?"

\---

"Well--" He pauses.  _ "Yes, _ but you are quite deceitful. I assumed you were lying because you are aware I enjoy you more than most."

\---

"Why would I lie about..." Martin huffs, like suddenly he's the one spiraling. "Why would I lie about having a nice meeting with you because I know you like me?"

\----

"I do not  _ know--  _ you are a strange creature sometimes, Martin!" He scowls. "Perhaps your motivations are somewhat of a mystery to me, occasionally. Even if you are loyal."

\---

"Then I'll say it again. It was nice talking to you." Nicer now, that he knows that. Love to be a mystery, don't we? "I promise."

\---

He squints, and then finally sits back, relaxing somewhat. "Alright. Fine. I believe you. I can give Jon back to you, if you wish to be done with it. He dreams of the Stranger right now."

\---

"Might, um, be good to rescue him, then. That's one of the worst ones, isn't it?" Martin gives him a polite little wave, holding in his sigh of relief until he's gone.

\---

"We won't have to worry about them much longer," The Archivist says, and smiles sweetly at Martin, before relinquishing control. Evidently, he lets go far too quickly, because the second he leaves the body, Jon's face slams forward onto the desk.

He groans a half minute later, his hands flying to fist through his hair as he recombobulates himself. Sitting up slowly, he blinks at the light of the office, and then focuses on Martin, his hair all over his face.

\---

"Ah--  _ Ooh, _ Jon, are you okay?" Yep. They definitely need a rule about that one. Or a cushion. 

He only just notices he's snapped up to lean over the desk up close to Jon, eyes flitting over him without settling on one place to check for damage. "It's, um, it's only been a bit, I think it went well, so just-- Tell me if you need anything."

\---

Jon groans again and draws his hands down his face. "Usually he's smoother than that. That was-- I was just jerked awake. Ugh." He eyes the tea still sitting in front of him and pulls it close, taking a few long drinks from it.

\---

Satisfied by the level of coherency there, Martin sits back down. “We’ll... work on that. Good news! No trying to kill Michael, or - or Gerry. He likes me, said he’ll come if I call him, and I taught him a little about having a body. He has no clue.”

\---

Jon blinks rapidly as he drinks and then kind of jerks to and nods. "Oh. God, I thought you were... Talking about me in the third person for a second there. Disorienting. Yes, that's-- that's good. I'd love him to not wreck my body."

\---

"Oh, no-- I'm sorry." Martin holds both palms up, holding back on his fretting. No use overwhelming him. "You do enough of that on your own, Jon. Um, how do you feel?"

\---

"Ugh. He just always makes me dream about... them. I'm fine." He squints at Martin. "I take care of my body fine."

\---

“Mm...” Martin whines, something catty at the tip of his tongue. He’s a better man than that. “I actually— Um, before we say anything else, I just— Thank you. For trusting me. I love you. I feel a bit more confident now, with - with this.”

\---

"I-- of course, Martin. Of course. I love you too. It-- I'm glad you're... Figuring this... him? Out?" He grimaces, almost apologetic. "It's not easy. I know."

\---

“I’m optimistic.” He turns down to his hands, wringing them together in his lap. “I just don’t want to be apart from you, a-anymore. We’re... we’re making progress! And I think it’ll be easier for both of us when we have our own... space.”

\---

"I really-- I really like the idea." Jon says quietly. "And between Michael, and-- and what I have saved, we easily can get through more than a down-payment. It--" He huffs, almost surprised. "I've never thought I'd have this. Especially-- especially now."

\---

“And me, once I...” Take care of a few things. “...So, you - you want a house? A real... A real house? With me? And with— You’re okay with that?”

\---

"... I think I am. Yeah. I mean--" He takes a deep breath and then another sip of tea, trying to word it correctly. He ends up just spitting it all out quickly, anyways. "I've never really. Martin, I need something to ground me to this world. And you do, and-- and a home will help."

\---

“I—“ Ooh. Oooooh. Martin sniffs, then blurts out just the same. “Me too, Jon. We need our own room. I-I want a room with you. I’ve never lived in a house. After the Unknowing we could - we could even paint walls.”

\---

"Oh God," Jon says, and his smile is watery but hopeful. "What if our decorating really does clash? I mean-- bedroom sets are one thing. But  _ colors, _ and-- and  _ decorations?  _ What a challenge."

\---

"I'd be more worried about Michael's taste than mine, but--" Martin's lit up, now. "Oh, Christ, I could learn how to actually cook. In a real kitchen? I don't even know what you do in a house! There's-- Space!"

\---

"Baths," Jon all but whines. "I could take baths again. And-- oh, Martin, houses usually have yards."

\---

"Yards." 

That gets a thick pause. "How many world-ending rituals do I need to stop before we get a dog?"

\---

"... if... We survive the Unknowing and get a house with a yard, I might. Be persuaded." He wrinkles his nose. "Dogs are messy."

\---

"Oh, but you can deal with me? I think I might be worse, Jon."

\---

"You're not even messy, you just--" Oh, Jon can't help the giggle that flies out of his mouth, a hand clapping to his face, "--bite people, sometimes!"

\---

“And plenty of dogs  _ don’t  _ bite people. There’s one for the dog. I think it could work!” Martin fails to stifle his own laughter. “If I’m trainable, we’ll have no problem with something half my size.”

\---

"... Hm. Maybe. It can't be yappy, though. Maybe something decently big." He narrows his eyes. "You're not trainable, you just surround yourself with people less sane than you."

\---

“Okay.  _ Not _ true, and you know it. Gerry’s sane. Michael— I do count that as training, but, I— Obviously that doesn’t mean it’s helpful.” He’s been putting up a finger for every sane person he’s close to, but realizes by the time he gets to Jon that it’s futile.

\---

"Do you think I'm crazier than Michael? Tell me that's not what you're insinuating here. That's--" He stifles a laugh. "Maaaaartin."

\---

“No, that’s not— No, Jon! You’re not. He’s not crazy, just...” He won’t laugh again. He won’t. Jon, you can’t make him. “Different. You’re all different. I do think, if - if we’re ranking, I’m probably the worst.”

\---

"Oh, sure, the one of us keeping us all together and healthy is the craziest. Sure." Jon rolls his eyes. "Give a man sharp teeth and he thinks he's the damned Joker."

\---

In his defense, that’s probably one of the funniest things Jon’s said in his entire life. Martin covers his mouth with both hands, breathing like he’s doing it into a paper bag so he can speak. “I’d have to be crazy to get you all on the same page wanting to buy a house together.”

\---

Martin's laughter is infectious, and Jon finds himself laughing with him, almost wheezing from the effort. None of them laugh enough; it almost sobers him to realize that, but he refuses to let it, so light hearted and happy, in this moment, with Martin.

"Maybe you're right... And I mean, do we have to worry about Gerry burning the place down? He is fond of arson."

\---

“He’d go with it if a fire started, and I don’t think he wants that, so—“ 

He doesn’t cut off the loop, exactly, but he does pause in his mirth for a moment of recollection. “Sorry, I just remembered yesterday. I had no idea he wanted to - to look like that. Pretty.”

\---

"Oh! Gerry. Yes, she was-- that dress suited her. The--" He blushes slightly as he gestures to his own chest. "Pentagram? Very nice."

\---

“Oh, my God. Right. That’s what that was. I was— I wasn’t really looking at that.” And now they’re both blushing.

\---

"Oh, sure you weren't," Jon scoffs, and the look he levels Martin with is so full of doting love, a love he can feel, that he feels like he's going to burst. "Handy tool, by the way, Knowing what pronoun our genderfluid partner likes in the moment. If that's the word he uses, at least. That one, I don't know."

\---

“I can smell your pronouns a mile away, but I don’t know what label you use. Jon? See? Jon? You’re crazy, too.”

\---

"It's not my fault he doesn't seem to USE a label, Martin!" He laughs. Shaking his head a little. "I won't deny I'm crazy, okay? Okay."

\---

“Look at us without our labels. Really, who needs those?” Martin stands, stretching upwards until his spine cracks. “Oh! I never did ask how shopping went. Did - Did you both get along?”

\---

"... I think? He's just--a whirlwind. I had to snap at him to sit still at the bank, and uh, felt so bad that I let him take us wherever he wanted afterwards. Which turned out to be pretty much every shop we passed." Jon rolls his eyes. "I can still see the parts of him that were the Distortion. It's odd, recognizing-- recognizing personality traits."

\---

The first part gets a soft, appreciative smile out of Martin, heart swelling at the thought. Next time, he’ll have to be there. That last bit gets a confused head tilt, though. “What do you mean? Like— Like pieces of him that slipped through when he was the Spiral, or pieces of the Spiral still there?”

\---

"I guess I'd just assumed most of, you know, Shelley was gone when he was part of the Spiral. Mostly the Distortion whining about the death throes of a dead man. But clearly Michael is just... Like that."

\---

“Yes. He - He very much is. But he’s, you know, good things, too. I think he’s very nice. When he... When he wants to be, that is. Easily placated.”

\---

"Oh, yes, he's nice, I'd agree. You should have seen him deliberating on gifts for everyone. It was... It was honestly kind of... Cute?"

\---

“And he told you about the dresses, and about yesterday morning. He’s a gossip. And you got a skirt. I’d like to see that one.”

\---

Jon flushes again, and ducks his head a little. "He's persuasively body positive. I haven't worn a skirt in-- God, years."

\---

“I know he is. Trust me. I’ve thought about it.” He pulls around to Jon’s side of the desk, crouching down to rest his elbows on one of the arms and look up at him. Can’t hide his face that way. “I don’t think anybody here would judge if - if you wanted to. We’ll have a very liberated house.”

\---

"I'll try it. Wouldn't want to waste his money." Jon rolls his eyes, but his expression softens when he looks down at Martin, and he reaches down to brush a thumb over his cheek.

"I'm glad we're fixing things. Hopefully."

\---

“Me too, Jon. I think we can. Um, I mean— Normal people have fights, and - and worries, but— I think we’re doing well, for people trying to fix the world, too.”

\---

"I'd-- I'd like to think so. And it seems you have reached camaraderie with the, uh, demon inside me without me puking up pea soup, so..." He shrugs.

\---

Martin squints up at him, feeling like he’s lost a thread here. “He’s willing to listen. Told him I could get knots out of your back.” He swallows his laughter. “He thought all bodies just felt like that. I also got away with making fun of him, so— Progress.”

\---

"Bodies  _ do _ just feel like that. It's called being thirty." Jon rolls his eyes.

\---

“Hm.” It’s a smug little hum. “Guess I’ll find out in a year or so.”


	58. Chapter 58

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Destressing with paint. Lovely day.

They dreadfully need this downtime. Some recuperation between all the catching up, problem-solving, de-escalating, filling in the wide gaps of communication in their own imperfect ways. 

The challenge for today, it seems, is not splattering paint all over the Archivist’s office. That is one Martin happily takes on, mostly by way of various stolen towels from downstairs. It’s not like there are consequences for this sort of mischief, and it’s actually in alignment with the Eye, probably, somehow. Visual arts, and all. 

He’s doing it for Michael, or at least that’s how he finds the strength to set all this up for them, this burning need to make the transition back to life meaningful somehow, in any way he can. To show him it was worth it, worth trusting, worth the pain, even if all he can manage right now is something as simple as arts and crafts night in their dreary archival den. Still counts for something. Not like he has anything he could possibly want to stop thinking about from his own end. That’s up soon. Can’t think too hard about that one, right now.

Finding the supplies had been easy enough, and to save them all the trouble of taking Michael to a craft store he had them all ordered here. Nothing too fancy, just to get in the swing of things, and Martin knows he’ll only feel worse about it if he screws up something on an expensive canvas with expensive paint. 

Once he’s satisfied with his damage control, Martin sits up on the desk, twirling Gerry’s locket over the end of one finger as it hangs over the side. All the canvases, paints, brushes, a few other things lay scattered about in piles for Michael to peruse. “My job is done, I-- You’re on set-up, now, Michael.”

\---

Michael is trying valiantly not to look like an excited child, but it's failing. He's ecstatic. There's something buzzing in his chest as he looks at all the supplies, and though it's not the paints he buys, or the brushes, he knows he can paint with them nonetheless.

His grin is near-deranged in how wide it is, as he starts to pull the right size canvas to him and choose paints. "Can't wait to see your art."

\---

“We’ll call it, erm,  _ abstract  _ when we get there. I think you’re the only one here who knows the slightest bit about how... how it works.” Unless Gerry surprises them all with his miraculous Knowledge, but that would be a kind of cheating he won’t allow. Goth Ghost Originals only, thank you. 

Speaking of, Martin lifts the locket up to his face, straight-on, like he’s somehow looking into him from behind the metal layer of gold. Strange, how warm this office can feel when they set about it with good intentions. Food for thought. “Gerry, do you want to paint with us?”

\---

It's such a soft calling; it takes Gerard a moment to materialize, as though his soul was debating wanting to. But he comes, because of course he does; it's hard to say no to Martin, when he has a reason to summon him. 

He materializes on the chair, crouching on the seat and crossing his arms over the top, and he squints down at the array of supplies. "Painting? For what?"

"Fun," Michael says quietly, and all but throws a canvas at him. "We're trying to have fun,  _ Gerard." _

\---

Martin marks that down as a conscious choice on Gerry's part, intending to tell him later. Gerry wants to stretch his autonomy, Martin wants to give him leg room, and that just means a few tests on Martin's part. He's trying to find more chances to do that, anyway. 

He's lost in that long enough he forgets they're both there while they talk around him. Comforting background noise until his thoughts leap from one comfort to another. Twin comforts, to be specific. "Painting to stop the end of the world, Gerry, just-- One canvas at a time." He slides off the desk as he talks, settling criss-cross on the floor where he's surrounded by random supplies. He's yet to parse them out. "I thought you might like trying out, er, more motor skills?"

\---

"Right." Gerry looks skeptically down at all the supplies. "I used to paint, sometimes. It'll just be embarrassing now."

"Aw, Gerry, I bet it was always embarrassing, no need to fret too much about lost skill."

\---

Martin lobs a paint brush at Michael's side from where he's sitting, like he's defending Gerry somehow with the gesture instead of tossing a pathetically light stick. "It's not  _ embarrassing.  _ I never paint. How do you-- Do you just imagine what you want to make? I-I mean, I've only seen you paint me, I don't-- Different than... than poems." He follows that up with a hearty shake of a lavender paint bottle.

\---

"Sometimes when I don't know what to paint I just paint colors in different textures just to feel the brush. Can always start with that. Sometimes the mind wanders while you practice." Michael smiles. "And you bought plenty of canvases, so."

\---

“I wanted to be sure!” 

Bring the nervous down just a notch or two, Martin, it’s showing. This is so high risk. He feels like a child while he carefully squeezes different paints out, bursts of random color he’s yet to figure out how to fit together. 

“I also— Maybe if one’s good enough I can... mmh.” He shakes his head, shoving the side of a paintbrush into his mouth while he concentrates instead.

\---

"You can what, Martin?  _ Hmmm?  _ Tell me." Michael starts to pull open all the paints.

\---

“I can give one to Jon,” Martin mutters under his breath down at his palette, muffled further by the brush fixed between his teeth.

\---

"Adorable," Gerry says, deadpan.

"Romantically disgusting," Michael wrinkles his nose. "I love it."

\---

“You’re one to talk.” Less a coherent sentence, more a grumble. “We’re all romantically disgusting. And—“ He takes the brush out, waving it to accentuate. “—Gerry’s adorable.”

\---

Gerard scoffs. "Adorable, I am not. Honor goes to Jon, all the way."

"Um, no, I'm adorable," Michael says, and dips his pointer finger in one of the paints to flick dramatically at Gerry, who doesn't think to incorporate himself until it hits him. He scowls.

\---

Martin decides he wants no part of this - though something squirming inside him also wants to start flicking paint about the place - because he's staying composed here. Someone has to be an adult, right? Set a good example. 

He hunches up over his own canvas as he methodically layers each bump in the canvas with one singular shade of light blue. He's still honed in on what he's doing when he speaks out loud to the room. "Don't get paint on anything but the towels."

\---

"Well now I want to," Michael grouses, and frowns down at his canvas. "Just completely make Jon shit himself."

\---

_ "No. _ You - You can get it on each other, but that's it. I'll make you clean it yourself." He gives his voice a deadpan edge, only because he's concentrating, but it does give his words a nice little kick.

\---

"Ugh." Michael flicks his wrist on the canvas angrily. "Sir, yes, sir. Sheesh."

At least Gerard is slowly trying to gather his materials to take a stab at it, despite not looking forward to the end results.

\---

"Don't do that," He says with a deep sigh, and isn't he in a mood today? Not sure what that's about just yet. The same brush dips into a reddish-purple color with a complicated name he can't remember, quietly pleased with himself at how they blend together with the blue still wet.

\---

"Oh, c'mon. Just playing." 

"Careful; he's concentrating. Always gets growly when he's concentrating," Gerry says, and dips a brush into the paint, his grip wobbling just a scant bit at the concentration needed to keep himself entirely corporeal.

\---

“Not growly.” 

Ah, wait, he knows what it might be. Martin perks up, brush shoved back into his mouth as he paws around for his phone. He must’ve put it on the floor somewhere.

An inch away from reaching for it among some unopened tubes of paint, Martin pauses. It’s an awkward angle, and he huffs like he’s still debating closing the distance. “Oh, I just remembered his favorite colors are terrible.”

\---

"Are they? What are they?" Gerry asks.

Michael snorts, and ends up accidentally wiping a streak of paint through his hair in a valiant effort to get it out of his face. He really should have thrown it up before they started. "Yeah, tell us all the juicy embarrassing facts about Jon. Serve him right; he never hangs out."

\---

“Green, black. ‘Dark’, he said. But I-I guess I don’t need to use those. Michael—“ Martin sits back, leaving his phone there. “—He  _ just  _ went shopping with you!”

\---

"Yes, Martin, but I'm an adult man and I don't have favorite colors anymore. Why would I ask him?"

Gerry sighs. "Lying. He's lying. Michael you know I can tell when people lie, right? Usually?"

"Eat your heart out, Spirit," Michael mumbles.

\---

“I could’ve sworn I knew.” Martin cards through his memories, where he thinks he might find some knowledge he’s tucked away. “I’m an  _ adult man _ and I still like red. Oh! I told you mine, that’s what it was. Hm. Is it yellow, Michael?”

\---

_ "Yes." _ He dips a finger into one of his yellows and flicks it at Martin, sticking his tongue out. "Bet Gerry's is blacks and purples and nasty shades with hardly any hue in them."

"Wow, really have your finger on my preferences, huh, Mikey." He looks up from his canvas and thinks. "I've never thought about it. It's not purple, though."

\---

Droplets of paint landing on his face makes Martin flinch his eyes shut, but he doesn’t bother wiping them away. “No, I can only— I think it’s something bright. You like looking at it, not - not wearing it, whatever it is. That’s my guess.”

\---

"Do I have to have a preference?" Gerry scoffs and looks down at his canvas. "Use a lot of green, I guess. And reds? I don't know."

\---

“No, but I think lots of people have colors they just like better. Maybe that’s why you like me.” He hums, painting broad, random strokes. His own likely-useless experimentation.  _ “Reds. _ I do think the, um, when you glow— It looks nice.”

\---

"Oh, the ah, green. I barely ever get a glimpse of it." He rolls his eyes. "It's bright. You think it looks nice?"

\---

Martin starts to nod, but then he seems to get a much better idea, tilting forward into the mess of paint colors to gather a few different things. 

He ends up with several greens in his hand, holding each one up to Gerry’s form and discarding whichever ones he’s unsure of until he ends up with one. 

“It looks like this, but— Glows around the edges.” He squeezes some onto the tips of two fingers and smears it over the front of Gerry’s nearest boot.

\---

Michael grins, all but bouncing up from his position on the floor. "well how can he know? You gotta paint all the eyes, Martin."

"Oh, God."

\---

Martin sounds almost scared, pulling his hand back. “What— What does that mean?”

\---

"Paint his eyes. It would be cute, right? Then he can see. Wonder how it compares."

\---

“On... On canvas? Or on—“ He points at Gerry while he looks at Michael, like he’s just been given an extremely important task without direction.

\---

Michael nods solemnly and very nicely ignores the scowl Gerry is lobbying in his direction. "It'd be pretty looking."

\---

“I guess it could be a good test,” Martin says, like he’s not an enabler who was, just several minutes ago, fully prepared to launch into a lecture about keeping the office free of wayward paint splatters. “I-I don’t know if it’d be pretty, though.”

\---

"Well, it's not like you're working from a pretty canvas to begin with," Michael says, and ducks out of the way when Gerry tries to swipe at his head.

\---

“That’s not  _ true,  _ and - and you know it, anyway. I bet you just haven’t flirted with him because he’s a ghost and you think he can’t put out.” Said matter-of-factly, full Kelsie. “I can wait until you’re done painting to try, Gerry, if you want.”

\---

Michael squints at Martin, and then looks up to Gerry. "I'm on your side now, Gerard Keay. At least you don't think I'm a whore."

"Never said you weren't, and-- Hm." Gerry puts his brush down lightly and then starts to pull off the chair. "Might as well try now, if this is what we're doing."

\---

“I’m fine with procrastinating my painting. Time to kill. Having fun.” He finds a brush he thinks he can control better while he shifts back into his criss-crossed sit at the floor. With the supplies in order, he makes a palm-open palm-closed gesture to try and get Gerry to join him. “Not like I’m, um, in any state to call anyone else a... whore.”

\---

"You really aren't," Gerry says as he sits down in front of Martin, and he might be pretending to be stoic for the sake of face, but there's that small, subtle pleased look he gets in his eyes when Martin gives him attention.

\---

Martin huffs arrogantly, reaching out to grab Gerry’s hand with the brush held up in his left. He dips it into the green and pulls his knuckles barely inches from his own face, trying to concentrate on following the curves of the first eye. “Can you feel it?”

\---

Gerry wills himself to. Not all the way-- he'll shiver and feel it too much, and he's not falling into that kind of mess in front of fucking  _ Michael-- _ but enough to give a soft nod, his real eyes filtering shut for a moment as the feeling of the cold paint against his wrist. "For now, at least."

\---

“For now?” There’s a teasing lilt to his voice, but he’s practically beaming up at him whenever he dips back into the paint and has a chance to break his concentration. “It’s— Honestly, it feels sort of advanced. You know where the floor is, where my hand is, the brush, the paint, and you can talk, it’s— Well, it’s very cool.”

\---

"Hard, though," He admits, and mostly just because he doesn't want anyone to expect him to hold a full on conversation right now. The most he can do is bask and concentrate and focus on Martin, Martin, Martin. It's gotten easier.

\---

There’s a tangible shift in the air over the next few minutes. It’s the kind of attention Martin doesn’t mind having on him, an orbital revolution for Gerry’s sake over his own. The flattering kind, that he could be so grounding. 

He manages to stay somewhat neat over the lines, vivid streaks of green that don’t quite match up but are meditative to see through regardless. “Michael, it’s sort of like this, isn’t it? You’ve seen it— I think?”

\---

"Of course I've seen it. Quite startlingly handsome, when he does them while already being here." Michael looks up from his painting. "Just need him to glow and it's perfect."

\---

“I dunno how to get him to do it on command,” Martin muses, letting Gerry’s hand go to point the brush up at his neck like a deadly weapon. His eyes light up with a dark, newly confident mischief. “Where next, Gerry Keay?”

\---

Gerry filters his eyes open and blinks a few times, murmuring, "Any of them. It, uh, kinda feels good?"

"Paint. Based. Erotica." Michael says, and grins at them. "My, he's practically docile, right now." For that, Gerard raises a middle finger at him.

\---

Martin uncrosses his legs so he can rise up on his knees. Better angles that way. “We’re just experimenting. And— We’re all domesticated. Not a crime.” 

He dips the brush back into the paint and leans forward, tilting Gerry’s chin up so he can reach his neck. He’d disagree about the erotica part, but the way a line of paint from the excess slides off the side of the Eye like a thick tear is definitely distracting in  _ some  _ way.

\---

"Domesticated? Says you," Gerry mumbles, and the line of his throat that moves when he speaks jostles more of the paint, and he clamps his mouth shut, a proper shiver running through his form at the feeling of wet paint sliding down him. It's strange how everything feels in this state, simultaneously too much and too little.

"I'll paint you, next, Martin," Michael says, and he's seemingly content to abandon his canvas.

\---

Right. Says him. His grip tenses on the brush, eyes squinting with dedication to his focus. “I-I don’t know about that,” he eventually sighs distantly, staving off any flustering on his own part as he thumbs away the uneven line weight over the Eye’s edge. 

It doesn’t look half bad. Not nearly the ethereal vibrancy of Gerry’s doing, but this is really just a test of resolve, anyway.

\---

"Hm. But _ I  _ know about it. Think I could use the Archivist's head like a magic eight ball? O, mighty and knowing..."

\---

“You could, erm...” Martin finds Gerry’s face, careful concentration written across every psychologically fabricated muscle, and thinks better of what he’s about to say. Far too cruel. He trusts Michael in the cosmic sense, but not so much with Gerry’s miraculous power of trivia. 

Especially not when it pisses him off so much to use. Michael would love that. “I think Google works for most things, really. He’s not all that helpful. Loves being vague.”

\---

"That's the secret to being an entity," Michael laughs. "Have to be vague. Gives us even more superiority." He rolls his eyes. "I know what Google's used for."

\---

“I try not to be vague.” Martin sticks his tongue out in Michael’s direction before moving back, content with the work he’s done on Gerry’s neck. Now he’s got to pick another spot, since Gerry seems content with any of the above. 

That makes him wonder, actually, where they all are. They all bleed together where they’re highly concentrated, but he can’t remember being told about the others. Guess he’ll find out. 

He lifts Gerry’s hand again, the same one where paint stubbornly tries to stay wet against an incomprehensible surface, and finds the inside of his elbow. He has to lean close and tilt a bit to the side, crowding up with his shoulder nearly bushing Gerry’s chest, but he manages with the new angle. Not fighting gravity as much with this one, and now he’s got a feel for it, so painting over the black ink in the crook of his arm is relatively easy.

\---

It makes Gerry shiver again, blinking open one eye to see how close Martin really is, and he lets out a soft laugh. "Are you doing all of them? I'd have to shed... Y'know, layers for that one."

\---

“If you want me to. It’s helping me learn how to hold the brush better— Just - just the ones you want?” Martin tries to localize wherever he touches, not resting Gerry’s arm on his knee even though it might be easier just to let him concentrate. 

He’s not blind to the intimacy of it, but it just spurs him into something calm and courteous. They’re all just talk. Except when there’s teeth involved, probably. Important distinction to make. He circles the section of the design that makes the iris and pulls back slightly, satisfied with his work. “There’s a whole arm.”

\---

"Mmhm. Seventeen per arm. Good job." He opens both eyes to look down at Martin's craftsmanship and smiles. "When it's all done, I'll go half-incorporeal so we can see 'em without me in the way."

\---

“Oooh. Neat. Makes me want tattoos.” 

He brings the wooden end of the brush up to his mouth as he calculates internally. “Might be easier to get your shirt off before we do the other arm, if— If you want to.”

\---

"Eugh. Probably. Sit back, don't touch me." Too much concentration all at once, with that. And if he pulls it over his head-- the motion helping his soul know what he's doing-- he'll ruin Martin's still-wet paint, so he tries another route.

Less concentrating and more... What he felt in that park, when he got too far away. Ghostly fading, feeling more like the environment than like a person. And environments don't need petty motions to slide fabric off non-existent muscles and flesh. It just doesn't have it.

"He looks constipated," Michael says, and Gerry hisses at him when he can feel him leaning forward to touch, and almost breaks concentration to imagine Michael whipping back with his hands in front of him, affronted. But he doesn't, and after a few moments, Michael says, "And he's shirtless now. Ok. Cool trick."

\---

“Let him focus, Michael. As if you didn’t crack open like a Kinder egg when you got too distracted.” He scrunches up his nose in a mock growl aimed at Michael, not possessive but close to it. Resource guarding, almost. 

And then back to Gerry. That jumpstarts a memory. He’s seen Gerry shirtless, but he’d been a bit too distracted at the time to do much counting. “There’s another new one. You willed them away?”

\---

Gerry hums in assent. "Thought about it in that park. When I almost became a memory of the environment. Easier to fade away pieces."

Michael has many things to say to that, but he just scoffs and looks offended and turns away from both of them to go back to his canvas. Fine.

\---

“Good thing you didn’t get naked in the park, then?” Martin shorts as he scoots over to the nearly-finished side, dragging the palette up next to him. 

He’s starting up at his shoulder when he hums at Michael. “Are you grumpy, Michael?”

\---

"No," Michael says, and looks back to glare at Martin. "But I didn't crack open like an egg. That was my true... Self, that I was being nice to not show you. Different than your ghost losing a shirt."

\---

“I’m teasing!” Martin laughs at the glare that mostly just comes off as a pout, and it screws up his next stroke. “I liked it, last time— When, um— Maybe I just saw what I wanted to. Animals, mostly. Masks. Colors. Wish I could paint it. Felt like having a seizure, but not - not— Mm. Guess it’s not something you can describe.”

\---

"Everchanging," Michael murmurs back into the canvas. "Always so, with the Distortion, but more so with us, for we did not enjoy our identity. Everything and nothing." He shrugs, the movement hunched where he sits with his back turned to them. "Rather enjoyed needing the effort to look like me when I visited you."

\---

His hand stops just short of Gerry’s skin, fielding a curious look at Michael’s back. He’s not entirely sure what he’s reading, there, but the change is clogging up contentment in his own brain, at the very least. “I always liked what you came up with, I’m— I’m glad I get to see more, now.” He pauses. “Want to help me with his other hand?”

\---

Michael turns back and squints at them, and then gives a dour little hum. "Fine. But only because I never get to touch him." He pulls himself up, not all the way, just enough that he can kind of half-crawl over to them and sit back on his haunches.

"Just the eyes, Michael," Gerry murmurs, having gone back to fielding his eyes shut in relative contentment himself.

\---

Martin twirls the paintbrush to catch Michael’s vision, brandishing a grouchy face that’s foreign to his own features as he mouths ‘just the eyes’. It morphs quickly into a grin and he hands it over along with the paint. “What, touch Gerry? I mean, I think you’re allowed to, there’s not a rule against it.”

\---

"It just hasn't come up," Michael says, and sticks his tongue out at Martin before delicately pressing a brush to Gerry's shoulder after dipping it in paint, his tongue sticking out just a little in concentration.

"Mm. And you were a demon a week ago," Gerry murmurs.

Michael wrinkles his nose. "Don't you like those? Being goth and all?"

\---

Martin sits back to watch them, content to listen and absorb how they speak. Good to know how they communicate, but— Well, it’s mostly banter. Almost reminds him of how he spoke with Gerry, in his Hunt-addled road trip.

“Must not be that picky. Demon, demon, werewolf-vampire, oh! Michael, um, later— I still haven’t tried on that dress. Making me think about it. Wish we still had those, um, those paintings.”

\---

"Ah... Yes. I liked that painting. Never got a chance to finish it, though." He sighs. "Can always paint you in the new one. I think you'll like it."

\---

Martin glances down at his hands, shy until he remembers where they are. Gerry’s not in any position to make comments about it, and Michael’s always full of surprisingly deeply-cutting compliments. 

Shit. He keeps forgetting he has people he likes, now. And that there are perfectly good reasons to like them. “I’m— I’m sure I will.” 

He doesn’t want to sit in emotions he doesn’t like, so he reaches over and dips his thumb into the puddle of paint, just as quickly bringing it back up to smear over Gerry’s cheek.

\---

Gerry's eyes filter open to half-lids, and he deadpans, "Think I'd remember cheek tattoos, Martin." There's a small smile playing on his features, though, and when Michael's brush dips below the tattoo on his shoulder, weaving patterns down below the eye, he shivers again, and then wavers in that ghostly blush.

\---

“Oops.” Said with the stoic confidence of someone who made no mistakes at all. He shouldn’t enable Michael, though. “Sorry, sorry, I won’t torture you with—“ He laughs, pulling his hand up to his face to stifle it. He gets paint on his jaw in the process, but he figured that would happen eventually. “—Every eye, we’ll stop at the arms. Then you can show off, right?”

\---

"Hm. At least do my spine while you're at it," Gerry hums, and filters Martin a slow look. "It'll look nicer."

"My job." Michael says, and flicks his brush with a flourish. "I'm adding spirals and curls to them. Sexiest translucent ghost known to man."

\---

Martin narrows his eyes into slits barely open, deliberating. It’s Gerry’s limits he cares about, and if he’s saying do it, well, fine. He will. For Gerry. 

He reaches out for another brush, one that’s wider than what he’s been using so far. Feels like a gravely important decision no matter what he chooses, but there’s no need to be a perfectionist about this. 

“I think swirls make it look all mystical. Glow-in-the-dark paint and candles, oooh, now he’ll read off prophecies for us like our own morning paper.” Fondness laces the upturned corners of his mouth as he moves to sit at Gerry’s back. “Can you guess his sign, Gerry?”

\---

"Not fair to play this game when I can know it," Gerard says, and there's a slight slur to his voice, comfort oozing into all his muscles as they continue to paint.

"Ooh, zodiacs? I never quite got into that." Michael grins. "Read me for filth, Skin-Spirit."

"You're a Leo. Enough said."

\---

“Oh!” Martin pauses with the brush against Gerry’s spine, suddenly excited. “I think I knew that! Remember— I said you had lions in you! Loud and yellow and... poofy. Fun trick. I only know things when I Spiral.”

\---

"I thought you said that because of my hair," Michael says, and wrinkles his nose. "You also call me a lamb. And a-- Gerard Keay, the man who has us under house and sanctuary called me a  _ shrimp _ once."

"Lion, and lambs and shrimps, oh my," Gerard says, because he's hardly listening to them at this point unless directly addressed. Too much work. Too content to just Exist.

\---

“And goats,” Martin continues, not quite frantic but picking up pace. “and dog teeth with those, those eyeball candies you can pop so they gush strawberry—“ He draws straight down the line of Gerry’s spine, bisecting all the symmetrical circles. “—moths, too, but then I changed my mind— Gerry’s not a Luna moth, but it’s close, he’s like if fireflies could bunch up together. You know they run cold, right? And they glow so they won’t get eaten and to find mates? I used to read about bugs.”

\---

"Aw," Michael says. "Gerry do you glow to make Martin horny? You don't have to try that hard." He snorts and continues moving down Gerry's back. "Why  _ bugs, _ Martin?"

\---

“I used to live in run-down flats, like— The falling apart kind, with bugs, and it’s not like she could do much about them, so it was my job,” Martin babbles, marking haphazard circles roughly encompassing the inner part of each eye. “Less scary when you know how they work and - and whether they’re bad. Some bugs can stay. Some you toss out into the bushes, get them to crawl in cups. Some you corkscrew, but that’s not, um, not in any guide book.”

\---

"Disgusting," Michael says. He wrinkles his nose. "Did you know, in another reality that lives only in Jon's madness, I once pulled a worm out of one of  _ you, _ too? Nasty business."

\---

“That was nice of you. It’s like the same thing you do with monsters. Some go in tables. Some you put outside. Some get squished. Sometimes Jon is the jar! I should—“ Martin blinks, brandishing the paintbrush in a directionless gesture. “I should check on Charlotte, maybe. I’d bet she’s still here.”

\---

"Don't know if Jon is a jar so much as a light fixture," Gerry murmurs, and shivers as Michael reaches down near his tail bone with the paint.

"I imagine your spider is quite fine, Martin. She's a spider."

\---

“Yeah, obviously she’s fine, but it’s— It’s rude, right? If I don’t reach out once in a while. I guess I’ve been busy.” Martin pulls back again, looking back on their handiwork. It’s terrible. They’ve done a terrible job of tracing eyes. Not the point anymore, though, is it? 

He hums, a satisfied sound enunciated with finality. He wipes the excess paint over Michael’s wrist when he gets close enough. “You’re the one that lights up, Gerry. Don’t even start.”

\---

"Oh, being literal for once in your life? Strange." He blinks his eyes open to slits for just a moment to look back at them both. "You're lucky this feels good. Conniving. Both of you."

"Nuh-uh. Not really. No conniving. Just painting and Martin's love affair with a spider. Webby, webby, webby."

\---

“It’s not a love affair. That’s gross.” Martin chooses to misdirect his frustration on the most readily vulnerable target, sliding the brush against the inside of his palm with the motion of a slicing cut before trying to wipe it off all over the side of Gerry’s face.

\---

Michael snickers. "He's going to look great until his face now, Martin. Ugh, melty, melting paint." 

"I'll be a one-man Picasso painting," Gerry mumbles, and despite himself, all but leans into the way Martin presses against his face for a moment. Ugh. He'd be embarrassed if he even processed the movement.

\---

Thankfully, Martin does all the processing for him. He leans forward to rest his chin on Gerry’s shoulder. “No, you’re a Martin and Michael painting. Blackwood-Shelley original. I go first both ways to alphabetize.”

\---

"I'll allow it!" Michael announces. "But only because it's cute, and adorable, two things that you embody to a sickening degree!" 

Gerry hums. "Almost finished? Gonna start going incorporeal against my will, keep this up."

\---

“You don’t have a choice, not my fault about letters,” Martin shoots back pompously, lifting his head to give Gerry a chance to get up. “It’s all done. Do your... ghost thing.”

\---

Gerry nods and pulls back enough that he can sit in front of them; he's not standing up, considering they didn't even do the rest of his tattoos, but he does sit up as straight as he can, and slowly, by increments, lets himself go. His real eyes become unfocused as he blurs out of the physical plane, just wisps of memory. 

The paint, though, remains, and swirls in midair, and Michael all but squeals when the illusion takes its course, clapping both of his hands together.

\---

Martin, for his part, is patiently quiet as he soaks in the process. He can’t fully understand it, not from the outside, but it’s certainly something to behold. If inanimate objects could be confused, that’s the best word for it, half-dried splashes of green clinging to something that wavers in and out of this world. He tilts his head, like he’s picking up a signal that isn’t there. Or just wondering. 

“There’s static on the outside, um, on the edges where the paint ends— Sort of like your voice, but, I mean... visual. Fuzzy to look at.”

\---

"Hah! He's an inverted green screen. How queer!" Michael looks deviously pleased, holding his hands together tight against his face around a grin, watching the spirit sway just slightly where he's sitting. No doubt, he's having a hard time staying here at all, and with all that paint on him... Strong ghost, indeed.

\---

A soft exhale of a laugh accompanies Michael’s grander gestures, too honed in on Gerry’s general existence to get caught up in all the magic. Martin tugs gently, not with physical force, just with his voice. “Ready to come back, Gerry?”

\---

Gerry pulls a breath in, and goes completely incorporeal for just a moment on the way back, simultaneously pulling his mind back as his body becomes entirely ghostly, and the way the paint slides off of him defies physics in a physical sense. Where paint once stuck to an object, there is no object, and so it seeps to the floor like it doesn't know how to do that. 

He shivers when he comes back fully. "Strange. That felt so strange," He says, and looks slightly tired, but satisfied. Science experiments to shield over intimacy, indeed.

\---

Something about the display taps into an odd combination of fascination and the weirdest sense that Martin has seen something his brain shouldn’t - can’t - comprehend, and with good reason. Like Gerry had faded near-completely from this world into a dimension he technically belongs in but won’t linger too long within. 

Because he has people. His own reasons to make something here. 

It’s all a bit mushy, one of Martin’s emotional habits he’ll likely never kick, but when Gerry comes back he lights up, proud and amazed and excited to see him again all at once. 

He needs to work on his object permanence. Martin reaches forward with both hands to either side of Gerry’s face and kisses him, chaste but pushy.

\---

Gerry has less than a second to make it so Martin can touch him, and it almost threatens to make him start to disappear again, but he holds firm, and grins when he realizes what's happening, a huffed laugh falling from him as he leans back. "Okay! Hello to you, too!" 

He pushes forward, then, to meet Martin where he's at, officially warmed up in a way that makes him want to be so sweet on Martin.

\---

Martin is smiling against his mouth by the time Gerry adjusts enough to push back, and his immediate impulse is to topple him backwards onto the floor. 

He pulls back, still cradling his face on either side. “Do you have any idea how - how fantastic you’re doing? Pushing buttons in the car, and needing the whole page recited word for word, and the first aid kit, and now, you’re— I’m touching your face! After all that!”

\---

Damn Martin Blackwood for making Gerard Keay a fool for him. He grins up at him, and under such blatant, unabashed attention, praise, his smile is wide and his expression is open, his eyes wide. He's never... No one's ever, he thinks, been proud of him in this kind of way. 

His first instinct is to push it aside, throw it away, discard the praise so he doesn't get used to it. But he can't, not when he actually feels good, and Martin is the one administering it. 

"You're fantastic," he says dumbly, because he can't think of many other words right now, too busy staring up at Martin and soaking this in.

\---

Martin can tell his pupils are blown wide by the suddenly, intensely textured detail of Gerry’s hair, his eyes, the way his smile settles over his face a certain way that just feels special. He’s thankful to the Hunt for that one, whichever wires it crossed in his brain that make attachment so potently physical in all his senses, to let him see or maybe even See the people he loves or maybe even Loves better than anything else he could possibly look at. 

“I’m so excited for you. You’re just at the start, right, it’s—“ He presses his palms against the edge of his cheeks, giving his own dopey smile at the way it just makes Gerry look even more blatantly happy and silly. “—You’re so good at this. I love watching it!”

\---

Gerard stares at him for a few more moments, soaking in every detail, every word, and he blinks when he realizes just how many times he's wanted to stay, to push himself, to go beyond the regular realms of ghostly physicality all stems from a desire to stay with Martin, help Martin, do this and that for Martin. 

"Oh," he says after a while, and pulls his face up quickly, to kiss Martin again, and his is not nearly so chaste, but it is just as insistent, and something floods his soul that is near overwhelming. Gerry is so present, in this world, and he notices with no small shock that his eyes are glowing, just a little, just a faint ethereality to the edges of their existence and his. 

Gerry pulls back and searches Martin's face again, and before he can think to stop himself, he's saying so firm and quiet, like a mantra, "I think I love you." 

His words catch up to his brain, and he promptly disappears, blinking solidly out of existence.

\---

Martin lets him control that kiss, emotional cocktail bubbling up in his own chest and leaving him warm. Comfortable, safe, exhilarated, glowing, even. When Gerry breaks the contact, he’s still floating in it, grounded only by the static edge to his voice that forms each breathy word. 

He doesn’t get the chance to respond beyond a surprised twitch in the features of his face, not interrupting the joy etched there, but visibly scrambling his entire way of processing thought. 

And then he’s instinctively bracing his palms over the ground where Gerry’s face had been, blinking through but not out of his own confusion. 

He stares down at the towels for way, way too long.

\---

Michael breaks the silence the ensues. "Oh my God." Joy-- though a much, much different kind than the one etched into Gerry's features just a moment ago-- blankets him, and he laughs. "That was so  _ romantic _ and  _ stupid. _ Gerard's the whore."

\---

Thank Christ for Michael, who easily jolts him out of whatever mindless ache possessed him over the ground with his interruption. Martin sits up straight, scanning this way and that across the mess they’ve made to find the locket. Where did he— Right. 

He gets up without a look in Michael’s direction, scrabbling like he’s on a timer for the necklace where he left it back on the desk. Snatches it up so it dangles pitifully from his closed palm. 

“You—“ He starts, blatantly accusatory with a finger pointed up at it where he holds it close to his face. “You’re not allowed to do that, Gerry!”

\---

There's no telltale sign of glowing eyes to signal Gerry's arrival, and the silence creeps into the office for nearly a minute before Michael clears his throat. "Maybe he's just too tired? Being a coward does take a lot of energy, You know."

\---

Martin swivels on Michael, his blush settling in as stark contrast to a vaguely horrified expression. “That’s not  _ fair.”  _

He’s wished he could disappear a million times over, too, but he won’t, can’t, wouldn’t. The locket clatters back down onto the desk, and Martin glares down at it like he could look deeply enough and scruff him from the ether with thoughts alone. 

It’s not fair, that he  _ could. _ Physically, he’s capable of reciting the page. Of dragging him back into this world. It’s not fair, that he has to think that right now. Martin slumps, mentally disheveled, and sets about slowly collecting his supplies again. 

He ends up sitting back down next to Michael - nearly touching, shamefully embarrassed and thoroughly confused - with all his paints, his canvas, but he’s looking at them like he’s not got one clue what to do with them.

\---

Michael takes a moment to deliberate, and then he wraps an arm around Martin's shoulder and pulls him close. "Relax. He'll come back. Probably scared himself by having an emotion, God forbid." He runs his hand down the slope of Martin's shoulder comfortingly.

\---

Martin grumbles out a resigned sound, like he’s accepting the comfort of a disgruntled animal suddenly picked up and held. He tilts his face up against the underside of Michael’s jaw, partly to hide and partly as appreciation. Man of many feelings, he is. 

“I’m - I’m sorry. I still want to— I still want to do things. I’m just— Well, now I’m just all over the place.”

“Stupid ghost,” he adds as an afterthought.

\---

"Do you not want him to love you?" Michael asks, and as he cocks his head somewhat, his hair falls over Martin, truly hiding him where he rests.

\---

“It’s not that,” Martin starts slowly, struggling for words. “Just that I can’t... I can’t make him feel better about it from here.”

He nuzzles against Michael, warm blanketed calmness bringing him to a point where he won’t stew in what he can’t help now. “I’m frustrated. That’s all.”

\---

Michael continues to run his hand up and down, all but petting him, and he hums low in his throat. "He'll get his head out of his ass. You can throw some paint around to feel better, if you want. I'm sure I could find enough paper in the printers down the hall to make a makeshift drip cloth."

\---

Hopefully. Martin refuses to torture himself by way of envisioning the chain of events that would transpire if Gerry had stayed, all the compliments he would’ve showered him with and how much easier it would be to commit that smile to memory with more exposure. 

Instead, he angles his head out to track his hand as he squeezes a tube of paint back onto the palette he’d brought over, a bright red he then sinks his fingers into. “If we’re careful,” he mumbles as he feels out the texture, reaching up to blindly tap somewhere on Michael’s face. “Sure.”

\---

"Excellent." Michael purrs, and slowly extracts himself from Martin to go find at least some paper. The more protection now, the more fun they can have later, and Michael wants to get Martin throwing paint. Poor lad, it's one thing after the other with him. He tells Martin to hold on and escapes from the office.

He ends up stealing paper from one of the printers that he knows will piss off the other archival staff, but he can't find himself caring too much, too jittery to return to the office and start laying things down. If Martin had thought ahead, he would have bought plastic paint sheets, but alas. Alas. 

Everything gets moved and shifted as he lays paper after paper under the main crime scene, and then he pulls a few of the excess canvases together, touching, in the center of his set-up. "See? We can be messy. Please."

\---

With a solitary moment to recover, Martin makes the most of it. He breathes, deep and painful, as the sound echoes through the room without another to join it. And then he gets over himself as well as he can, stacking paints he might want to use up on the desk where Gerry’s locket sits. 

Still including him, even if he’s not here. By the time Michael comes in, a flurry of motion and noise to blank out the static threatening gloom and doom at the back of his brain, Martin is feeling pretty okay.

It’s a nice display. He quirks an eyebrow up at Michael, like this is a complicated ritual he’s never taken part in, before reaching out to a bottle of orange-yellow. He squeezes it liberally into his hand, weirdly methodical and stiff, then flicks his fingers down at the canvases. 

He says nothing, and his expression doesn’t change from neutral melancholy, but he very much loved that splatter.

\---

Michael claps his hands together. "Excellent. Truly, excellent, Martin." He joins him immediately, and if he's overcompensating his energy to make up for Martin's, that's okay. The yellow is matched with a robin's egg blue, mixed as haphazardly as possible to create rich veins of white in the paint. 

"This is fun, I-- I should thank you." He talks while he hunts for his next color, his voice contemplative. "You're good to us."

\---

Ah. The oldest trick in the book: Michael’s honest praise to an emotionally downtrodden Martin. He cracks a smile right about when he’s finished with that blue, watching Michael move whenever he can sneak glances. 

“I wouldn’t ask you to come back if I didn’t think the world had good things in it,” he says evenly, his lukewarm tone just starting to slip into one more engaged. Could have something to do with how he’s dropping an excessive amount of red into his palm so he can ball his hand up into a fist over the canvases. 

Fat globs of it drip down with heavy, individual impacts, from between his fingers and the sides of his fist. “You’re welcome.”

\---

Michael watches the way the paint slides down onto the canvas, and for a moment, his mind sees stairs opening up, tearing open, the canvas of the world coming undone as the paint slides down the concrete, drowning, swallowing him, anguish running down his cheeks as tear tracts. 

He blinks, and the red paint is blood, but that's okay, he just needs to turn away for a second to choose a deep emerald green, and when he turns back, his fingertips envy-coated, the paint is just paint once more, and his hand stops shaking slightly.

"This is getting hung up in our living room, when it's done," Michael says at length, and keeps his voice even as he flicks his fingers delicately to make thin ropes of paint.

\---

“Oh, that— I think that might be nice,” Martin says, now smiling in earnest. He crouches down to wipe away what still clings to his hand, some of it on the edge of the canvas. Fingerprints, little spirals, unique and strange. Woven right into them all, like darkness at the backs of eyes. Like instincts and knowledge and fear. 

He finds a deep, dark blue, and when he fits it into one palm he clasps both hands together until it coats each part of both. Splays all his fingers out so he can press an imprint of one hand into two neighboring canvases. “I think we should make it evil.”

\---

"Okay," Michael says immediately, and steps close to lean down over Martin, watching what he does with his hands. "How do you propose that? What kind of evil?"

\---

“I don’t know. Just came to mind.” He etches a half-assed swirl with a pointer finger, and then looks up to find Michael there, tries grabbing either side of his face with paint-wet hands. Living bear trap.

\---

Michael makes a startled noise, and when he registers what's been done to his face, he bares his teeth and growls, all but collapsing on top of Martin and reaching out to wipe his hand against the still wet canvas, dragging it down Martin's face.

\---

Martin  _ yips.  _ There’s no other word for that sort of panicked, helpless surprise, only managing to turn halfway around before he’s pinned to the floor. “Michaaaael,” he whines pitifully, shivering at the cold burst of wet colors colliding across his skin, and it’s all a ploy, of course, since his own hand not pinned is carefully reaching out to the edge of the nearest canvas like he could possibly be subtle about what he’s doing.

\---

"Hi," Michael grins. "You didn't give me direction, so I'm evil to you now. Whoops."

\---

“I don’t think they’ll appreciate a p-painting in our living room with a stain of... half my face on it,” Martin huffs, barely hiding his smile. The angle is bad, but he reaches up to push at Michael’s face with one newly painted hand.

\---

Michael wrinkles his nose but doesn't pull away, laughing. "Well, they have to, right, otherwise they're not supporting your creative outlook on life. Very... Oh, whatsit? Problematic."

\---

_ “You’re _ problematic!” Martin growls, very mature about the whole situation. He squirms until his back is mostly flush with the floor, through it all taking care not to get any paint on Michael’s clothes. “Give me a color?”

\---

Michael perks up from his position on Martin to reach over to the desk and blindly grab a color. It's a floral pink. "I never said I wasn't. Here you are, my dear."

\---

Martin takes it in one hand, very glad that he ordered cheap paints on purpose. He doesn't feel guilty for mixing, or covering the outsides with different colors, it's just pure mindless fun. He flips over again, this time on his stomach, and opens the paint right onto the canvas. It's a bit too much, he realizes once he starts to work straight lines from the center, an explosion of pink that starts on one canvas with lines long enough to connect to the ones around it. He tries to entrance himself with the process, speaking up without looking back. "You're good at making me feel better."

\---

"Good. I like making you feel better. You make good art, by the way. It looks good when your heart is in it. Your heart is always in it." He finger-mixes some red with a black to darken a magenta and flicks it idly.

\---

“When I stop thinking too hard,” Martin corrects, abandoning the pink once he’s sure he’s spread it out enough to follow wherever Michael’s dots land. He leaves little streaks in their wake, dark comets against a brightly erupting sky. “Would— Would it be too cult-y to add a moon, or - or a sun, maybe? Planets? Make it a big sky.”

\---

"Who cares about culty." Michael snorts and wipes his hand against one of the pieces of paper, and searches out a dark blue. "I think it's an excellent idea for our living room collage painting. "We've already got a Moon for us, gotta plan out who's who."

\---

“Oh, so we’re doing... Like, like we’re in the sky? I can do that. Ideas are— I mean, I write, I like...” Martin bottles up his disconnected phrases. Narrow it down, Martin. “You’re the sun, I think. Back on the roof, when we— In America, it was the middle of the day, and there was a part where the light sort of came through your, um, your hair— You’re very bright.”

\---

"I approve. Yellow." Michael smiles, and sits up. "Ah. The eclipse, too, no doubt. Perhaps we were both thinking of the sun."

\---

“Oh. Right.” And isn’t that a shift? True statement, obviously, in a fabricated world where the physical icons Martin finds himself fixed to bleed into a realm of their own creation, but he’s just had to relive that one with the Archivist. It already stung before, but it’s fresh all over again. Not totally, but it’s like waking from a bad dream. Your body remembers. 

He busies himself with the closest wet spot of paint to his hand and talks quietly down at the canvas. “Maybe... Maybe you should be the one who draws the moon.”

\---

"... If you want. Yeah." So he fidgets and sits up, curling over himself to do just that, far more precise and caring than their paint splatters.

"What about Gerry? What about you?"

\---

“Me? I don’t know. Gerry— Mm. Something small. Not in a mean way, but— Something you don’t get to see every day. But it’s always there. Like something that orbits, maybe? When he first showed up, I’d say he might be a comet, but...” 

He procrastinates working on any of these. Not that he’s afraid to, or anything, he’s just not sure where he’ll go. Mentally. Physically. Like he knows. “...they’re just rocks if they get stuck in orbit, and Gerry’s not a rock.” He’s letting his mouth run, unawares. “He’s a rock in the other way, like— Grounding, right, but not— He’s too flashy to be a rock.”

\---

"Don't overthink it, Martin, it's just images. If the words don't work," He makes a flourish with the color he's working with and turns to look for whites and yellows to mix into subtle creams, "Just make them images, instead."

\---

Martin scowls, more of a pout than anything. “Overthinking is what I do, Michael. That’s how I come up with all this.” 

Still, he tries. Finds that red he likes, the vibrant one, and follows Michael’s demonstration for mixing colors. The second red is too bloody, but after some trial and error he has something in between that he’s content to work with, painting out a small circle just off-center of all the canvases. Too humble for dead middle.

\---

The moon takes Michael a while, especially once he figures out a good mixture approaching gold and lines the edges delicately with a halo. It sits at the tip-top of the canvases, far above, and when he pulls back to regard it, he sighs.

"Quite lonely, it turned out."

\---

Martin perks up out of his concentration when Michael speaks, tuning out of his cratered planet looking a bit like earth, with red water and darker splotches of land that all connect somewhere. He brings a tube of paint with him when he moves to see what Michael has, feeling he’ll need it somehow, and sits politely on his knees beside him. 

He stares, long and unblinking at the shimmery hues of yellow. Softer than the sun, not quite so loud, but the quiet of it doesn’t feel gentle. Like the eye of a cat in tall grass before it strikes, commanding in a way that tells him it’s spent more time seeing them than they’ll get the chance to return. 

Yep. That’s how he is. Martin is silent as he opens the bottle, delicately squeezing the slightest bit on one finger, reaching out to leave tiny dots of green short of touching the actual moon.

\---

Michael hums in approval. "I quite like that. See? You're good at this." He watches the moon for a hair longer and then turns to look at what Martin's doing, his smile growing.

This feels good. It feels solid. It feels... Michael doesn't have the word for it, because he's never felt this at home with anyone, let alone multiple people all at once, enough to make a painting symbolizing them.

\---

“Stars,” Martin says simply, once his hand is aching with each tedious movement to make a hundred or so little dots. “They’re far away.”

Michael is always so encouraging. Even in those moments where he isn’t quite sure he understands his own thoughts. “I’m not scared of the moon.”

\---

"No, no, I would say you're in love with it. Which is alright; that's why you balance yourself with the others." He smiles at Martin as he watches him dot.

\---

“I am.” He pulls back completely, taking in the canvas as a whole so he’s not stuck. Orbiting. “That’s my love affair. My first one, and it’s with the moon.” 

Martin leans so he can rest his temple against Michael’s shoulder. “Oh, this got serious. Sorry.”

\---

Michael huffs out a soft laugh. "I don't mind. You take care of us all the time; I'm not always awful. I can listen. Probably." His voice is soft, quiet, slow. He doesn't want to mix up his words here, stumble over himself; he wants to be strong for Martin, too. It's the least he can do.

\---

Martin won’t slip down there. Having fun is just as much for Michael and Gerry as it is for him. He shrugs, a genuine, casual thing. “You know how it is with the moon!” Defibrillator to the heart with tone. That’ll do it. “I don’t think I’d call this taking care of. I got paint in your hair. Everywhere.”

\---

"Mmhm, making an afternoon to rekindle myself with one of my hobbies isn't taking care of me. Sure, Martin. Sure thing. And you get on  _ Gerry  _ for avoidance."

\---

“I’m not... I’m not avoiding. It’s not... Okay. Okay, yes. I did set this up to find a way to help you be happy. If that’s taking care of, sure.” He sighs, falling back on the towels past the paper Michael put down around the canvases. “I have no idea how you do it. Painting is exhausting.”

\---

He snorts. "It's meditative. I can-- can just not think for a while, all while.... doing things, and creating and-- it's more productive than just spacing out?"

Michael gathers some more paint, deliberating as he looks across the strange colorful landscape they've created. But he supposes that's what's missing; it's all celestial bodies, pulled far, far above, lonely and wanting to be seen by something, anything. He takes white and slowly paints a horizon near the bottom of the canvases, not straight or perfect, but natural and grounding, breaking up the Great unknown above it. He follows it up with shaping out earthen hemispheres, and shrugs as he does so.

"I would have left, if I didn't feel taken care of."

\---

Makes sense in theory, if not in practice. Hard to conceptualize not thinking so hard about it when every stroke is a calculated effort, but Michael has been at it for much, much longer. Maybe someday. 

Watching is meditative in its own sort of way. Spacing out a way that feels like learning. How Michael’s wrist flexes, how the paint weaves together, how he thinks it through with half-conscious decisions that come with practice.

Eventually, he hums in response. It takes him a second to get up and trail after Michael, to peer down at his work at one side of his head. They take turns orbiting in this family. “I caught you, then. You’re a little evil, but it’s— It’s a good look on you. I think it’s nicer with you here.”

\---

Michael can't help the breathless little giggle that escapes him. "Oh, I don't mind being a little evil. You really think so, though? Another failed assistant, back from the  _ deaaaad?" _

He starts filling in green and earthen red clay, and he smiles down at what his horizon is shaping up to be. "This part's you, by the way."

\---

Martin holds off on processing the artistic gesture to get a word in edgewise. “Michael, I was a failed assistant  _ without _ dying. You— You know I lied, right? About my degree? We’re all bad. And—“ 

Okay. Now he can think about this. He rests his chin on Michael’s shoulder, and that’s a new tic. Or maybe they’re all just too tall, so he can only do it when they’re on the floor. He likes it, aesthetically, but he deadpans for effect. “Thank you, Michael. I’m a massive pile of dirt.”

\---

Michael wordlessly reaches behind him to press a red-brown glob of paint onto Martin's nose, scoffing. "Yes. Yes, Martin, that's the metaphor."

He rolls his eyes and keeps working, giving flourishing touches to it. "No. You're just-- you're the perspective. It's your horizons we stand in, I think. I don't mind it. Certainly feels comforting to be seen by your earth."

\---

Well, that’s a hefty cosmic importance. He would say he has no idea why he’s blushing, but that’s not true, he gets it, but... “My earth.” 

A big field is a very nice place to be, if you look for something nice there. He’s always looking for something nice. “I think Gerry’s a satellite.” He nudges Michael playfully. “Always keeping an eye on me, I helped make him, only get to see him once in a while before he flies off as quick as he can. And he sounds all mechanical, sometimes. That whirrrrr.”

\---

"Hah! I love that. A robot ghost. Very unique." He presses back against Martin, leaning his head back against him like a cat rubbing for attention. "Very creative."

\---

“He  _ is _ unique, and I’m creative. Must be. I-I really should’ve been eaten by now, for what I’ve, um, what I’ve come up with.” 

He pushes into the weight, content with what they’ve made so far. He wants to add more, but it really takes a lot from him.

\---

"Ha! Perhaps, but... you've also only met nice entities so far. And nice entities fall for silly rainbow fish sweaters."

\---

“Mm. The Archivist isn’t nice, and I’m still pretty sure I convinced him to go bird watching with me.” He leans in close, volume low and conspiratorial. “I’m an entity whisperer.”

\---

"Bird watching?" Michael snorts. "You-- you're just very good at kicking them off track, I think. There's-- when you have one purpose and are all..." He wiggles his fingers around the brush, "superior in the cosmic sense about it, being sidetracked is a big, big deal." 

"You think him and Jon are gonna get, all-- entangled?"

\---

“Good thing I practiced with the easiest entity to get sidetracked, then.” No training wheels now, he’s not sure they can talk their way out of the Unknowing. Ah, or the Hunters. 

He’s not sure how to answer that one. “I haven’t thought... that far through, really. That’s, um, big. I don’t— I don’t know.”

\---

"The Distortion does. That's what this is, isn't it?" Michael shrugs. "Makes sense in my head." He slowly leans back, nothing too quickly to jostle Martin from where he's sitting against him, setting the paintbrush down. "I think it's done."

\---

Martin doesn’t stop leaning, but he does sound considerably disturbed. “...The Distortion does what? What  _ what _ is?”

\---

"You know--" Michael flicks a hand in the air, "Like. I know Richardson is a better fit, but they're still... entwined. She's still part of the Distortion. And the Distortion's part of her. And you saw how-- how we were."

\---

“Oh. Right. I thought you meant the Distortion knew the answer.” Martin shakes his head slightly, without going too far. “Maybe if I’m really nice, I can convince the Archivist he should just be our friend. No Apocalypse, world’s fine as-is.”

\---

"Archivist is a baby. Not like he can stop it, when it's like, what, two hundred years coming now? Ugh. Maybe he could be our friend. Rancid aura to him, though."

\---

“You think that about everyone!” Martin huffs, nearly a laugh, before he’s pressing an obnoxious amount of weight up against him and rubbing his face dramatically against Michael’s shoulder. “Do I still smell like the Hunt, Michaaael?”

\---

"Overdramatic puppy," Michael grouses, and instead of trying to work against Martin's momentum, he pulls himself down to the floor next to the canvases, letting Martin choose whether to follow. "I rather like your smell, now."

\---

He does, of course he does, falling down sideways over Michael so he’s using his body as a pillow from the torso up. His grin is wide and smug. “You  _ hated  _ it. You even complimented Gerry today. You’ve stooped low.”

\---

"My senses were like an acid tunnel, of course I hated the predator that could tear me apart limb from limb." He rolls his eyes. "I've done no such thing as stoop low. I never stoop low."

\---

“Can’t get lower than the floor. And I wouldn’t have killed you. I think. That would have been... bad. We’re both better than that, looks like.”

\---

"You waaaaanted to, though. Under the reflection of the sky. That one was a real memory." He laughs. "If you came a day later, I bet you would have tried to kill me."

\---

“Maybe. But we weren’t a day later.” Martin squishes the side of his face against Michael’s chest. “I mostly just wanted to tear up your hallways. Guess I got that later.” Among other things. “Anything else you want to do next, since we’ve finished our great masterpiece, and all?”

\---

"My  _ guts,  _ might I remind you. You wanted to tear up my  _ guts."  _ He wrinkles his nose. "No. I am ordering better canvases and paints, though. For my own paintings."

\---

“That’s fine. Wanted to start off low-risk. High reward. But, I mean— I learned a few things.” And now he has a ghost putting him on hold. His voice softens. “Hope Jon, um— Hope he likes it.”

\---

"Oh, of course he will. He's utterly smitten with you. Utterly ridiculously sappily in love. It's a sickness, I promise you, it is."

\---

“I’m spreading it around. Getting it all over you until you want a house with me.” His heart hurts, oozing heat that’s so overwhelmingly nice he nearly misinterprets it as nausea. “Then that’s when I start sapping your life force. All part of my evil plot.”

\---

"Mm. Too bad my life force is evil itself and poisons you. I'm poisonous, like a-- a mushroom in some Polish forest, or something. Better watch out." He wrinkles his nose around a pinched smile.

\---

“No, no, I’m one of those animals that eats poison for fun and gets a little high off it instead of frothing at the mouth.” He sits up slightly, just to bend over Michael’s face. “So I win.”

\---

"Mm. But so do I. Maybe I wanted to be eaten, and I just lured you right into my trap. What then?" He looks right up, and then grins for a solid two seconds before darting up to lick up Martin's cheek.

\---

Martin shakes his head with a comical urgency. Given him cooties, or something equally nasty. “Well— Then you’re still dead, you weirdo.” He stoically does not give in to a swift revenge. “I’m figuring out your traps. No more reverse psychology.”

\---

"I would never. No traps. I'm an open, friendly, safe book. I'm offended, honest." He can't even keep up the bit without laughing, though, genuinely pleased with Martin bantering back with him.

\---

“You’re the one who mentioned traps! Of course you have them. That’s why I’m not laying on you, right now. You’re wicked.” He scrunches up his nose like he’s tasted something sour.

\---

"Wicked? Me? I'd never. I'm cute, and sweet, and kind, actually, and I deserve kisses and sweetness only."

\---

“Hmm.” Martin mulls it over before he decides one kiss on the cheek won’t kill him, then lowers himself back down onto the floor next to Michael. “I don’t believe you, but I’m not cruel.”

\---

"Fiiiine. It suffices for now." He sighs dramatically, a big huff from his chest. "Whatever. I liked this. I'm not letting you being rude get me down."

\---

“I’m the least rude of any of you. Pouting.” Martin watched Michael’s face, smeared over with random colors he left behind. Ah, right, they’re completely covered in paint. “We should clean up if - if we’re done.”

\---

"Oh, what, you don't think it's a good idea to have Jon walk in on this and throw an absolute fit like he's a sixty year old mum?" He snorts.

\---

“He won’t throw a  _ fit, _ we kept it on all the towels and paper and— And us! Just might be nice if he comes back to a... a clean office.”

\---

Michael groans, loudly, but slowly sits up, nodding. "Fine, fine. You're right, as usual. Ugh. We need somewhere the canvases can dry, though."


	59. Chapter 59

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Distortion and the Archivist walk into a bar...

Quite a delightful day, isn’t it? 

Not the first, for certain, but just barely the start of a brand new career with incomprehensible terms and no contracts beyond the precious few so deeply marked but so, so alive-and-dead. What a blessing, to always know where each of those pet projects are, at any given time. That makes unplanned visits all the easier. 

Technically, it  _ is  _ planned, but not in this order. Yes, the Distortion could wait until the dreamy magenta-haired herald of mock responsibility rang again, even allowing for the number at the back of Not-Helen-Richardson’s card to reach the other end as a gesture of kindness and mutual rapport. But their interests, unclouded by turbulent frigid winds, are manifold. 

So, someone gets a visit, someone who could never truly be alone anymore. 

The faux skin memory of Helen Richardson needs some adjusting. Not so taut or tense as the last one, but so new and well-fitting it nearly seems to be completely wrong. How wonderful, exquisitely  _ terrible _ that is. Bland suits and fake, plastered smiles once adorned the body of this one, but now - as part of the deal that is no longer a sometimes-comprehensible twisting of two tectonic plates screeching with the strain of pressure but a more malleable collective of vividly colored pipe cleaners or frosting colors whipped up but not totally mixed in - she gets to be loose.

Clothes that don’t stifle, a body and mind that doesn’t stifle back, at least not nearly to the grating extent it once had. We’re feeling a little Eighties today, aren’t we? Still working out the kinks. No doubt we’ll have phases, but nothing too intensely difficult to pull off today. Her hair is miraculously easy. Tempered down once by the nature of her job, her curls now find the freedom that naturally suits them, so unlike Shelley in their deep, rich darkness. The hardest part, surprisingly, is the accessories. She never did get to wear these sort of hoop earrings, or these bracelets that make the loveliest chiming sound when she gestures hands that hold more than muscle, bone, and blood beneath them, but she is determined to make a good first impression for this one.

Not that she knows exactly what she is, yet, but that’s all in the experimentation. Exciting. 

The doors open for her, a lovely change, to where she wants to go. She knows, at the deepest, oldest aspect of a brain stretched beyond humankind, where they all connect. Attuned, some are, if only by proximity in the moment. One glows a spectral red along the crevice at the bottom, reflecting gorgeously along the golden hallways lined with new wood that sounds off that melodious, soothing tap-tap-tap with every step. Beside it, one far more sinister, but much more silly, with a knocker in the shape of a roaring lion. Fixed in its nose is a ring, and that’s what makes it bang, but she spends no time knocking.

All that matters is, for now, it is the right door. The one she opens into a bright, pleasantly cool day, a genuine smile playing upon the new god’s face as she steps through to see the world with fresh eyes. O, how quaint. 

Funny. She’ll have to get her own gimmicks, won’t she? Much better ones, perhaps. 

The door remains cracked where she leaves it behind. Shh. Don’t tell. 

Perhaps it wasn’t the best idea to essentially pop out from nowhere, but something tells her she won’t quite be sneaking up on  _ him,  _ not completely. She did wait, too, until after he made significant progress on his day of reprieve, until he’s left a particular building likely looking more fresh in body and mind than so recently before. Kind gestures go far, it seems, in this economy of fear. She learned that quite well. 

Her voice is buoyant as she approaches her prey-that-isn’t-and-couldn’t-be on the sidewalk, a calm smile creasing her dimples. 

“Hello, Archivist.” Or maybe, it’s a ‘Hello, Archivist!’. Somewhere snugly fixed between the two.

\---

Maybe it's that his body genuinely feels as though the majority of the tension has been pressed out, juiced out like a fresh winter orange, but when Jon gets the prickling sensation of who is coming behind him, he doesn't even scowl. Not at all, and maybe he'll have to give Martin an even better thank-you than the one he had planned, considering it's not often he could be described as calm when being approached by the Distortion itself. 

"Helen," He greets, and stops in his steps, turning to take her in, and-- Oh. She's a little more playful, isn't she? Maybe this transfer wasn't as traumatic. Maybe it was. He doesn't know, and he shutters off the part of his mind that could reach out and take that knowledge easily. 

And maybe he's gone soft; the paranoia and distrust he once held for Helen is minimal, these days, even if he isn't as friendly as Martin is. But he still manages the smallest of smiles as he wraps his sweater tighter around his frame. "Haven't been called that lately."

\---

Well, look at that. Someone's been spoiled, haven't they? No malice, he even seems fond, if she's willing to stretch the imagination.

She is.

"Oh, is that what I am?" Her tone isn't negatively distant as much as it is perplexed, thoughtful, like no amount of weaving identity in and out along her own threads matters in the face of a title given by someone else. "You'll have to be patient with me, dear. First time on a sociable walkabout since the last resident! Left the house a wreck, you know." 

She hums, and oh, there are moments where the thoughts flip backwards or sideways, where the words threaten to topple over one another, scrambling letters from the Scrabble bag. Games. Always games. Can't seem to get away from that one. "You're both the Archivist, aren't you?"

\---

"Hm. It's what I called you last time; you didn't seem to mind it." He pulls back a little, to regard her fully. Oh, he's so much more confident around the face of abject terror these days, but that's a thought for another time. "We can workshop names." 

Even untrustworthy and frightened by her, last time, he still always liked her more than Michael. Different, now, these days, but she was always calmer, less volatile, and-- well. Accepting, of what they are. He hated it. He's not sure he hates it now. Hard to, with something sitting underneath his skin peering through his eyes. 

"He's just hijacking my name, for whatever-- whatever reason."

\---

_ “Hijacking?”  _ She laughs, a restrained little echo to spare the Archivist from pain. She may be new as she exists, but oh, in other ways, she feels quite ancient. Helen it is, then. No Michael. As true as it is false, as wrong as it is right. Such a precarious, actively tilting balance. “Was it not you that gave it to him? Brought life to that idea with all that space up here?” She makes a circular motion with one finger up to the Archivist’s skull. 

“Oh!” It’s an excited little exclamation of realization, an afterthought as she takes notes to herself. “I like this, I think. This mouth is much nicer.”

\---

"I didn't give anything to--" Well. He cuts himself off. Maybe he did. He did say yes, after all. He huffs and pushes his hair off his forehead, shaking his head. "It's still confusing. Not that you think that's a bad thing." 

No matter. Jon shakes his head to clear himself of the thoughts of the Archivist. "Yes, well-- Miss Richardson does suit you better, I think. Glad Martin managed without me, in there."

\---

“Confusing, but more simple than you might think. That’s the trick.” She winks, a subtle static blur following the motion. Perhaps that’s what she is, a figure on a TV screen. Not the real thing, but present nonetheless. A moving picture. 

Oh... Martin and all his theatrical displays, a ritual weaving into the core of the Spiral with an offering of moving images that don’t quite exist with that cunning, accidental intuition. Had that changed her, in this world? Made her into something different than she was in the very real imaginary earthscape so distant in the mind of Jonathan Sims now that it’s merely a dream? 

“I found my way to the center without the benefit of Michael’s cluttered passages. Less ripping apart, that way, a smoother transaction. Oh, you would’ve failed, Archivist. I imagine you might take a century to digest, but you would be.”

\---

"Mm. Yes, well, even before I was barred from your hallways by him, Helen, I wasn't exactly, you know,  _ keen  _ on diving into them." Martin might have found a way to spiral without losing himself completely, but Jon can't trust himself in that way. Never will. The most he can manage is whatever it is they do upon the Mark that Michael gave to Martin. 

"No offense, obviously. I-- I imagine they're very nice looking, now, but you know."

\---

“You get to take a peek  _ outside  _ of the food chain, Archivist. That’s a special gift. No temptation to choose to step in? Few can resist that.” She walks alongside him, occasionally changing gaits as she finds new ways to hold herself. There is a vulnerability in it, in being so newly complex and malleable, and sharing it with this one was not a choice made on an impulsive whim. “And you think it was  _ inflicted _ on you?”

\---

Jon finds himself watching her occasionally, curiosity blooming on his face. He supposes he should be grateful he stands testament to Watch this, to see her develop herself. Maybe once, long ago, he would have found the display grotesque, a perverse imitation of humanity and unnatural orders so arcane they barely know how the human body works.

Now, he's just fascinated, fascinated in the ways such a creature of the Spiral could pull itself into some semblance of an identity. Or lack thereof? Maybe that pesky detail was more Michael's load to bear. 

It makes him wonder if the Archivist is like this; not so tightly wound around him, but new in this world, nonetheless. Learning, if what Martin says is right, with a naïvety that would almost be quaint if it weren't so dangerous.

"Partially. Maybe-- Maybe not as much as I used to think, I-- I've kind of gotten over pushing the onus on someone else. But it's--" He cocks his head slightly. "Isn't it... Infliction? If you don't know all the consequences?"

\---

“Hm,” she says again, pondering along with the joy of being able to. Without hatred. A childlike wonder that takes longer to process by virtue of enjoying said process. 

“In Helen Richardson’s life, she never thought the simple act of being born was  _ inflicted _ on her, Archivist. Even the unpleasant things that nag, those pesky, annoying parts of life.” Her smile is warm. It doesn’t crack. “You have to eat, so why not a career that lets you eat what you want on a better budget? There’s a choice around what you can’t choose. How could she imagine that one day a door would swallow her whole? Unpleasant, of course, but life led her to see all the little things she could change. To me.”

\---

"Well." Jon says, stiffly. "I hope she's happy, as much as she can be."

He takes a deep breath. "I have rules. I'm not afraid to-- to eat. I just have rules. It's-- there's nothing wrong with etiquette. All restaurants have etiquette. No need for me to be grotesque."

\---

She is. Helen is, anyway. Supposedly. Nothing is perfect, why should she be? Ah. This is the honeymoon phase, it seems. A comfort so profound within the Spiral at having changed from pins and needles for something whose perfume is a tad less stifling. Perhaps it might be easier, this time, with company. Perhaps, the Spiral senses false-truths from the Archivist’s preconceptions about Helen, the entity, and it is quite the impressionable one when attuned to humanity. How dreadful. Or not! 

“Oh, yes. Etiquette is important to your steak, dear. Following rules is just as important as knowing when you’ll break them!” She quite likes this one. Very serious, but less than he could be. Was. Will be. Is. Strange. That means there’s room for more, in that turbulent little head of his. “Cheer up, Archivist. Heading back to your happy home, are you? I heard you’re in the market.”

\---

Jon blinks, and then blinks again, looking forward before he starts to laugh, his small little smile turning to something far more amused as he turns to look at Helen. "Well-- yes, actually. Are you offering your services? None of that Michael business with doors in model homes that shouldn't exist."

\---

_ “There  _ we are!” Such a soft noise, crackling with quarter-human mirth. Much easier to keep it all in, this way. “You’d be surprised how many houses have doors that shouldn’t exist. I think it might be fun. You mischief-makers would make  _ very _ interesting clients.”

\---

He snorts. "I can imagine. A ghost, an ex... Well,  _ you,  _ myself and Martin. Quite the family unit." Oh she's fun. How has he never realized this?

\---

“Now, don’t forget the little ones.” She pauses for an almost uncomfortable length of time, leaving space for thoughts to run rampant. “That Martin of yours has an impressive collection of names, after all. He seems to find them very important.” 

She would say  _ our _ Martin, but that would be rude, wouldn’t it? Spiral tugging beneath skin aside, he did make the choice to come back out, and thus, is not hers, not the same way. Choices within a lack of choice.

\---

"The--" No. He's not going there with her. That's bait, and he's smart enough to sniff that out. He shakes his head to clear the thought.

"Martin? He's-- you've called him assistant. And I guess-- what, the Archivist calls him.... Messenger? That's not-- we all get given titles in this line of work." He gives a breathless laugh. "Look at me. Hardly anyone called me Jon the first go around."

\---

Too bad. She’ll get him next time. 

“The Archivist is a powerful title. Hundreds of thousands of Jons in the world, but only one you. Owns you as you own it, right? About his names, well... It’s not my place to say!” She shrugs, a physical ‘oh-well’.

\---

"Oh, it'd be too much to have you be less cryptic this time around." Jon rolls his eyes. "Suppose I'm not one to talk. Your title's so ingrained it's practically biological, huh?" He's never thought about it.

\---

Biological. The Spiral? Helen? Michael? Distortion? Is it? Is it not? Maybe it is. 

“Cryptic?” She places a hand over her chest. The bracelets brush over one another in delightful cacophony. “Why, Archivist, what would ever give you that impression?”

\---

"Like I'm not cryptic. Comes with the job title, I'm starting to think." He pauses, and then laughs. "I'm so bad at explaining things to-- to the people who don't just feel what I do, all the time. It's such a frustrating contradiction!"

\---

“Does it have to be, Jon?” A genuine question, calm and vaguely confused. That she has nothing more to offer about frustrating contradictions is a surprise, but, ah, she’s not always a perfect fit.

\---

He sighs and shrugs. "I don't know. Genuinely? I don't. It's not like I've had guidance. I- I mean. You're what, thousands? Of years old? Long time to figure it out, even if-- if Helen presents, ah, growing pains."

He flexes his hand in front of him, watching muscle and sinew stretch, just to have something to do. "I'm meant to know. But there's still so many unknowns."

\---

"Ah. Those awful, awful unknowns. I think..." She has to roll that stone over in a mind that is not a mind but a collection of things, much like an antique shop filled with objects appearing nonsensical to the modern eye. "...That  _ may _ be a conversation for the future. I have the funniest feeling that you and I are alike, us happy little non-accidents. I... I am the Distortion, yes, I think, but I am Helen, to you, and-- Well, we silly creatures are the surface of something much, much bigger! But I, as I am, now, all at once, am just as new to this as I was new to... Michael. As you are to... the Archivist."

\---

"To--" Jon cocks his head slightly, and then shakes his head. "I think that's different. Isn't it? You and Michael were-- all at once. You and.... I mean, you and Helen, are... Too? I'm not-- he's separate. That's what I mean. A hijacker in my flesh. A parasite."

\---

“Still set on seeing an invader, are you? How much was ‘me’, how much was ‘Michael’? Or was-is Helen? You see how names don’t help. That just makes it more confusing!” She tuts. “Ah, but to him, what are you? Is it your flesh? Are those gorgeous eyes  _ yours,  _ Archivist? You’ll put yourself in a rut that way.”

\---

"How are they  _ his?  _ He-- he entered my body. My-- I didn't say yes to this, last time. This never happened. I was myself. This isn't-- it isn't like you!"

And whoa. Calm down, Jon. Defensive, much?

\---

“Oh, Archivist.” She sighs, like she pities him. “You’re the one saying ‘his’. ‘Mine’. Can a self be so easily cut into only those two realities? Can ‘yes’ and ‘no’ only be said one way each? ‘Last time’, you also had no adorable entourage. That’s changed you, too.”

\---

"Well I can't exactly know how he phrases it, either! It's not as though we talk, and-- I imagine you and, well, Helen Richardson have a tighter way of communicating. Just a guess. Not Knowing." He angles a look towards her, and realizes... He appreciates this.

He takes a turn that will make his route back to the institute longer. How strange. But it's okay to be strange around her. " We're trying, with him. But its hard when you can't talk to the demon in your body that's part of the thing that ruined your life."

\---

“You’re still so,  _ so _ very new to this. I don’t know what I am, yet. But is it really a question of can’t, or is it that you don’t know how? Unless it’s a matter of I-don’t-want-to. Powerful stuff, Archivist.” She pauses. So much to pick out, so little time, so little energy. “Has the Watcher  _ ruined  _ your life? You fit so much doubt in that tiny body.”

\---

Jon scoffs. "I'm not that small." Who cares, if he is. "And it's different. You're the Spiral. Part of it. I'm-- not. Not knowing is different for you and I." He next words are decidedly grouchy. "And yet sometimes it seems you know more than me, anyways."

\---

"You've just barely started, Archivist! How could you possibly know it all?" She rolls her eyes. Ah. That's a fun motion. "Different, different, different. You can be different and similar, you know. You and your opposing forces, isn't that exhausting? Why do that?"

\---

"I..." He purses his lips and actually gives it thought. Helen is good for that. Cutting through and making him think, in terms of the gods and entities, rather than on the terms of humans. "I don't know. I guess-- I guess I just like categories. Always have. Book genres, filing, music... All of it. I like neat corners."

\---

"You should get to rewiring in Venn diagrams, then-- A lovely compromise. Not every category is separate. You know better than that, don't you? It all mixes up, somehow."

\---

"I know, I know," He grouses, and wrinkles his nose up at her. "Doesn't come as naturally to me as it does to you, okay? I'm-- I'm trying. Still. You're more of... A center of the venn diagram, Helen and the Distortion. I'm still..." He makes an awkward motion with his hands, like he's trying to make two circles of a venn diagram. It's an awful attempt. "Two sides, me and, and him. So it's hard."

\---

"Am I? So many assumptions. It's not a race." She gives an airy laugh through her words. "I'm new. That's... That's why I went looking for you. You assume it's natural, or that I know things, or that Helen Richardson was perfect. We wouldn't be talking if she had been!" 

Very chipper in tone, for someone who's just a little bitter, still. "I haven't settled yet. I'm just feeling how it-- Well, how it feels! Different. Different from Michael. But not free of sameness."

\---

Jon blinks. Oh. He's let himself talk and talk about himself again. Ever drifting, ever self-centered. Right. "How is-- It feels better, though? I- I imagine? I remember-- I mean, you seemed happier the first time this happened. Not that I'm dictating my past-future on you, but-- You know?"

\---

"Oh, yes. Better in some ways, I think. Very confusing. A little adrift, but aren't we all?" She stretches out her hands, a near-identical gesture to the one she watched from Jon. No bones, or sinew, not in the literal sense, but not so stretched taut and clawing for the surface. "You're deflecting, Archivist. For someone with the power to ask, you spend an obscene amount of time stuck up in your head, coming to all the wrong conclusions! No wonder there's a cage in there."

\---

"It's-- I told you. Etiquette. Right? Asking without permission, that's-- that breaches the etiquette." He purses his lips again and gives her a look. "Do you want me to ask you something? I can. If it'll help."

\---

“So noble. Will etiquette matter with someone uncooperative holding something precious from you? Remember: Know when to break the rules.” That, she has to think about. “I think that might help you more than me. Is that why you want to?”

\---

"I--" Jon shakes his head and swipes his hands across himself, like he's wiping it all from him. "No matter. It doesn't matter. If you just came to call me out, trust me, I'm good on that front. It's all I get. If I need to Ask something from you, I will. I'm-- content. At least at the moment." 

He shakes his head again and then looks up at her once more. His smile is definitely thinner, but it's still there. "I-- am glad you're doing alright. In a general sense?"

\---

“I promise it wasn’t to lecture you. I told you why I came. For... mutual benefit, potentially. You are planning on stopping a ritual, and you’ve certainly helped me with... well.”

She waves a hand. Perhaps she’ll keep the bracelets. “I’ll have a chat with Martin soon. Maybe a mutual housewarming present.”

\---

"Yes, well-- Oh! Oh, yes." Stupid, stupid, Jon. So caught up in something familiar you forgot the  _ now.  _ What a daft move. "If you'd like to extend your help... You know, technically you helped, last time I did this. But that was... Well. More of a murder than anything. Glad we haven't gotten to that point, this time."

\---

“Ah. On your to-do list.” A few tilts of her head, and she seems to come to some conclusion. “Hmm. I think we might be just about even. I wouldn’t be opposed to a new deal, depending on the terms.”

\---

"Right." Some of the friendliness leaks out of his voice. "What do you propose?"

\---

“So serious.” Ah, the tone of hearing a toothless puppy growl. “We’ll just have to wait and see. You’re the one who wants help, hm?”

\---

"Not if you're going to be unreasonable in your demands." He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Ugh. I can feel my back knotting up again just thinking about the Unknowing."

\---

“There you go, assuming again!  _ Relax,  _ Archivist. I still have renovating to do, so no grand, incomprehensible deals just yet, but I  _ would  _ like to see you again. Maybe after a few chats we might know what we want.”

\---

"Yes, well-- I'd. I'd like that, actually. I have no idea how to call you, though, you know."

\---

“Oh, did Martin not give you my card, then?” She says it calmly, evenly, but yes, she is stirring the pot.

\---

"N--No? Does he have-- is that how he's always calling the Distortion? I thought he just." He wiggles his fingers and frowns. "Did it."

\---

“No, Archivist, I would know if he used it.” She hums. “That is more tricky. Is it the games? Is it the emotions? Is it that all that nervous energy turns to hand wringing, twisting that mark? Hm? Suppose you’ll have to find your own way.”

She does not mention she can find them, wherever they are. He didn’t ask about that, now, did he?

\---

"Can never be simple with the Spiral," He mumbles, but it's nothing so angry, just.... Acceptance. He blinks. "You know, I never actually got your statement, this time. It's just in my head. Wonder if that counts, still, for the Eye."

\---

“If you want it to,” Helen says vaguely. “Well. We’re getting close, aren’t we? I hate to cut this short, Jon, but I would like to go back  _ before _ I start to unravel.”

\---

"Yes, yes, I appreciate you keeping it together for my sensitive eyes." He smiles at her, and it's a lot more genuine than he was expecting. "I'm glad you're-- Doing well? That the ritual was fruitful for all of us."

\---

"Fruitful! I  _ do _ like that." The laugh she sounds from a throat that is not a throat falls apart at the edges, frayed notes stifled with effort. "Enjoy your day, Archivist. Next time I might even have a handshake for you."

\---

"Hm. We'll see about that, Helen!" But he's laughing around the edges himself, wincing just slightly at the laugh. Weird, how seeing her made his day better, not worse. Food for thought, indeed; he'd never have been that excited or amicable to her before.

\---

Funny, how things are changing these days. What a happy little story they've made, right out of a children's book. Unless within the pretty, colorful pages of that book is a tugging thread that winds and coils up to a Spider's front porch.

"Cheerio, then. I have a door to catch."


	60. Chapter 60

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin asks his mother a question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some belated links to our Spotify playlists for the past few arcs at the end of the chapter. I can't embed them into chapter notes, so they'll be at the end of the chapter itself for anyone who's interested!
> 
> This is also the chapter where I make it explicitly clear that my Martin has DID (Dissociative Identity Disorder). Obviously, it's more complicated with entities involved, but that's how he's being written pretty much since the start. Just wanted to make a note of that. <3

Stupid, stupid, _stupid_ ghost.

Maybe it’s cruel, to ask this so soon after a love confession made in a space they couldn’t process together. A love confession he doubts Gerry has even had time to process in his dark, dreamless privacy between worlds. He doesn’t blame him-- Michael had been present, after all, and the idea of holding that conversation _there_ mortifies Martin more than this reality itself. It would not have gone well. He knows that. 

Martin hopes, just maybe, that this might be the best way to show him what his response is. 

He clutches the locket tightly to his chest while the late morning breeze passes through his hair, seated alone on a bench not too far from the Institute itself. Just in case he doesn’t come. Just in case he has to walk back and wait another day. A part of him that he’s not particularly fond of hopes he could put it all off with that excuse. Can’t do it alone, he’d say, and he’d be right, but he’s trying to avoid the back-and-forth refusal to enforce change in his life. It’s a choice he could make, to not do it at all, but this-- 

It could be good for him. Or, it could go terribly, terribly, terribly wrong. Not the time to think about it. Ideally, he won’t have to think about her again, after this. Obviously just wishful thinking, she’s woven into every crevice and corner of his mind. Even the shadowy, dismal places the light all around him can’t reach. But it could be better. 

“Gerry, I need you. Can-- Can you come here? Please?” 

Pitiful, childish, afraid, and anxious. Fitting voice for today.

\---

Gerry comes, of course he does, but it's slow going. It seems like his soul is deliberating, and when the green eyes finally blink open, there's almost an embarrassed tinge to them, yellowing more than green. Trick of the morning light, probably. Maybe.

But he does come. He comes seated next to Martin, and his roots look worse than usual, and his nail polish is all sorts of chipped, and damn his soul's penchant for picking up on his internal moods and making them physical. Damn it.

At least Martin looks nervous and almost frightened, enough so that Gerard can ignore his own pity party for a second to ask, "Are you okay?" He busies himself in pulling his hair up, needing something to do while he sits still.

\---

“I’m okay.” He addresses the locket, a physical soul to latch Gerry to him and this world, words noncommittal and wispy. Afraid to spook Gerry into leaving with too much attention, too, but that’s only the short of it. 

Now it’s real. Now, he has to think about it, commit to it, all the positives and negatives swirling around in his head to form a bitter cocktail of fear. “I wanted to ask if you might be ready to - to, um, come with me today. You-- You don’t have to.”

\---

"With--" He gives Martin a look, and then, "Oh. Oh! Your mum. Yeah-- Um. Okay. Okay." It's awkward, but how couldn't it be? He's mortified that he opened himself up that much, that he's expressed something so fundamentally vulnerable to someone who’s plate is already well and truly full.

Ugh.

"You think you're ready for that?"

\---

Leave it to Gerry to snap him out of the situation enough to laugh. Fleeting, sure, but good nonetheless. “I’ll never be ready for it. But, um, having you here-- It’ll help. I just-- I mean, first, I wanted to make sure you could-- You could do it, I mean, I need…” 

His hand leaves the locket to rub his thumb at the center of his other palm. “Like when I hold your coat, or someone’s h-hand. Might need a lot of that. Better to know now if you can, and-- And I think we should talk a bit, be-before. Nothing bad. Good talk? ...I hope? Getting ready."

\---

"... Right. Right. Um. Yeah. I-- I'm good on that front. I feel-- energized? Yeah. Energized." He pauses. "Oh my God, this sucks. I've never been in this position. Ugh."

\---

Martin finally looks at him. It’s a nasty, fiery squint. “As bad as— as being on top of a person and holding their face when they disappear right after—“

No, no, Martin. Bad. He’s just hiding his own fluster. “—Okay! Yes. I love you too. A-awkwardness over. That’s it. I’m- um, I’m cutting it off. Okay?”

\---

Gerry blinks and stares straight ahead for a good... Well. Nearly a minute. His hands dig into his thighs, nails that would press indentations if he was really here, and he's horrified to realize after a moment that the eyes are subtly glowing in the intensity of his emotions, and he lets out a breath, slow and calm, his form wavering into static for a moment as he tries to keep himself together.

It wasn't the best move to disappear. He knows this. Martin knows it. It was some weird subconscious instinct to flee in the face of fear, and he regrets it even as much as he knows he would do it again. And he's trying so, so hard not to do it again. 

"Okay." He says after an eternity. "Okay. Okay."

\---

Gerry will never know how hard it is for him to spit out the L-word. Score for Martin, he’s just as bad as the rest of them, but the practice _meaning it_ before now helps, here. Barely scratched the surface of what in Hell he is to Michael, but his ghost is a whole different animal.

Odd choice of words, there. “Okay.” He adds, helpfully, openly staring at each of the eyes he can see. He nearly fails at not getting lost in them, but he can’t. Won’t. They’re very pretty. He won’t. None of this has caught up to him yet. “Is... that okay?”

\---

"It's-- It's more than okay," Gerry responds all but immediately. Well, he whines it, almost, like he's in pain. Dragging his hands down his face, he gives a small jerk of a nod. 

"I'm fine. This is good. Just. Digesting it. Mm, delicious meal. No indigestion. Perfect. God. Okay. I'll be normal in a second, I promise." He's not freaking out. He isn't.

\---

“You’re insane, Gerry Keay.” It slips past his lips with a disgusting fondness and an equally stupid roll of his eyes. “I want you here. I do. I really—“ 

He stands up, a bit too quickly, in all his well-dressed-but-dreary-looking glory. He gestures with both hands towards his neck, refusing, refusing, refusing to get flustered. “I wear you as a _necklace!”_

\---

"Yes, I know you do-- You--" He wrinkles his nose and splutters. _"UGH!_ That's so fucking romantic. I can't even not think about that. I think you ruined me, Martin Blackwood. Ruined me."

\---

_”Ruined_ you? Is that— If— I’m— You’re welcome?!” Okay. He’s flustered. Sue him. “You’re the one who asked if you could. Could... you know. I’m happy to... wear you. But it was _your_ idea. _Romantic.”_

\---

Gerry slowly leans forward on the bench, bridging his hands across his nose. He nods once, twice, his form shivering in ghostly blush, and then he, too, jumps up to his feet, and the smile he wears on his face is only slightly deranged. "Okay! Let's go talk to your demonic mum now!"

\---

Martin likes his smiles, deranged or otherwise. Completely absurd. “She’s not... _demonic._ And it’s— We’re all weird. I— I think it’s sort of romantic that you’ve stopped me from killing people with... with my teeth. So, there you go.”

\---

"You think it's romantic that I stopped you from being a _maniac?!"_ Gerard starts walking. He doesn't know the way, because he hasn't been asked, but he doesn't care. God, what he wouldn't do for a cigarette right now. "Can I retract a lo- a love confession? I hate you, actually. I do. Honest to God."

\---

Martin follows, if only to take him by the hand and lead him the opposite direction. “Don’t say that. Yes. I think it’s romantic that we had a-a Homeward Bound journey where you kept me sane enough to get to Chicago and that you... you’re learning how to be a really good ghost.”

\---

"I wish I could punch you right now." And yet he doesn't pull his hand away, doesn't go incorporeal, instead pressing closer, tighter, somehow oxymoronically needing Martin close even as parts of his mind want to shy away, pull away, get livid and shut down. "Terrible. Terrible."

\---

“You’re so violent. ‘Oh, no, I have feelings, how could I ever survive’? You exist, and you’re happy, and you have me, which is a-apparently a good thing, so you’re—“ You’re doing good, he doesn’t say, because he can save the compliments. “—All set.”

\---

"Yes, you make me happy," He says around gritted teeth, and he wrinkles his nose and realizes he can make this a lot more fair by turning it around, and his grimace turns to a sharp grin as they walk. "I've just never ever cared about anyone ever before and turns out you're the one, because you're just so lovely and kind and caring, and oh, so sweet and fucking lovable and genuine, and awww, you made big mean Gerry fucking Keay smile, isn't that a peace, what a difficult job that was, wow."

\---

That, unfortunately for Gerry, does not have the intended effect. It actually reminds him, in a nice way, how bad he was at purposefully getting him angry on the road. Martin loves being immune to it in the moment. 

He sticks his nose up, all pompous and smug. “And it gets easier every day.”

\---

"I'm haunting your ass forever. Literally forever." He sounds miserable. The way he squeezes Martin's hand is fond. "By the way, 'Oh hello mum! Been a while! By the way, this is my ghost!' Ridiculous."

\---

Martin holds him tightly, and doesn’t stop to wonder whether he could possibly grip too hard. “I don’t think I’ll explain you. I don’t think— She won’t care. Um. It’s more for me, than - than anything. Just in case I...”

Oh, this is a tough one. “...I never really let myself get angry, u-until America. So. I don’t know how... how I’ll be.”

\---

"Riiiight. I'm puppy patrol. That's what this is."

\---

Martin narrows his eyes, but does not take that bait. “And I think you’ll be the most helpful in general. You, um, you get... mothers. I feel like you might— You get it. I’m not worried about you judging... me? If— If I act differently, around her.”

\---

"...Yeah, I get it. Don't worry." Even past the ooey gooey nasty feelings in his heart, it's practical; Jon would judge, and Michael.... Is Michael. Gerard at least has some restraint left in his ghostly soul. "Not promising I won't get pissed off, though. But I'll hold back. And you back."

\---

“Okay.” He breathes a sigh of relief. Mostly for show. “Thank you.”

\------

Gerard doesn't dare speak a word until the driver arrives, and even then, it's to give a curt nod to them and quietly speak the first destination that comes to mind. It's not even a fully fledged thought yet, but... Looking at Martin, it's better than going home, or going somewhere with people, and so he climbs into the backseat and tugs Martin along with him. 

He's glad Martin gave him a heads up on today, if only so he could be prepared for this, energy-wise. He knows he'll be exhausted by the day's end. Hell, he already is. If he isn't careful, he can slip into his own memories of his own mum, and that's dangerous enough as is; comforting Martin through... Through that, is a whole other ballpark entirely. 

Gerard allowed his form to waver just once, on the steps of the assisted living facility, one small sign of the anger and fear and hurt and discomfort that pumps through him now. He's as solid as he can be, in the car, and makes a point of leaning against Martin, touching Martin, pressing his palm to his, so he doesn't drift farther than he already is. 

If their previous car rides, in America so long ago, were an attempt on his part to get Martin to be _less,_ he'd give anything for him to be _more_ now. Just so he knows he isn't completely shutting down. 'Oh hullo, Jon, yes, yes jolly good, I broke the love of your life, by the way? By not being the best anchor in the world?' Wonderful conversation that would make. 

But he doesn't say anything, not yet, as the cabbie pulls away from the curb after punching in the location into the GPS waiting to let Martin, maybe, breach something. Gerry isn't sure how worried to be, yet.

\---

His body, cold despite the insistence from others that their warmth is actually from him and not a reflection of them, is just a vessel, a container stuffed full of things he wants dearly to not be. Or maybe he doesn’t. Wanting anything is a bit of a stretch, right now. Content with ripping petals off a living thing until the torn up remains sit in piles at your feet and the answer is no, so you pick up another flower and try again, and again, and again, not any closer to knowing what the answer is even when you already have the truth in pieces around you.

Mostly, he’s full. Sick, ghastly air from a mouth forced to speak all the poisonous truths that fill him up but leave him hollow, the compulsions layered over and over inside and clogging and violating. That is what the Eye is, and that sickness is one he prefers to view, not feel, if given the choice. But it was a choice. Unless it wasn’t. It might’ve been. How could he know, with one piece fed and the others starving, fighting beneath the surface, staging a coup within the darkness of his organs, asking why, why do you get to eat, and I’m to keep silent, and patient, when is it my turn? 

Do you love me? Do you? Do you? Do you?

Full and empty, sated and starving, docile and rabid. So many little things, clawing and gnawing and aching and rotting and squirming and the door shuts, and Martin wakes up. Drunk off power and sober on information, the clarity lasts the briefest of moments, and by the time he makes it up to the surface several minutes have passed since what startled him, so very late.

Martin Blackwood, or the thing that lives in the slight pause at the blank center of both names, is sandwiched between a freezing, unfamiliar door and a pressure he Knows should be comforting. Knowing what it should be changes nothing about what-it-is-not, what-it-lacks, or what-ought-to-be, though. He’s present, for a minute, enough to put more weight against the hard surface of the car door. It’s not to escape the other side, but to hurt his locked-up shoulder with bruising tension.

He’s done something terrible. He isn’t sorry. He should be. That’s his mother. The one who just told him exactly why she hates him, exactly what he’s done. It should be a relief, it should even be silly, to have some of his worst fears waived away. But it isn’t. In the moments after learning the truth, knowing what he’s spent years making up a host of conclusions for, he just feels… it’s less of a feeling, and more of a fact of overindulgence in something vile. Initially, the only thing wrong with him was that he was born. He’s been making more things, more reasons, more examples, all on his own. He’s so very good at that, becoming something once there’s a name to put it into action. 

Someone is going to be so, so upset with him. Who? He doesn’t know. Does it matter? Maybe. Is it himself? Yes, but that’s only part of it. All there is to do is press on the door, unable to do any damage to the point of contact with how flimsy his still-mortal body is, and ignore the rest.

\---

Gerry valiantly gives him five minutes. He gets five minutes to mope, and be absent, and be empty-eyed, and he only gets that long because Gerry very carefully lets some of the ghostly fog that surrounds his soul to wrap him up in a catnap that's interrupted by his own goddamn anxiety. 

He gives him five minutes, and then he's pulling back some, tugging on the shirt sleeve of Martin's shoulder, and leaning forward to make his eye contact a stifling, intense thing. 

"Martin. Come back to me. Okay?"

\---

Annoyed. That’s a feeling. He knows that much. Something is nagging and pulling at him, bothering him, and there's another one. Bothered. 

Something childish perks up inside him. He could cross his arms and press his face against the glass, and he could say no. He doesn't want to be that, not right now, so he puts that back in the stack. Notecards. Ah, he's reading off notecards. Presentation for 'who-or-what am I right now?'. 

But eyes are holding him still, and Eyes are holding him still, and while he won't say no, he will still be childish. Or... something like it, something calculated, something testy and distancing and concerning to anyone outside the context. Like a driver, maybe. When he does speak, it's confused, soft, a little slurred. "Where are you taking me?"

\---

Right. What with the address he put in, and Martin's attitude, Gerry has to sigh. Great. He filters a slow look towards the back of the driver's head and then back to Martin, and has to quell the fury that Martin is doing this on purpose right the fuck down. 

"Hiking. We're going _hiking,_ Martin. Don't you remember?"

\---

Martin is slow to look to the driver, almost purposefully so, like he's making sure the face beside him can see that he did it. 

Why is he doing this? 

"I..." No. Do not. "Wh--" No, again. He wants to go. But does he, does he really? There are too many choices. Too many choices and he doesn't know which one is the right one. Which one gets him wherever he thinks he wants to be. 

Is this what it feels like to be Jon? What does that even _mean?_ No more questions. One more question. "Do I?"

\---

"Clearly not." Gerard sighs, and presses a hand to Martin's thigh, and chews on his bottom lip for a moment. There's so many gut-reaction things he could say. He doesn't say any of them, because he's not an utter imbecile and Martin is clearly half-here at best. He'll make fun of him later (He won't, actually, but it makes him feel better to say it).

"I thought you might want to walk. Uh, Gilbert's Pit. Bit of a drive, but I memorized Jon's credit card number, soooo, doesn't matter much."

\---

Did they really talk about doing that, or is Gerry making that up? 

Did he agree to go hiking, and then forget?

Is he really being kidnapped, or did he make that up? 

Is Gerry really touching him, or does he just want it to be true so very, very badly? Does his attachment to this world depend on a Keeper allowing it?

He has quite a few things he could say, hundreds of thoughts fighting for a single mouth, and what ends up coming out is mostly a fragment, a statement pronounced as a question. "I don't want to be nice anymore?"

\---

"Yeah." He nods. Alright. "That's why we're going. Hold out for, like, twenty minutes, and you can be mean all you want."

\---

Twenty minutes is a long, long, long, long time. That's so long. Flipping notecards long. Get through them all long. 

He doesn't care about the driver, now. The driver no longer exists. Not to this one. Instead, the soft growl now vibrating in his throat is aimed at Gerry.

\---

Gerry bares his teeth right back at him, sitting up a little less hunched over himself. _"Soon,"_ He hisses. "Knock it off."

\---

The sound lowers in volume, but it doesn't stop. Knocking it down is the same thing as knocking it off, right? Aaaand, there it is. "No."

\---

Gerry searches his face, all but pulled entirely out of his seat so he can twist in front of Martin. He does not sigh, but he wants to, so bad. 

"You can growl all you want _later,"_ He says, quietly, deathly still, nothing more than a whisper. "I don't want to freak out the driver."

\---

So mean. He should be allowed to do whatever he wants, right now. He should always be allowed to do whatever he wants, all the time, and no one should ever be mean to him. 

He smiles, very sweet. You should let him. He pushes both feet up on the back of the passenger seat. Maybe he'll get it dirty, inconvenience someone. "I do."

\---

"Yes, but I _don't,_ and I'll do anything you fucking want later if you just. Just wait to be deranged until we arrive. Okay? Please?" He can't help the way his voice shakes at the last two words.

\---

The little ghost is trying to gain pity points. Isn't he racking them up fast? He might even win, at this rate. What's the prize? He gets to come back to life! 

"Maaaaybe." For all the flair, his voice is hoarse, like he's perpetually on the verge of crying. What a mess. "Entertain me."

\---

"Fucking princess. God." But he doesn't say it with much venom, huffing out a breath. This is horrible, already. "I don't exactly know how to do that, right now, Martin."

\---

“Princess? Is— Is that what I am?” Not who, but _what._ Who is pointless. What? Of course it’s not. Who is the whole point of it. This is making him nauseous. “I-I-I feel like a wheel.”

\---

"That's - - that's alright for now. Feel however you want. Okay? Can you feel my hand?"

\---

Martin looks down to where Gerry’s hand has settled on his thigh. “Sort of.” It’s all fog. He would feel far away no matter how warm his body was. Now he’s afraid. Back to pitiful whispers. “I’m bad. I did something bad.”

\---

"You're not bad." Gerard won't lie to himself; he's fucking frightened by this. This is a whole different beast than the Hunt-sickness, than Spiralling. This is just plain old trauma that makes Gerard feel a complicated knot of emotions all at once. And having met the culprit, it's hard not to shake in anger.

Probably wouldn't help Martin right now. Just gotta take care of him, take care of it all, get them where they're going and finish the half-baked mission in his mind.

He squeezes Martin's thigh, and shakes his head slightly. "You're not. We can talk about the rest later. Soon."

\---

Martin doesn’t believe him, but he tries. With all the compliance he can muster, he pulls both arms around himself and hunches up in the corner of the car. Tries to keep himself quiet. Live grenade tossed into a taxi. 

He’s supposed to be quiet, and good, but he’s supposed to be present, too, and those concepts don’t get along in his brain right now. He shakes with the agonizing strain of it, caught between two things he can’t fully be, humiliating shivers under the watchful gaze of a hundred judgmental eyes.

\---

Gerard pulls back a little when Martin shrinks into the corner of the car, closing his eyes briefly in an extended blink. Good. Okay. He's being quiet, at least. Even if the journey is hell, he's more and more relieved by the second that he didn't put in the Institute as their address.

He's not sure seeing Jon or Michael would be good right now.

He opens his eyes back up and watches Martin for a moment, and fuck. They still have twenty minutes, at least. "Here, here's something." He reaches up to tug on the chain around Martin's neck, and uses the hand that was on his thigh to drape loosely around one of Martin's hands, trying to get him to hold on to the pendant. "I can tell you a story. Would that help?"

\---

His hand is moved, and like a puppet he follows along with the desired motion. He grips the locket, but the expectant, pitiful look he shoots up at Gerry is all him, and his nod is hesitant, like he’s not sure if he deserves being allowed to hear it.

\---

"Right. Okay." He pulls in a deep breath, and thinks. Nothing too heavy.

"I went to Ireland once, um, in search of a Leitner. Nothing too terrible; it honestly could have been contained without burning it, for once, that's how not terrible it was. But, yknow. My job to find them. So I went to Ireland and, hah, spent the first two nights there in a drunken stupor. Hadn't left home in a minute, so the second I was in a town by myself... You get the jist.

"Anyways. I found the Leitner and had a couple more days to kill before my flight back, and so, I did an, um, tour? A tour. I was playing tourist again. Tour guide hated me. I was hungover and probably didn't look so nice. Never do, really.

"All peachy, informative, dry stuff. I mean, I enjoyed it, but I like informative dry stuff. 'Cept he kept taking us to pubs for breaks, and by, by two I was smashed, again. And uh, long story short, I puked all over some ancient ruins and got banned from the tour company for.... Ever? Forever." He wrinkles his nose. "Never kept my alcohol well."

\---

Martin listens to the record crackle lining of Gerry’s voice and tries to track the threads of his story. It’s easy to follow, at least, and that gives him hope for his own capabilities. Set in Ireland, and somehow Martin still imagines that horrid floral shirt, out of place in every way. 

He hides his smile in the crook of an elbow when he mutters, “Even as a ghost? That forever?”

\---

Gerry smiles back at him, almost beaming. "Dunno. Guess we could go find out. Shoot an email all, 'Hey, Mr. O'Shea, remember me? Tall goth and pukey? Can I _pleaaaaaase_ go on your tour again? By the by, I know all information if I'm asked it. Ta!'"

\---

“Ta,” Martin repeats, a little dazed. He’s relearning who he is from Gerry right now. Or learning for the first time. He wishes he could be better. He wishes he could impress him with competence, or knowledge, or just by keeping it together. 

He’s not together. He could say, ‘it’s fantastic you never have to pay for a plane ticket again. Or any kind of ticket, really’. Or, he could say he might not mind another vacation if he was with them. Instead, he’s whiny. “I tried to be good.”

\---

"I know. I don't blame you. You tried. That's all we can do sometimes." His hand slides up to Martin's cheek and just holds him there.

\---

He hates being taken care of. It’s humiliating. Maybe that runs in the family. Oh, but no, he turned out like his father. That begs more questions than answers. He doesn’t lean into the hand, but he does grip the locket tighter. 

He barely spares a glance out the window, because he doesn’t deserve that right now. “Wish you could make time faster.”

\---

"Not that kind of magic, unfortunately. Soon." He wonders what kind of freak pairing they look like to the driver, who is, blessedly, silent in their observations. Thank God for small miracles.

\---

Martin opts for silence. It's the easiest, least reactionary choice, even though he's been pulled from it. Locking up is better than destroying something in the car, or directing pain at the driver again. He's full. He needs to remember that. 

But, again, only part of him is. He knows part of him can feed off his own loneliness, knows that potential sits inside him untapped, and it's better for everyone to be alone until he's summoned again. Maybe he's becoming the ghost.

\---

It's less that Martin's silence is comforting and more that it's easier, at least until they arrive. It's some national park. Gerry never cared to go to places like this before, but he's heard the name. Gerry tips the driver generously, giving them a haphazard apologetic grimace, and reaches around Martin to open the door for them both, frowning when his hand passes through the door handle the first time. He manages the second.

"Up you get, Marto," He says, and kind of pushes on Martin's shoulder.

\---

The blessings here are that the drive passes without thought, and that Gerry doesn’t interrupt to make him think. His first reaction is fear when the car slows to a stop somewhere unfamiliar, but he’s being prodded along by someone he trusts. That makes it okay. 

His feet hit the dirt and he slumps with his hands in his pockets like he’s being left on the side of the road and knows it. The first thing he mumbles is “Sorry”, the next also coincidentally being “Sorry”.

\---

"No need to be," Gerry says, and watches until the driver pulls away before coming close to Martin, wrapping an arm around his shoulder and dragging him along the trail of the beginning of the woods. "We're here. You can. Uh, let loose, if you want. It's why I brought you here."

\---

The lack of people is... comforting. Better here than the Institute. Martin follows along, not that he has much choice, but, well, he’s the one who decided he’s being kidnapped, so. 

“What...” Leaves crunch beneath them, and he’s not dressed well for this, and he’s avoiding the reality of facing it all head-on for just another minute. He hates how watery his voice is. “What do you want me to do, go - go kill a _bird?”_

\---

Gerry shrugs. "Whatever the fuck you want, really. Don't be it me to tell you what to do in nature."

\---

Martin stares ahead and tries to find out who he really is. Truly poetic stuff. Angry, frustrated, tired, ashamed, confused, relieved, afraid, he can be all those things at once. It doesn’t have to be one or the other. 

Mostly, he’s just not okay. “Can you find us, um... a good tree? To sit at?”

\---

"... Yeah. Yeah, c'mon." He starts walking along the path provided, his steps silent in the undergrowth as he starts to scope out possible trees that aren't too overshadowed by the filth of the forest. It takes him a couple minutes, and then he jerks a motion towards Martin and points to some towering oak or whatever, Gerry doesn't know trees. "This work?"

\---

Martin nods out his affirmative, slow and unsure as he reaches for the edge of Gerry's coat to tug him along from there. In the shadow of the tree, he tugs again, insistently, as he moves to sit on the ground. "Um, I-- I just want to... lay down? For a minute? Just-- Talk, maybe, um, figure... figure out where I... am."

\---

Gerry sits with him, pulling his legs out in front of his body as he leans against the trunk of the tree. He's doing good. He's conserving his energy where he can. He'll be good for Martin.

"Alright. Take your time."

\---

As foggy as his mind currently is, ever aware of the needs of others, Martin tilts over to one side on the grass and curls halfway up next to Gerry’s lap, loose strands of hair at the top of his head barely brushing against him in moments of corporeality. He’s facing away from Gerry, only so he can drop the barest of composure still left in his face. 

“I feel... I feel bad for her. I’m... sad? I-I think?”

\---

"Traumatized sons of traumatized mothers. The cycle continues," Gerry murmurs, and his hands move to press into Martin's hair, grounding himself in the physicality of Martin's existence.

It's not great. His own kind, at least. As much as he's keeping it together, it wasn't exactly the most therapeutic experience to be largely ignored in a state of existence where fading completely from reality is a distinct possibility. It didn't exactly help that his own issues surrounding mothers made him have to be in very, very good behavior in a way that took energy.

So he needs the grounding, maybe as much as Martin does.

\---

“No, I don’t— I don’t think I’ll keep it going. Me? A dad? Noooo.” Martin sighs against the touch, moving one hand across the grass. Uncomfortable but interesting. “I’m sorry you have to deal with me.”

\---

"As you remind me all the time, I chose this. So-- no apology necessary. Good that I was there with you."

\---

“Yeah.” Guess he did. Why anyone chooses him, he’d hoped he would understand by now. He thought he was done with the whole unlovable thing. 

Oh, shit. 

He starts crying, just a little, barely a sniffle for all the force it takes to stop it up. “I think— I think there’s something really, really wrong with me, Gerry.”

\---

"Eh. Even if there is, who cares? There's something wrong with all of us. And-- I mean. You're the kindest person I know." He runs his fingers through Martin's hair.

\---

“I do! I want to— No I’m not.” It’s childish, he knows that, but that’s exactly what he is. “I was right, but I was wrong, and I don’t know what I am or even what I was and I want to know who I am or - or what I am, it’s all just— I don’t know what I’m— What I’m— Sometimes I just— I don’t want a crown!”

\---

"A crown?"

\---

“I don’t— You know, all of these— There are all these things inside me, and one minute I’m— me, and then - then I’m not.” His breath hitches, eyes wide and fearful. “I don’t know.”

\---

"It's all you, at the end of the day, right?" Gerard shrugs. "Just-- Just different versions. Of you. That's-- I mean. Whatever. It's fine. We're all there. Be what you need."

\---

“I don’t like any of them. I don’t know h-how you’re so calm. I just...” He goes somewhere, though he’s not sure where, exactly. Somewhere dark and full to the brim with a confusing slurry or shame and sick exhilaration. He can’t stuff one down for the other.

\---

"Years of practice. And I like all of you. Seriously. Even if I'm a prick sometimes."

\---

Oh. Right. How could he forget that Gerry loves him? Told him to his own face, too. Martin even responded. He can say it now. He’s not sure there’s any part of him that doesn’t love him right back. 

Martin sits up. Gerry’s eyes are there, fixed points to hold him steady. “I’m a lot of things. That’s not bad. Colors and feelings and words and titles and self-fulfilling p-prophecies that you made with me and one, two, three, four—“ He shakes his head and stands up, so he can idly pace a few inches from Gerry. “—n-no, hold on, wrong kind of ritual, sorry, and then it’s Gamemaster, Gamemaster, but I’m the wheel and the buttons and the m-mouthpiece and the assistant and I think compelling my m-mother is a reasonable thing to do when she took thirty years and magic powers to finally give me an answer. I get it. I get it! It was always rigged. I _had_ to cheat!”

\---

"I mean--" Gerry sits up a little straighter, and then shrugs. "Yeah. If the world doesn't cater to you ever, make your own version of the world."

And here he assumed he'd let Martin off the clip in the park and he'd have a Hunt destruction, but this is. Well, quite different. Once again he's glad it's him here.

\---

“I’ve never been able to do that before, so now it’s here, and I think it’s bad because, what, I can do it better than her?” 

He kicks the tree. Don’t get ahead of yourself, ghost. He gathers coherency, channels it into a release of frustration. “It’s not my _fault_ she didn’t have what I do. She tried to make me her prisoner so she could forget it was _her!”_

\---

"Yeah. She's a real broad, Martin. You did good, though. You didn't--you didn't crawl back to her. Takes guts."

\---

"I did at first! I--" If I'd been alone, alone, alone. His shoulders slump. "I have you now, so. There's really, um, there's no reason to."

\---

"No, there isn't." He pauses. "It's hard, though. Trust me. I know how it is. I get it."

\---

"Yeah. Erm-- Are you okay? She really... um, if she doesn't feel like it, you don't... you don't exist. To her."

\---

"Well. It wasn't great. But, um, I'm a ghost, so I'm trying not to feel bad about it."

\---

“What?” Martin blinks, and that takes him out of himself for a second. “What does you being a ghost have to do with it? She didn’t know.”

\---

"Well. I mean-- duh. But. Y'know." He gestures to himself. "Not... Not having the energy to be seen is, probably? A distinct possibility. It's--" He's fucking terrified. "It's fine."

\---

“Oh, she saw you,” Martin laughs, dark and bitter. “She’ll move her eyes around and judge you without a word. You— You think people can’t see you? You’ve talked to loads of people! I’ve— Even when you’re tired, I always see you.”

\---

"It hasn't happened." He pulls in his bottom lip. "But it could. I-- I just always focus on being here. So it doesn't happen."

\---

Martin looks down at him, tilting his head. “Would it help if you knew whether it could happen or not? Even if— If the answer is it could?”

\---

"I-- don't know." He blinks. "That's like asking if I want to die, a little, to see if I can come back, and say, it happened once, I'm not counting my stars on a second time."

\---

“Oh. I thought you meant— Like she couldn’t see you even though you were there, but I could, because of... p-powers or something. Less energy to be seen by...” Well, now he feels dumb as rocks. “...me.”

\---

"I mean. That's probably true. My soul's tied up with yours. She could see me."

\---

Martin stands awkwardly, and the idle wind blowing by doesn't help. "Okay. Maybe nothing existential right now." 

He bites down on his tongue to hold back an apology. Gerry is upset, and he doesn't quite understand. "When we get a... house, do you want your own room?"

\---

"Thought we said nothing existential." Gerry scowls, and slowly stands from his perch at the tree. "I don't know. Guess we'll see. Don't exactly need a bed, or a dresser."

\---

“That’s not—“ Okay, maybe it is. “More about a... space? That’s yours? You can— If you want, I mean, you can come and go read somewhere. Alone time. Posters. Maybe figure out...” 

He anxiously pushes a rock around with his feet. Easier to get through this with someone to make the worst of the storm pass by. He’s not avoiding it. “...You coming here without, um.” 

He moves to wrap his hand around the locket. “Needing permission?”

\---

"Don't think that's how it works," Gerry says. "Still, at the end of the day, a fucking page. And we've already stretched the limits of my Story to just my name sometimes. I don't think-- I don't really exist, when I'm not here."

\---

“But, your mother, didn’t she— Didn’t she haunt you?” Not dwelling on the page thing. Also not menti— “And you’re a self-defeating ass, Gerry Keay. I’ve called you plenty of times without saying your name.”

\---

"She's different," He says quietly, and sets his jaw. "She bound herself, for starters. I don't-- _self-defeating._ Dick. Every time I’ve come, you've wanted me here. That's the difference. She--" He shudders. "She came back wrong, anyways."

\---

“I always want you here. It was just an idea. Just, just being me, brainstorming, being an optimist about your humanity. Silly me—“ Martin starts to walk along the nearest path, like he knows where he’s going. “—I can make you a girl, but I can’t keep the door open! I love this reality.”

\---

"Oho. You think _you_ made me a girl. How fucking egotistical, mister Blackwood. What a charming whatever word I'm supposed to use for you now that I admitted my deepest and most cringey love confession to you."

\---

“I-I mean your clothes, you—“ Martin whips around, shoulders tense and at least six different kinds of flustered. He’s made enough distance that he has to raise his voice, and it really, genuinely sounds like a great, hilarious idea right now to say what he’s about to say, except his mouth hasn’t caught up to the tone he wants and his brain is especially unreliable, so what comes out is a defensive, loud: “You’re my _bitch!”_

\---

Gerard raises a finger, and opens his mouth, and then curls said finger and closes his mouth. "Okay. Okay," he says, "Legitimately, I want you to understand the fact that in any other situation I would have made this unfairly horny to punish you for that, but now is not the time because we are in the fucking Woods right now and you are you and so I will be nice and polite and not even call you mean words that would freak you out like misogynist or sexist or transphobe or any of the above and I will just acknowledge that’s fine."

He shakes his head. "That's fine. I'm your bitch. Happy?"

\---

Martin dutifully swallows his mortification. “Those words don’t freak me out! They don’t make me horny, either!” Maybe he missed something, there. He shakes his head dramatically. “That’s - That’s not what you are to me.”

\---

"What, your bitch? You're the one that said it. Makes it true." He snorts and fields Martin am amused look.

\---

“I— No, no— It doesn’t, Gerry, that’s not how it works, you’re— I didn’t mean to say that. I don’t know yet!” You’re a stupid ghost, is what you are. But given the climate around being a ghost right now...

\---

"Awwww, what if I _chooooose_ to be your bitch? Huh? Would that settle your fraying nerves?"

\---

Martin glares, Gerry’s tone grating horribly in his brain before he shouts between their distance. _“No!”_

His face is uncomfortably hot, embarrassment and frustration and a general inability to keep it together a fever sickness over his skin. “Don’t do that!”

\---

"Don't do what? Acknowledge the words you say to me? Jesus." Despite himself, he feels a sharp stab of frustration, and he feels guilty for it a second later, but it does nothing to mitigate how short his voice is.

\---

“No— When you do _thiiiiiiiis,_ or say _‘awww’,_ it—“ Martin paces, not wanting to keep walking away but not able to stay fully still. “—I’m fine.”

\---

"Clearly you're not." Gerry starts to walk after him, resisting the urge to throw his hands up in exasperation. "There's a reason I brought you here. No need to hold it in."

\---

“You brought me here to - to lose my mind, and I-I don’t want to,” he starts, stepping back like he’s being cornered. That’s not what this is, he knows that, but not every piece is on the same page. “I’m not. I’m not holding any-anything in.”

\---

"Oh, yeah, nothing at all. Not like you weren't completely fucking gone in the car, and you didn't just deal with something ridiculously goddamn traumatic. Nope. Nothing. Totally kosher. Peachy."

\---

“In the car?” Ah. No, he’d rather not get into that one. Apparently he has a natural talent for horrifying cab drivers. “It’s— It’s not like I haven’t been doing it my whole life, I’m used to... It’s not... It’s my _fault_ it went that way!”

\---

"Oh, yeah, sure, your fault that your mother knowingly triggered you into traumatic responses. Totally. Yep. Your fault, Martin. Gold star for rhetoric, you've got. Brilliant."

\---

"Stop doing that." Gerry's goading him on. Pushing him into something he won't tap into. Static whirring in his brain and use this, use this, use this, waxy black tape in his throat. He swallows it down. "They weren't... It's not a-- So what!"

\---

"I don't know, Martin. So what? You get on Jon when he tries to shut shit down, what are you doing right now?" He doesn't say: it worries me. You worry me.

\---

"Jon shuts down about - about--" Martin brings both hands up to his hair and grips tightly, just enough to hurt. "So I look like my dad! That's so _what!_ It's-- That's how genetics work, but it's--" 

Fuck you, Gerry. Fuck, fuck, _fuck._ "I've never been a person! She made me. She- She made me, and she-- I'm just... I was never, ever, a-a person, just-- A thing, a reminder, a reaction! Why do I think I can be one _now?"_

\---

Fucking _finally._ Christ. Took long enough. "Well, you were always a person, for starters. You've just got to learn how to do it on your own terms, now."

\---

“My terms?” Martin squats down on the ground, like standing is too much. “I’m not. It’s— Gerry, I exist— I’m here, alive, because - because, what? Is that why she even had me? _My_ terms— Some man comes back from the future and needs my - my help and now I’m— Michael, you, Jon, Tim, Sasha, Helen, too, maybe— You all need someone, a-a different person, I don’t have _terms.”_

\---

Gerry blinks, and catches up to Martin, standing over him for a moment before sitting heavily in front of him. He pulls his hair back out of his eyes and leans forward.

"It's not your job to be people you aren't. If the people that need you respect you, they'll let that be. I don't-- don't perform for us, Martin."

\---

“It’s all I know how to _do,_ Gerry. Don’t you— You get it, right? That’s what I _am._ I was born to - to perform. Roles. It’s why I’m here. At the Institute. Left school. Took care of her. Standing on stools to reach the stove. It’s not even _conscious.”_

Puppets and strings and ties and bonds. Martin stares between Gerry’s eyes. “They have _names._ I can’t make them... I can’t make them just go away.”

\---

"Then-- then don't. You don't have to. It's-- it's just who you are, then that's fine, Martin. And all the other names. I'm not going to let you beat yourself up for just-- just fucking existing as you are." He keeps his voice level, calm.

\---

“But you said not to _perform_ for you!” Martin growls out his frustration, nearly shouting as tears sting at the corners of his eyes. “Exist as I am, then that means a million different things to perform, and what I am is people I’m _not,_ I’ve - I’ve had to be things for someone else so long that there is no me! I don’t know what you _want!”_

\---

"I-- Hm. I want you to be as you want. However many yous and names, and-- Martin, what do you want?"

\---

He tries not to scream it out, he really does. “I want to make the world as - as good as I can for other people to make up for being here at all! But I don’t even know if that’s _true!_ Sometimes I like hurting people! I wish I could just—“ 

The grip on his hair is too tight. He’ll feel it later, for sure. “—I wish I could just get it all over with and save the world by dying.”

\---

The flair of anger in Gerry's eyes gets squashed down fast, but it's still there for a second. "Things like us don't stay dead. And you _are_ helping other people and saving them. It's-- fuck, everyone wants to do bad things sometimes. It's what you do in response to that urge that makes it reality."

He shakes his head. "We're all over the place. Which is fine. You're fine."

\---

He’s not getting anywhere. It’s not fine. Nothing is fine. Nothing is helping, everything hurts, and Gerry’s right, but somehow what Martin is saying isn’t what he actually needs help with. He has no clue what that is. Why he feels on the verge of exploding. “If she can’t find anything to love about me, I don’t... I don’t get how other people can.”

His mind is sick of looping back around and around and solving this and coming back and doing it all over again. You find love and you look for an opportunity to throw it away so you can justify what she’s done to you and what you’ve done to yourself, Martin.

\---

"Because she's not trying. Or-- she's actually trying the opposite. Meeting her once told me that. She's an obstinate old woman with a cold heart." He shakes his head and then reaches out to Martin, and he offers one of his hands, if Martin wants it.

"You deserve love."

\---

What does that make him, then? What combination of genes make him fundamentally wrong? Either a monster or someone indistinguishable from one. God, someone like him was never meant to get unfathomable powers of control. 

Martin sniffles, eyes too clouded over to notice Gerry’s hand. “So do you.”

\---

"Yeah." Gerry says, and parts of him want to shrivel up, acknowledging it, pushing through himself to speak, but fuck. If it'll get through to Martin, then there's something. Maybe learning to accept love in yourself is an undeniable truth learned when you have to instill it in those you, too, love. "I do. More than just the start of a failed dynasty pawn, or an object to order, and train, and hate, and blame. Same goes for you. Our-- it. Hm." 

He thinks for a second, each word a clogged lump in his throat. Witches and frogs. Frogs and ugly little warts. "Letting them define us lets them win. And-- and I don't think it's awful of us to sometimes let them, because-- because that's what we were raised to do! But-- I mean. Bucking against it, even sometimes, to remember you're. Someone else, someone she can't-- can't mold like clay. That's enough. Fuck, it's more than most people are willing to even do."

\---

After a minute of teary silence, Martin reaches forward with both hands, cupping Gerry’s face on either side. That grounds him, and he wishes he could spare what little warmth he has to put color in his cheeks. It doesn’t matter, not really, since he’s come up with endless ways to communicate without the regular biology of the human body. 

Maybe he had something poignant to say, but it’s lost on him. He’s just staring at Gerry. “I— I know what I want. I want to figure out how to make you smile again.”

\---

Gerry rolls his eyes a little, but it's fond. "You already make me smile more than anyone else has. Don't think you need to worry about that one much."

\---

Martin squeezes him gently, insistent. “Pleeaaase?”

\---

Even if he didn't want to, Martin's utter tenacity to be hopelessly adorable even in the midst of some kind of breakdown is the exact kind of situation to get Gerry to duck his head around a smile. God. He's hopelessly in love. He wants to be embarrassed, but every passing second he acknowledges this, it gets harder and harder not to just be happy in Martin's presence. Even the hard stuff. Even the stuff he doesn't have answers for but desperately wishes he did, for Martin.

\---

Martin tries to return the smile. It's all wobbly and sad, but that's not exactly a new expression on him, and it does help him out of this by a few increments. 

"I feel like... Like sometimes I think I figured it out, and - and it doesn't bother me anymore, but then... Then it comes back. Makes me feel like I-- Like I failed. At least, um, at least we found each other?"

\---

"What we've been through doesn't ever go away. It just gets easier. So, yeah, guess we found each other; you make it easier." He grimaces. "Ugh. Always with the romantic stuff with you. Making me have to get used to that."

\---

"Did I never tell you I'd never dated anyone before Jon? And I used to--" Ah, here we go with ammunition. "--Literally get out through fire escapes in the middle of the night at other people's places? Very, very, really new for me, too."

\---

"Couldn't handle the heat," Gerard mutters like it's dribbling from his mouth, and Martin really does put him in a state because that's the worst pun ever, actually. Alright. Fine. Give Martin some of his own ammunition. 

"I, uh. Window. Left through a window once when I couldn't handle it, and, uh, broke the tree branch I was climbing down from? Perfect, quiet getaway-- good at that, you know, it's the best way to steal books, I was light on my feet even when I had weight--, literally perfect, and then the tree was screaming as it broke and she was on the balcony staring, a balcony I didn't know existed until that point, and suffice to say. Well. That's one of the only times I've gone home with someone and it was my last time." Pause. "Until you, I guess. You brought me home."

\---

Oh, how can Martin laugh, when Gerry’s so incredibly sweet? Martin was never quite ballsy enough for that, but there weren’t often trees handy, but he’s glad he’ll never find out. 

“Home.” Hopefully, this stabilizing isn’t a momentary pause in his breakdown. “You ever think about— If we’d had the holiday we planned, sightseeing, national parks, with me and Jon, and you— Wonder if you’d fall victim to my charm then?”

\---

"Hm." Gerry sits back on the dirt, palms to the ground, and tilts his head up, thinking. Seriously thinking. It's a curious question, right? Even last the light joke in Martin's voice.

"I think I would." It's easier to see now. The way Martin's frustration in the road was at himself, for possibly taking advantage of Gerry's perceived lack of a choice. The way 'I have no choice' became an excuse, in the end, to avoid thinking about why he's so willing to follow Martin to the ends of the earth.

He wishes he could fully feel the grains of dirt flowing through his fingers as he presses them into the topsoil. "Probably would have taken me longer to be nice, honestly. Something something the intimacy of doing first aid on someone."

\---

Clarity shines through Martin’s eyes. “Oh. Well, um, knowing us, that might’ve still happened.” His voice starts soft, like he hasn’t quite grasped what he’s looking for yet, but he finds it. 

“After the worms, I was— I was so scared of antiseptic. And you were gentle, you didn’t— I mean, you didn’t pin me to the ground to do it. I’m not good at... um, being taken care of. You made it easy. I sort of wish it would happen again.”

Fucked up revelations, today.

\---

"Well. It's what you signed up for. 'Cause clearly I like taking care of you." He can only hope it's getting easy, for Martin. Easy enough that it's not even a noticeable Event whenever he does, just... The facts of life. Trust.

\---

“Takes two to be real, ghost or not.” Martin tilts his head, smiling as his hair goes with him and curls in the wind. “You help me feel real. Even when I’m, um... I think as all over the place my brain is, all the parts like you.”

\---

"All your names, what an honor." It is one. When he looks up at Martin, his expression is open, his smile soft, and God, it takes years off of him.

\---

“You named half of them. Um, indirectly. Maybe it’ll be easier to...” Ah, a less bad epiphany. They’re parts of him. He’s just not a fan of some, like he’s not a fan of himself, and it’s easier to imagine that they do things he never would. They don’t. “Mm. Piece by piece.”

\---

"Sure. I did? I've never named people before." Still so full of love, even as he cocks his head a little, curiosity mixing in with the expression. It makes him look Puckish.

\---

“Growly. Crybaby.” He blinks, and they start falling out unbidden. “Puppy. Assistant. Messenger. Kelsie. Gamemaster. Dear, sweet, crazy. Then they’re everywhere, right, owls and shrimp and dogs and fireflies, bees, lions, goats, and Oracles and moon-princes and prophet-witches and my ghost and my person and moons and suns and planets and satellites and you’re blue-green today and—“ 

He takes a deep breath as he snaps his fingers. “—Easy.”

\---

"Huh." He leans back closer again, presses his hands to Martin's cheek. Some of the dirt still clings to his palm, having not discorporated in the space of air it took to bridge the distance. "If I knew they were going to stick around, I would have been more careful with my words to give you such better names than Crybaby."

\---

Martin presses into it until his face looks remarkably silly squished there. “Not like I knew. I think it’s easier to... you know, Jon’s changing b-because of the Eye, and I’m learning how to handle the Archivist so that feels simple, but... me, it’s like— It feels so complicated. But it would, right? He’s always with the Eye. I’m... everywhere.”

\---

"Just a bit. Gaudiest entity Rainbow that exists. We can-- we have time. One name at a time, even. I don't know."

\---

“One name at a time and you get whatever that was in the taxi,” Martin says with a shy laugh, like it was silly and not horrifying to experience. “If Jon can compel a bank teller to hand over Michael’s money, I... I mean, getting the one answer I wanted out of my mother isn’t that bad.”

\---

"Nah. Not really. Especially considering _fuck,_ did she have an answer for you." The hand on his cheek pats him slightly, and his smile is small, but reassuring.

\---

“It’s not like I’m leaving her to die,” Martin says quietly, feeling very much like he is. “I just... I sort of hoped it wasn’t that bad. What she thought. Optimist.”

\---

"Isn't it always so." He huffs. "You know, when mine bailed me out of prison, I thought, for two seconds, I thought: maybe she cares. Maybe this is an apology. Maybe maybe maybe. She just wanted her favorite book mule back. Mothers are good at that." He sniffs. "Making you want to forgive them."

\---

“Right. I did. I do, but not - not for her, I think.” He’ll always care about her. It’s who he is. But he can’t change it. He can’t change what she thinks, and no amount of being good will fix that. “I think— Let’s go walk a little? And - and then we can go home?” 

Home, home, home.

\---

Gerry nods, and slowly shifts back to start standing. He offers Martin his hand. "Yeah. Then we can go home. Good idea."

He'd say he's sorry he panic-took Martin to a forest for havoc, but... He's pretty sure Martin gets it. And now he knows more about Martin than he would have, otherwise. It's a good start. It's always a good start with them.

\------

Our playlists for the America arc:

Michael's playlist for the climax of the America arc:

Our playlists for the Spiral arc (Rooftop ritual is in order of every memory door ;) ):

  



	61. Chapter 61

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Body in the tunnels, revisited.

The world’s most agonizing lunch break began five minutes ago. Time, cruel mistress she is, has different plans; it’s been three hours. The clock ticking in the open office is what breaks him, the whole place otherwise silent without Sasha there, without her typing, flipping pages, making comments, just breathing, and it’s cruel, cruel torture. 

Nothing looks less appealing to Tim right now than the sandwich in front of him. The sliced tomato slipping from the bisected middle makes him want to wretch. He can’t eat. He can’t sleep. He needs something to do. A  _ week, _ to get a few things in line. A week, to process nothing but questions, concerns, complaints, doubts, emotions, there’s no end to it in sight. No end at all. 

He stands up abruptly, and the way his chair scrapes against the floor ticks him off more. He can’t even remember what Sasha went out to do like this, too busy rattling over the constant ‘I’ll know, if she’s not her’, ‘would I, though? What if I didn’t?’, ‘oh, it’s got something out for me, has it?’, ‘I know what I can do about that’, ‘no, no, you really don’t, Stoker’, and so on and so forth. 

So he said he’d be good. Give them space, cool off a bit, work on it, cook up a few ideas of his own. He can still be good and find a way to weasel in the barest ounce of relief from this freakish combination of emotions to tide him over for the week. He trusts himself that much. He does.

Connecting dots is easy. He’s trying not to obsess over the mousetrap table below them, but how could he not? How could anyone expect him to bury it at the back of his mind and wipe his hands clean, go off on his merry way? It’s personal. He doesn’t forget. That’s the thing. Not forgetting is why he’s here. It’s not dwelling, not quite, not when it’s apparently still here, still hurting people, hurting him, it’s beyond aggravating and standing stiffly upright in front of his desk like a maniac won’t scratch that itch. 

He has an idea, though. Tim knows where they keep everything in the joint office of the assistants, where Martin’s desk still sits like a lonely tombstone he’s started to see as a fixture of the room instead of a place where someone should be. There’s a couple of files he can use to have a few questions answered. Just to get his mind off the idea everyone’s been pushing him away from. They don’t give him real, concrete answers, they just tell him ’don’t’. That’s no good. 

Where his lunch break lasted hours, he finds himself at the front of that evil, soul-sucking door with a few papers clutched tight enough to crease the sides faster than he can blink. Maybe that should worry him. It doesn’t. 

Ah, fuck. Here we go. Timothy Stoker, you madman. It’s a restrained knock, polite but a little uneasy, uneasy enough that his biting confidence is more of a nip. He opens his mouth to speak. 

\---

Gerard is quietly laying out every place he and Gertrude went to on their pursuit of the Unknowing, Jon's writing quick and loose as he transcribes in one of his ridiculous notebooks-- Even Gerry used a laptop more often than Jon does, when he was alive--, but it's one of Gerry's favorite things about the neurotic mess of a man that sits before him. 

Jon might be infuriating, cowardly, self-serving and a whole host of bad personality traits he got to see the fallout from before he even got to know him, but he's fucking fantastic when it comes to working. Quirks aside, he learned fast that he and Jon work well together, so long as specific buttons aren't pressed. And between two eerily Knowing people, it's easy to avoid the buttons until they take breaks, or 'chat', or do anything not related to research. 

He's detailing one of the stops he and Gertrude made in New Zealand when Jon pulls away, cocking his head as though listening to something not Gerry, and his pen stills. 

"Tim's coming," He says, and then turns to the door and says, "Come in!" just a moment before Tim himself speaks, and oh, there's no mistaking the small amount of pleasure sparkling in Jonny Boy's eyes over there. 

It makes Gerry bark out a laugh and mutter, "You shit, Sims."

\---

Tim follows his words through, seemingly not registering that Jon’s already spoken behind the door. 

“Waving a white flag out here, if you’re home!” 

Weird. Something winds itself up at the back of his head, and it’s such a foreign feeling that Tim’s natural response is to turn around and look for someone around him. By the time he faces the door properly again, he can’t decide how the chain of events really went, who spoke first. 

Either way, he has permission, and he gives the old mental lawnmower a start with a sharp smile and a twist of the knob. “Okay, Dead-boss,” he starts before he even gets a view of the room. “Yes, I know, meeting’s in a week, we’ll just say I’m amazingly punctual, and--”

He blinks his eyes open long enough to process one, maybe two things about the scene in front of him. “Huh. Surprise goth.”

\---

"Gerard Keay," Gerry greets, and fields him a small smile. He's leaned over the desk a little, so he can watch Jon's writing easily, pointing out in his scrawl whenever he gets a detail wrong, or it needs more context, and Jon sits, of course, in the archivist’s chair. 

"Is everything alright, Tim?" Well. No, obviously, it never is, Jon, and Gerry does think it's kind of pathetically hilarious whenever Jon is simultaneously out of his element and the most powerful person in the room. Funny oxymorons, that.

\---

Resident Archivist of questionable evil may be, by pure definition, the most powerful in the room, but Tim has quite the advantage. He  _ thinks _ he's the most powerful in the room. Only so far as it keeps his voice even, call it a bit of a theatrical trick, but it works out.

Generally. "Tim! Stoker." Brief pause. "Uhm, actually, funny thing about that! Not answering, bit loaded, but I had a few questions. Might tide me over until we have our next council of war." 

He clears his throat. So very torn, between gauging the new guy and keeping the other rogue variable under his scrutiny. He settles on subtly pacing the absorption of details, controlled shifts as he steps front and center into the room. The door is still open, just in case. Handy escape, that.

\---

Ah! What a Hunter's gait, for someone not marked by it. Gerard watches him cooly and slowly pulls himself up to stand next to the desk, instead of lean over it. 

He'd come with a braid today, knowing he wanted to work with Jon and would want his hair out of his face as much as possible, but he'd let the rest manifest normally, not needing to look fancy for work. Jon seems to be in the same boat, but Gerry's starting to wonder if he should talk to the others about stealth-attacking him and brushing his hair in the morning, since the longer it gets, the less he seems to care about how unkempt it is. 

Jon watches Tim for a moment and then gestures to the chair in front of the desk. His smile is thin, and God, could Jon try any harder not to look like he's about to cry? It's borderline embarrassing. But Gerry's aware he's harsher on Jon than anyone else here. 

"Of course, Tim. We were, uh, just working through Gerry's timelines with his own research back when he was alive."

\---

Back when he was alive, huh?

Tim doesn't take the chair, but he does lean one arm against it so he can tilt just slightly. Keeping his body from going taut is key to staying composed. His eyes trail down to the papers with good-natured surprise, then back up to Gerard. Surely this is a coincidence, but can a guy really trust coincidences, these days? 

There is no trust from this end of the desk to the other, but he's a quick one. Like a whip. His research, penchant for risky situations, striking gothness, and then, of course, the name. Tim's done his reading, and, well, he can be normal about the abnormal. "Oh, you've got a real  _ record.  _ Sorry for your loss."

\---

Gerry snorts. "Yeah. Feel pretty infamous around here, the amount of statements I've been told I pop up in. Gotta wonder how apocryphal some of them are." He shrugs. "Still here. Not much to be sorry about."

\---

"No, no, promise, really, you  _ look  _ the type to go sprinting full-tilt and..." Eye tattoos. Burns. If only he remembered the silly details of those particular statements, not the gruesome ones. "Rough life. This is-- You know, it's funny. I came to ask about artifacts, actually!"

He'll play nice. Tim rounds on Jon, quells the sick heat in his gut. Just don't focus too hard on the eyes, Stoker, they'll suck you in. The bad way. He points at Gerard as he addresses resident Potentially-Evil Archivist. "This guy knows his way around malevolent spirit books." 

Oh, Tim, you'd have a field day if you knew how funny that was.

\---

Jon covers a startled laugh around a cough, and Gerry snorts. "Well, yes, yes I do. You could say it's my life's purpose." 

"What about the artifacts, Tim? Did you-- did you find something?" Jon asks.

\---

Real buddies, they are. Har har, secret jokes. It’s not even subtle. Tone it down, Stoker. 

Fuck, he wants to ask how this guy’s not staying dead. Fuck, that question can apply to both of them, too. “Outside a table in the Archives?  _ Maybe. _ Hey, you.” He lifts his chin in Gerard’s direction. “Ever pick up any protocols for lab safety with those things? Might be handy.”

\---

"Yeah, sure," Gerry says, and the smile he meets Tim with is amused, playful. "First step is 'don't fucking read it, you moron.' You leave the reading to scary old ladies who think they know better than they actually do. Or idiots who want to manifest a ghost on the daily. Second step is easy." He mimes clicking on a lighter, and an explosion with his other hand as he does so.

\---

“First part is easy, too,” Tim says with a quirk of his brow. He’s content with this one. “I’ll stop chasing my tail. Not like it stops at things you can find in a library, books aren’t the half of it, yeah? Tables, mirrors, all that good stuff— I’ve been told not to try, it’s hopeless, blah, blah, blah. You make it sound easy.”

\---

"Hardest part is finding them. As much as they love to pop up to do their evil feeding, they're also elusive. The objects... Well. Anything can become an artifact, with enough energy. Pop up everywhere." And they can change, he's finding out. He's a book turned into an artifact. How strange.

\---

Tim nods along, increasingly impatient. “Right, right, on it, surprise goth, I’m asking if you can light it up when it’s bigger than a pocket guide on the next hit craze: lethal sex. ‘Do this cursed  _ 96 _ to drop dead instantly’.”

\---

"Like most things, Mr. Stoker," Gerard starts, "It's all about size. And also the origin of it, and its purpose, as well as its patron entity, and blah, blah, blah. What are you--" 

"Tim, unless you found something else, I told you it's a bad idea," Jon says, and he tries to make it soft, but it comes out harder than he intends.

\---

Tim tries to both keep himself composed and avoid waving Sims off. “I  _ know, _ I’m not subtle about the table. Sue me! Just curious, and it looks like there’s more where that came from.” 

He lifts one finger for pause, then to the side of one ear, and gives a mock gasp. “Is that a game plan I hear brewing? Tim Bad-Idea Stoker planning a hundred-table massacre?”

\---

"The table?"

Jon huffs. "The Not-Them that's currently trapped inside of a web-table as performed by Adelard Dekker. The Not-Them that will be released and  _ more _ dangerous if you take fire to the  _ prison!" _

"Okay, wow, so you two have been arguing about this. Calm down Jon, fucking Christ. "

\---

“Hey, no, useful side note, here. If I didn’t think you were serious, I’d be down there now making some  _ bad _ choices. But I’m here instead! And you have a pet goth - who’s very nice, by the way - teaching me a few tricks of his trade. Looking for leads.” He shrugs. “It’s what I do.”

\---

Gerry slowly leans forward, and drums his fingers against the desk. Oh, Tim is funny. He'd probably have been very annoyed by him, when he was alive. There's still time. But he likes the fire that clearly sits in his gut. 

"Two things. One; Jon is  _ our _ pet archivist, not the other way around, don't get it twisted. Two, you want to go  _ Leitner  _ hunting? It's-- Well. I guess we are just twiddling our thumbs until we can get the Unknowing stopped. It's something to do."

\---

So much he could say, so little time. Two independently confirmed statements that Jon isn’t in charge here. They’re so charitable with rewarding his comments with information. 

“Leitner? Same guy that’s in the tunnels?” He totally forgot about that. It’d been a weird day for everyone.

\---

Gerry blinks, and Jon’s eyes widen, and he lets out an exhaled, "Fuck." Another thing he forgot. Damnit. 

"The tunnels. The tunnels below us? Jurgen Leitner is there? You're certain?" Gerard is suddenly very, very still, standing at his full height and boring his eyes into Tim's.

\---

Whoops. Sasha never told him to keep that in, this is just them.

“Whoa, whoa. Uh, yeah! We kind of let him go, though, is the thing. Real downer in person.”

\---

Something in Gerard's head feels cloudy. It's not the normal fog of the Book's effects on his presence, but it's something. Something like it, maybe. Hard to keep a lock on the conversation all of a sudden.

"I think I need to go see if ghosts are capable of murder now," He says, very mildly, and he smiles, wide and broad across his face. A flash of vague annoyance runs across his face when Jon reaches to grab his wrist, and with a shake of his arm, Jon's hand passes right through him.

\---

Uh oh, is this an  _ in? _ If he’d known, he’d have coughed that right up before. Tim knows that face. Very, very specific. He’s worn that face. 

So. The facts: Mr. Keay here has some very pleasant answers so far. He also hasn’t erupted on him yet, is apparently a ghost, is a fellow master of the bisexual table lean, has murder in his heart, and...

He’s more likely to get something of substance with this guy than  _ that  _ guy. He takes a step back from the chair, like all his thoughts have been obliterated to hone into one point. “Ooh, I think  _ I  _ need to go see if ghosts are capable of murder now.”

\---

"Oh, yes, you're coming with me, since you evidently know of his location." His voice is a hiss, and when Jon tries to speak again, he holds up a finger like it's a dagger, right in his face. "Nothing from you. You knew, and said  _ nothing. _ Stay put, and let Martin know where we've gone if he shows up."

Jon blinks, and fury passes over his expression, so Gerry says very firmly, "I don't want you there. And unless you want  _ Him _ to command me to stay put, it's a lost cause."

He grabs his locket from the table and winds it around his wrist, letting the rough grooves of the ball dig into his palm where he wraps his hand around it. 

"Tim, follow."

\---

Wow, his life just improved by, like, six notches. He gets to watch their catty play as a member of the audience. Charmed.  _ Someone’s _ in trouble.

“Oho, pet Archivist indeed.” He takes to folding up the papers he brought and shoving them back into his pocket, eyes tracking the locket. So he’s that sort of ghost. 

Wait a minute, Martin wore that. 

_ Oh, _ it’s all connected. 

“Yes, sir.” That isn’t even facetious, all puffed up with a little bit of pride at earning a bit of humiliation from Jon’s end.

\---

Gerry does not look behind him as he steps away from the desk, and summarily leaves the office, waiting for Tim to catch up. He doesn't actually know where the entrance is; and the second the door is shut, he says, "You know how to get down there, I assume." 

Sure, Jon will be mad later. And he's probably got a right to. Something in the back of his head is buzzing with the knowledge that he's being very, very foolhardy right now. Dumb. That he should ask Jon what he knows about Leitner being down in the tunnels. 

But all that's superseded by the deep-set anger that he knows, logically, is just a transfer of anger at his mum. But it doesn't stop it. And there's something almost maniacally giddy as he squeezes the locket and makes himself as physical as he can be. Not a poltergeist. A person. As much as he can be.

\---

“I do.” For a moment, Tim doesn’t move, openly taking him in with the brighter hallway lights. Then he turns on his heel, back down towards the stacks. “He wasn’t much, I’m warning you now. In the name of honesty, not really that freaky? Sad guy. Only reason we didn’t bring him back out, really— Well, and  _ he _ didn’t give us a heads-up about him down there. Duh, I’m investigating your freaky tunnels. Pfft.”

\---

"He say why he was down here? How long? How--" A comment from Gertrude suddenly strikes him, and he stops in his tracks for a couple seconds, setting his jaw. "Son of a bitch. She knew about these tunnels back when I worked here. Mother fuck."

\---

“You know when you spend too much time inside and your face starts to hate you? Yeah.” 

He lets Gerard sit on that for a second. Tries to piece together something about his babbling between curses. “Didn’t get much. Seemed a bit freaked out we just, accidentally found him? Looked at Sasha funny, awkward.” Wait, no, this is a good time for idle prodding. “She?”

\---

"Gertrude. I worked with her, for about-- Hm. About a year? I'd reckon. She was always making comments. Should have dug deeper, but. She barely trusted me as is. Can't blame her. Fucking hated my mum." He keeps his gaze straight ahead as they walk. "If she knew he was down there, the whole time. I don't-- Ugh.  _ Ugh." _ His frustrated noises of anger come out more like snarls, some prowling big cat.

\---

“Big mysteries in baggage land. Sorry you got got by an Archivist. Happens to the best of us,” Tim says sympathetically, and after a bit of walking he pulls off to one side where the wall and the first row of books starts. He ducks his head slightly. “Careful up here. I’m honestly not all that sure how the Y-spider feels about ghosts.”

\---

"The Y-Spider?" Gerard cocks his head as he looks into the stacks.

\---

“Pretty certain it’s got a nest or something up in the Y’s. But then it’s like, ‘oh, God, why, spider’, mostly just for me, ‘cause it’s pounced on me before. Sasha still thinks I’m joking. I’m dead fucking serious.” 

Satisfied that he’s not about to be jumped by the end, he straightens back up again and keeps walking. Not much longer now.

\---

"Pounce-happy spider sitting right outside the entrance to tunnels that snake beneath the Institute. What a lovely coincidence," Gerard deadpans, and definitely keeps an eye out as they pass her shelf. "It wouldn't. Be able to touch me. Not if I didn't want it."

\---

“Right. No, I’m about a hundred percent sure that’s all on  _ Martin. _ The guy comes in with a jar to show me months ago, do I think he’s  _ actually _ tossing it into the place we work?” Tim rolls his eyes. “Perpetual Halloween down here.”

\---

"He's-- no. That's absolutely something Martin would do. I'm somehow not surprised at all." Ah. That calms him down momentarily. Thinking about how crazy Martin is.

\---

Tim picks up on that. He needs to get Martin alone, doesn’t he? “Office terror. The tunnels, that’s where they told me everything after he hit me with a  _ stick. _ Sasha and I figured we didn’t want some poor intern getting down there, so we covered it up. I, uh, had a—“ 

He finds the space in the wall where the hole had been, and it looks boarded up pretty seamlessly until Tim presses along the wood, searching for a spot that eventually clicks. Door without a knob popped out just enough to open it up. “—bit of a phase where I thought she’d fall for me if I got so, so good at being a handyman.”

Not that he knows about architecture or design for any other reason.

\---

"Did she fall for you?" Gerry asks, and peers down into the opening Tim's revealed. Wonderful. Subterranean tunnels that have existed the whole time that he knew nothing about. Simply excellent. "Was always better at breaking things, than building them, and now, well, holding things isn't a guarantee."

\---

“Oooh, nope. No. I’ll hold out hope, though, we’re still in season one!” He ribs Gerry with an elbow without actually touching him, mostly for the gesture. “Maybe you could teach me a thing or two about breaking things, eh? I’ll teach you how I built a pool table in a weekend.”

\---

"Who knows. Love blooms in the time of Apocalypses, I've noticed." He stares down the tunnel. "I can see fine. I doubt you can, though. I might be able to provide us some light. Should be emotional enough for it."

\---

“Ah, that’s why you bring this—“ He pulls out his phone, then makes a show of lowering himself by bending his knees into a squat. It’s a blind reach along the inner wall, but a few pieces of chalk audibly clack together until he picks one up. “—And this. But, hey, you can still give me a show.”

In the same single motion, he stands back to full height and meets Gerard’s eyes. “The ghost glows. Cliché.”

\---

"The Eye provides, sometimes, I suppose," He deadpans, and then nods. "Well. Phone first. I don't even know if I can do it on command. Haven't experimented with it too much yet. Lead the way, Bram Stoker."

\---

Tim lights up the hall, and now it’s marginally less creepy. He takes a few steps forward, laughing in a very polite way. “Now that’s a stale one. Come on, Gerard Way. Maybe we’ll find an industrial show for you down here.”

\---

"Oh, I wanted to see how annoyed that one would make you. Glad it did its job." He trails after Tim, squinting into the dark. He can see fine, but it's just so-- "Why the fuck would he be down here? He's not a ghoul."

\---

“Who, Gerard Way? He might be.” No, Stoker, that’s too easy. Raise your standards, chin up, back straight. “We found each other by accident, looked like. Like he expected all those things Sims said are crawling around down here and not, y’know, Scooby Doo.”

\---

"The-- that's a dog, isn't it?" We've got one of those already, he doesn't say, because he'll give ammo about Jon, but Martin probably doesn't need Tim on his ass. Tim seems the type to joke a little too far.

\---

“You... The teenagers that solve mysteries? Yeah, yeah, Scooby’s a dog. Except he’s not. He’s actually an alien.” Tim waggles his eyebrows back at Gerard in the dog. “I mean we were way out of our field. Freaked us all out.”

\---

"I don't know it. Alien... Dog." Like alright. Okay. Anyways. "Wish you freaked out hard enough to brain the bastard.would have saved me the energy."

\---

“You don’t know Scooby Doo? Christ, Keay, you didn’t die  _ that  _ long ago! You work in the paranormal, but you— Wow. Sorry, I’m having a moment right now.” Tim shakes his head, very animated. “Why do you have such a hate-on for this guy? Besides the obvious.”

\---

"It was my job to hunt down his irresponsibly kept books my entire life. Since I was a kid." He keeps his gaze ahead; it keeps him monotone, flat. He doesn't want to get angry in Tim's direction for not knowing. "His library has hurt... So, so many people. He should have destroyed them." Pause. "I didn't have-- I wasn't around normal people."

\---

Tim doesn’t stare, keeping the torch trained forward. Ah. He likes this one. “No, I think you’re right. That table spat, back there? Our lovely Sims forgot to tell me it ate Sasha in another life, and it’s right here in our very own workplace. I start asking how to get rid of it for good, I’m told no, Tim, don’t be rash, don’t be stupid,” he sighs, then hums. “Sorry to say, still not around normal people. I’m certainly not. But what’s normal, anyway?”

\---

"Not much, in our lives." He hums. "Help me with this, and I'll help you figure out if it's possible to kill the Not-Them. _ If.  _ Sometimes these things are better left kept trapped. Sometimes fire is good."

\---

“Blink and you’ll miss it, but I’m already lending a hand, Mr. Keay. My good one, too.” 

There’s power in his tone, something excited and serious all at once. “Won’t be the worst thing I’ve seen people do here. Murder? Oh,  _ no. _ Psychological damage beyond comprehension? Just fine!”

\---

"Welcome to servitude under the Eye. Are you new here? Pity to suddenly Know it all. And you've probably barely scratched the surface." He snorts. "Tell you what. I'm probably a million times better at explaining it than Jon. He's a good teacher when he's not freaked out. Which you clearly freak him out."

\---

That gets a brief, uncomfortable silence. “Yeah, I do.”

But he’s not about to jeopardize his shot at finding out what he needs by implying he can’t be trusted. He can. He knows he can. “A study date’s on the table, then?”

\---

"Sure. In my recently undead physiology, I can also know what I would not, just by being asked. The Eye's damned dictionary. So I can answer a lot. Hopefully."

\---

“Huh.” A beat of silence. “Want to try that out with the tunnels? I’m interested, you’re interested, look at that.”

\---

"Hm. Sure. Directions. Knowing. Yeah. Ask away."

\---

“Now, I know this one, so we’ll call it a quality check. Which of our delightfully historic characters built these down here, anyway?” He looks back over his shoulder expectantly. Real ‘Are You Smarter than a Fifth Grader’.

\---

"Robert Smirke," comes the immediate, flat answer, and his eyes don't even flare to look for the answer. That one is easy. The surface, practically. Skimmed the top of the ocean.

\---

That’s all he needed. Let’s jump right in, then. Throw the good ghost a bone. “What’s Leitner doing in the tunnels?”

\---

"Hiding." And oh, it's so much better than that. The eyes on his body do begin to glow, almost frantically excited. Must have been a while since he's been Asked. Must have been a while since he thought of Leitner. "Not just Spirits bound of Books of Flesh are after him; he is in danger for his misdeeds." 

Gerry blinks, and laughs, and says normally, "Serves him right."

\---

“Yeah, I’ll say. You get a ghost coming to kill you, you’re not innocent.”  _ Pretty light show,  _ by the way, he doesn’t say, since he’s behaving. “Is he still down here?”

\---

It takes a second. Like the Eye is deliberating on the answer. "Yes," Gerry says, but it comes out confused. "He is? He is."

\---

“Uh, what, shorted out already? Do you know which way?”

\---

"Yes." He takes the lead. "I've never-- it's never answered like that before. I don't know what it means. But I know the way."

\---

Tim on a leash, Tim on a leash.  _ “Ominous. _ Oh, here’s another, since I’d like to not be a ghost! Should we be worried for our safety?”

\---

"No, no I don't think so." He searches, through the question, and the eyes light up again. "Robert Smirke's architecture affords us some protection from entities and their creatures. There were worms here, from the Flesh Hive, but they have since decayed once their Host was killed."

He continues walking and cocks his head. "I reckon that's why Leitner is down here. Easier to hide."

\---

“Oh, fantastic.” Guess we know who the smart one was among the two of you, Stoker. Or, maybe not. Wait, fuck, no. “Uh.”

Tim’s pace slows considerably. “You say protection, but there were worms here, and— Wow. Yeah, I’ll come out with it. A Smirke building’s where I last saw my brother, actually. Didn’t seem to do much protecting.”

\---

"It's hard to read the specifics. It's like the Eye is at half capacity here. I think-- well, the architecture must do different things, right? Depending on how it's built."

\---

"Right. Well, good thing I keep a gun on me at all times. Stoker 101."

\---

Gerry blinks and turns back to him. "Don't lie to me. I got excited for a second." He pauses. "Almost bought one, when I went to America, you know. Just in case."

\---

"Hey now, not a lie if you stand by innuendo rule." Tim snickers, pulling up to Gerard's side so he can whisper conspiratorially. "I'm always packing heat."

\---

"Oh, I could tell the second you walked into that office, trust me." And he doesn't whisper it so much as purr it around a mischievous little smile. Isn't Tim just a good distraction from utter violence? He'll keep that in mind the next time he needs to get Martin to heel.

\---

"Ah, the Stoker Swagger. Who could resist?" Checking 'ghost' off the bucket list shortly. He raises his voice to Gerard's volume. "I think there's a fan-tastic working relationship ahead of us, Mr. Keay."

\---

"Well, I'm certainly miffed it's taken us this long to meet." Why is he so amicable to meeting someone new today? Rage boils in his guts and he's flirting? Strange days. Strange days indeed.

He takes a turn down one of the forks in the tunnel. "You're a bit jockier than I go with, I'll admit. Is that how secondary school cliques work? Goths and jocks. Saw somewhere-- natural enemies. Never made sense to me."

\---

“Aw, you think I’m a jock? Maybe if you put me next to the lovebirds, sure. I’d say I’m more of a Harkness. Sprinkle of everything.” He does try to rib Gerard with his elbow, this time. “Maybe that’s our genre. Enemies to lovers. Saucy.”

\---

"Hm. Didn't exactly start as enemies though, Hm? Ruins your genre-coding right there." He scowls. "I'm genre-savvy, but not in your schoolboy sense. So who fucking knows."

\---

_ ”Schoolboy?  _ Wow, graduate with a First to get spat on by ghosts who don’t know what Scooby Doo is.” He scoffs, smiling through it. “I just say enemy, since I’m not sure where we’re all at yet. Not on too great terms with your pet Archivist, back there, who’s also my ’boss’, scare quotes.”

\---

"Eh. Jon's not harmless, per say, but I doubt he has it out for you. He's just a prick who doesn't know when to open or close his mouth." He shrugs. "You can be on whatever terms you want with me."

\---

“Seems like it. Guess we’ll see how productive today is, eh?” Put that mischief in your eyes away, Stoker. “Oh, magic ghost compass, how close are we to Leitner, exactly?”

\---

"Hard to say. The tunnels move about. Closer than we were, at least. Soon. It just-- feels off." He raises his nose a little, like he can smell it. "I don't know."

\---

“Not exactly inspiring confidence from your very human and very killable co-conspirator with that tone, Keay.” Tim’s voice takes on a slight growl, but it’s meant to spur him on. Seems like a guy who does better under pressure.

\---

Gerard rolls his eyes. "You aren't dying. If I could get Martin home from America safe, I'm sure you'll do fine watching me kill an old man without having a heart attack."

\---

"Not  _ that  _ part, the evil tunnels. I'd ask if you need a hand, but, uh, I don't think you will! And I still don't know what nonsense went down in America. They, well--" He clears his throat. "--Ghosted me!"

\---

"And far be it for Jon to explain." Gerry rolls his eyes. "He got kidnapped. We saved him. Easy peasy. It was utter fucking torture."

\---

"Christ. What, you and Martin? He had a whole panic attack in our meeting, going on about killing people and all that. I mean, I knew he wasn't joking, but-- No one tells me anything!" 

Too much bite in that one.

\---

"A panic attack. Awesome. He loves to do that at the worst possible fucking moment." Gerry's quiet for a second, and takes them down another turn in the tunnel, then spins around and goes the other way, as though sniffing something out.

"As miscommunicative as they are, and how infuriating it is," He says, as they continue down the path, "they are going through about the absolute limits of human strain, on the daily. More than human exponentially for Jon. Honestly, more than human for Martin, too. And don't get me started on trying to make Michael more human."

\---

"No kidding." Ha. That applies to just about all of it. "The blonde? Yeesh. He's a bit fried, isn't he... But, wait, when you say more than, is that a good thing?"

\---

"Fried's a good word for him. He was part of the Spiral." He hums. "Nah. Not a good thing. Pretty much the exact opposite, really. Make a human not human but leave its morals intact and expect it to behave like a human... That's a lot of mental strain."

\---

"So..." Fuck. "What does that mean for us? The world? Regular old joes, going about our days, is-- Is this supposed to make me sympathetic? What, now I have to worry about my coworkers eating me?"

\---

Gerry can't help but laugh. Just a little. Maybe it's cruel. "If you're still treating this like an office job, Tim, you're sorely mistaken on what you and everyone else here is."

\---

“No, obviously, not a normal office job. Hold on, Keay.” He steps in front of him with his arms wide open. “What am I, then, huh? Go ahead. Enlighten me.”

\---

Gerry is kind enough to stop in front of him. He could walk right through him. He will if Tim wants to continue like this. He looks him up and down once, twice, three times, and then gives a one-shouldered shrug.

"I'd say self-destructive to a nearly suicidal degree. That's my guess. Only because I've been there. Assuming it's about your brother. You're still human, that's nice, but be careless and you might not be. I see a few paths for you. All up in the air. Your aura's not set in stone."

\---

Tim stares for a solid, heated minute. His first words are frustrated, disbelieving, but controlled. “My aura.” 

Motherfucker. “No. Pause. You’ve met me once, and, by the way, ‘careless’ isn’t what we use for people coming in asking questions so they know what’s what when no one spills it otherwise.” He leans into Gerard’s space. It’s not a threat, but he’s firm. “And since I’m not self-destructive or suicidal, I’ll skip right past that, if I was trying to die before I did everything I could, I wouldn’t be helping you find your index answers so you can teach me how to not get the people I love slasher filmed.”

\---

Gerry watches him calmly for a few seconds, and then walks through him with zero fanfare. Static electric buzzing abound. He doesn't exactly like walking through people. Too much matter. Makes him feel scattered for a second, and he has to shake his head as he begins walking again to clear his thoughts. 

"Alright. Clearly you have a solid read on yourself. Far be it from me to tell you what you're not."

\---

Ugh. He wishes he felt like making a joke right now. Tim shivers, freezing and exposed in a way that’s not even literal, just bizarre. At the center of a lit stage kind of exposed. 

“Right. Next question. Why should I trust any of them? Fried blonde says Martin’s in charge, you look like you’ve got the reins in your weird judgy ghost hands, what, are you all starting a happy, peace-loving monster cult? ‘Nope, definitely not the bad guys’ type?”

\---

"We're trying to stop the Apocalypse. I never asked for your trust. Believe what you will." He stops in his tracks for a second and then nods. "We're close. One more turn."

He keeps walking. "You're already part of a cult. The Beholding doesn't exactly loosen its grip on its members. Has a harder time getting them, than the others. Doesn't exactly-- Hm. Didn't exactly have creatures of its own, before." His voice is quiet, flat. "We often descend into the things we want to protect the world from. It's the nature of these things."

\---

“Yeah. Next I’ll go to clown school, you arse.” He’s whispering as he moves, though it’s through gritted teeth. “You didn’t ask, but I want to. I feel like a depressingly unimportant side character, and I want in. I can learn. I’m good for it.”

\---

"I can tell." It's getting harder to pay attention. He knows they're close, and the excitement of something to bear witness to, even if Gerard is unsure of what, yet, is felt in the physical presence of his body as his eyes light up once more, producing an unearthly glow through the stone passageway.

"I wouldn't tell you any of this if I didn't think you were. It's not like I'm going away. I live where you work. You're not just useful, you deserve your retribution and your purpose." His words are firm; maybe the Beholding is lending its calm to him. Who knows. He's seen what the Beholding looks like, squished into the earthly mundanity of a human body. Maybe it's just him. Maybe it's everything.

\---

Finally. Finally. Something oozes out of Tim’s shoulders, liquid heat without a spark. So he’s in a cult, sure, maybe, but— He can deal with that as it comes. This one doesn’t give answers that scare him for the sake of driving home how scary it is. This one paves the way for more answers. 

This one doesn’t try to push him away for doing his job. For knowing what actually matters to him. For now, this is the only decent bone he’s been tossed in ages. Frantic, overwhelming research with the barest of background, embarrassment and shame at having the door shut back in his face, and now, yeah, retribution. That sounds better than suicidal. 

He feels a lot nicer, now. That light coming off Gerard is a rock salt lamp for his eyes. Tim gets one last soft sentence in, knowing damn well he’s about to lose the guy’s attention. “Hey. After this, you show me the ropes.”

\---

"Hold me to it." Gerry says. "And if I'm not awake, tell Martin that I give you permission to wake me up." He takes a deep breath, then, and let's his mind drift elsewhere.

He takes the turn, and something old, as old as he is, fills him up, an anger and his own retribution that he's longed for for so long becoming a sole pinprick of a purpose. An arrow tipped in poison. A misguided boy's scapegoat for what was done to him. A fear so potent it was on his mind the moment he died, in his last seconds. None of it's about Leitner. He's thinking of Mary Keay. Leitner is the manifestation of the parts of Mary and himself that he can kill, burn and wash away and spread the ashes.

His eyes glow ferociously, and in the room that he now knows, that Jurgen Leitner lays, is the smell of dried blood. But Gerry can't smell, and so he steps further into the belly of a murder scene with no awareness, his senses nonetheless keyed up and ready to hurt and yell and lecture, but all that escapes his mouth is a soft, "Oh." when he sees the corpse lying in the center of the room.

He digs his hand into the locket.

\---

How strangely intimate that was.  _ Permission.  _ He’s being  _ trusted.  _ It has Tim beaming at the back of Keay’s head as he steps back enough to give him whatever space he needs for this, content with that for now. 

No one gets this angry about a guy that should be dead without planning a few words before the deed. He’s got a monologue churning in that ectoplasmic brain of his, and Tim is decent enough to not stand in the way of that. 

The tragedy, unfortunately, is he thinks he knows they’re not finding Leitner the way they intended before Gerard does. Tim knows that smell, too. Not the heady, sickly warmth of something fresh, but he'd rather wait for a reaction than pull him from his murderous daze before he can come to his own comprehension. 

He does step up to his side, though, just an inch short from equal. “Ah. That’s... Hm.”

\---

The body lying prone before them in the dark has been there for quite some time. That much is obvious. Gerard doesn't feel relieved. He feels-- he feels.... He feels... 

His form wavers, and it shakes, and static runs through him, and he very nearly disappears entirely. But somewhere in the back of his mind he knows it would ruin quite a lot if he just left Tim down here by himself to pick up the pieces. To pick up Gerard's piece via locket, once it clattered to the floor.

He just stands and watches and waits for movement that will not come, and after he forces himself to solidify, he lets out an audible breath and tightens his shoulders, and nods. "Alright. Well that's that, I suppose."

What a frail old body that lies before them. Maybe Tim was right-- pathetic. Didn't Jon say something like that, before? That the man he beat up was Leitner? He can't remember. He can't really think, either, for that matter, and despite the death grip on his locket, it clatters to the stone floor after a while, and he makes no room to pick it up.

\---

Poor guy. Must not be easy being a ghost. Tim doubts there are many walking around, the real ones, anyway, rough life to rough afterlife. 

He’s struggling to keep it together, literally, that much is easy to spot, and he briefly wonders whether the breathing is a need or a way to feel human. 

Then the locket hits the floor. After a wait long enough to gauge whether he’ll go after it, Tim takes the initiative and squats down for him. His voice is calm as he reaches out for it, eyes turned upwards. Yep. Got him with empathy. Good job ghost. “Hey. Let me know if I shouldn’t.”

\---

"I don't care." Oh, he'll be embarrassed at how distant he sounds later. Great job, Gerard; what a wonderful first impression. Way to sound like you have it put together.

He can't really think about that, or anything, right now, so he takes a step back, and then another, and then turns on his heel. "It's done. Let's go."

\---

Tim gently winds the necklace through his fingers so he can follow. Two for two on dead bodies in the tunnels, and this is why they covered the hole. No one’s going in except on purpose. Fuck, that sucks. 

He catches up to Gerard quickly, because he’s not making it three for three. “You had plans. Share with the class? Might be cathartic.”

\---

"I didn't." His body doesn't shake, not with a lack of any actual physical stimuli, but those strange wavers keep running through him. They don't exactly feel pleasant. "I assumed I'd know what to do when I got there. Foolish."

Because even if Leitner was there, alive, why would he have the energy to hurt him? Why would he be able to finish the job? Why? Why? Why? "I wanted someone to feel an ounce I did, growing up less important than-- than a book."

\---

“Ah. See, that’s why villain speeches are always better. Scripted.” 

He gets it, though. Painfully so. Who seeks out the very thing that ruined their life by association except to find out why or to keep it from happening again? “Either way, that’s one less factor. I’m taking a stab at it here that maiming Leitner wasn’t your afterlife’s whole purpose?”

\---

"No." He keeps walking, his gaze fixed suredly ahead. "Gertrude bound me to a book with my own flesh, which I suspect is because I was getting close to becoming an Avatar of the Eye."

\---

Tim sways the chain until parts of it jingle together. “Small book.” He chuckles. “The old witch neutered you out of being a monster god. Jesus, stop one-upping me on tragic backstories, Keay. There’s only so much to go around!”

\---

"N--" He turns around and frowns. "She didn't-- oh God, she kind of did. I hate that. I hate that. You actually distracted me from being pissed off enough with that. Jesus Christ."

\---

Fantastic. Tim erupts into laughter loud enough to almost echo down the halls, and God, his life is hilarious. Curve balls on curve balls. “That’s why you take me to crime scenes, Keay. Point out a blood smear looks like—“ Oh, fuck, you get a split second to make a reference he’ll understand. Shit. “—a Rorschach blot weirdly like Poe if you squint, bad mustache and all, how could you not lighten up?”

\---

Gerry snorts. "Right. Who do we think did it? Jon will be dying to know."

\---

“Ooh, I could ask you, but that’s no fun. Okay, okay. Theory time. First, Jon did it. I’m only entertaining the idea so I can say how funny it is to imagine him trying to kill. Second... oh, oh,  _ me. _ We just find out I hit my head and got amnesia so we backtrack and it leads us right to the murder weapon. In my  _ desk.” _

\---

"Pretty shitty murderer if you leave the weapon in your desk, Tim. Oh, oh. Your friend Sasha will be heartbroken. There goes your chances with her."

\---

“Hey! I got amnesia, cut me some slack. No, no—“ Tim hums, mind buzzing with ideas. “She’s the one who covered it up. Hit me right in the skull ‘cause I can’t live with the guilt, personally, but she’s a stone cold killer so she bears it. I go to work and I don’t even know we killed a guy together. It’s love.”

\---

"Aaaah, but wouldn't someone who loves you want you to know your misdeeds? Tsk, tsk, Stoker. A real Bonnie-Clyde affair you've gotten yourself into. How very American."

\---

“We agreed to it, is the thing. I got on my knees willingly.” He wiggles his eyebrows, grin wide as he circles the chain idly around a finger. “Who do you think did it?”

\---

Gerry rolls his eyes. "Who would have knowledge of the tunnels and is also a goddamn maniac? Duh. He's not very slick, is he."

\---

“Uhhhh. Our freakishly absent evil overlord, then? You ever meet the guy? It’s like those x-rays that can see through your clothes, but this one judges.”

\---

"Nah. Gertrude said he wouldn't hire me. Kinda, y'know, was working with her on the sly." He tilts his head. "Guess he would, being that close to the Eye and all."

\---

“Gross! And now you’re working with the next one on the sly. Funny how that turns out.”

\---

"Jon's not like Elias. Jon's an Archivist. Different ballgame than... Whatever the fuck Elias is."

\---

“Oh, no, surprise goth. I’m talking about Robinson. Archivist hopping. Sorry, too soon?”

\---

He rolls his eyes. "Suppose not. The lot of my life, right? Couldn't have expected it. Though, less Jon that I'm working for."

\---

“Right. It’s Martin.” Just a guess, but Tim clicks his tongue. “Still waiting on all the juicy details, there. He looked  _ miserable, _ last time, like some sort of dainty hostage. No way he’s in charge. I worked with the little bastard, before all this.”

\---

"In charge is an overstatement. More: it's him we're here for. As fucking insane and crazy as he is. He's not hostage, he just freaks out. Especially where Jon is concerned. Peas in a pod, those two."

\---

“Crazy, I can believe.” Tim nods stoically, then launches into his questions. “Why  _ especially? _ And why are you here for  _ him?” _

\---

"Because Jon's crazy, too. I don't know. They have-- they're just so tightly wound around each other. They'd do anything, like, literally anything." He's quiet for a moment, and another waver runs through his body. Not a shake, this time. Just sheer embarrassment. "Guess I'm the same, when he's concerned. Don't fucking know why. Just am."

\---

That’s not a good look. Though, he guesses he might do the same for Sasha. Hard times make close company sweeter. “Martin Blackwood, a player. Kudos to him, at least he’s got a good eye for lookers.”

\---

"Player indeed. I swear, every ritual ends with him bringing another letter of the goddamn LGBT home. It's honestly ridiculous."

\---

“Now, when you say _ ritual...  _ I need a scale attached from one to bacchanalia.”

\---

"Entities and their rituals. Hm. Depends on the scale, right. Unknowing is one. What happened to Jon was one. What we did to Michael is one."

\---

“They’re all ones?” He nearly whines, but he has a feeling there’s just been a mistranslation. “Nothing fun? No great, powerful orgies? Sad. We live in a sad, sad world, Mr. Keay.”

\---

"Hm. Entities aren't fond of fun, exactly. Not sure we'll be seeing any powerful Crowley rituals in that vein. It's just powerful energy with focused intent. Turns out they usually make monsters."

\---

“Boo.” Lost cause. Ah, well, violence it is. “You really think Elias did this? Makes me uneasy. Should we, uh, do something about that?”

\---

"What can we do? I don't know. See if Jon has any ideas, I guess. It's not-- Hm. He might have foresight with his stupid future powers."

\---

Tim isn’t exactly a fan of leaving it up to not-boss. “Do you not? What if I asked you one of those loaded questions about the future?”

\---

Gerard shrugs. "Hasn't happened. Not a fact. I don't think Jon can know, either, unless it's something that happened to him, last time. Sometimes I can see... Potentials. Where something is leaning. But it tends to be limited to the marks bestowed on us."

\---

“Huh! Awesome. Predicting tramp stamps.” No, he won’t ask. “Amazing superpower.”

He can get two birds with one stone, here. Sate his curiosity and help a guy get through the emotional baggage of being unable to commit lethal acts. “Sooo... next best thing to murder. Where’s the closest Leitner?”

\---

Gerry cocks his head, and then barks out a laugh. "Well. That answers two things. Elias' office. It's tainted. With Leitner's blood. Small book, very thin."

\---

“Oh, how convenient! Gross. But convenient. Taking that: bad idea, I’d imagine? What’s it for?” Answers three things, actually. Elias is definitely evil.

\---

"It..." His eyes glow to seek the answer. "Changes passageways. Moves them around." He blinks. "I suppose that answers how Leitner ran about with ease.”

\---

Tim snickers. Oh, Jack just found out Tim is one he can happily use the word  _ snickers  _ with. Best day ever. “Hey there, uh, police? My evil boss killed a guy for his magic book.  _ Book him. _ God, I hate this place. But I also love it. No drama like it anywhere on earth.”

\---

"Oh, yeah, lets get cops involved. Super fun fucking afternoon for all of us. Me, acquitted for murder on very, very specific evidence thrown out. Super fun day for me. Do you not-- You realize I was in jail, right? For quite a bit? While I was being processed? Not a fan. Fuck Elias, but-- Fuck. C'mon. Pigs won't do anything."

\---

“Woah, woah, relax. Joke. Joking. Joke joke joking. Book him. I did it for a ‘book him’. You think I think the fuzz is helping us out with a demon boss?” On natural impulse, he reaches to pat Gerard on the back with solidarity.

\---

Gerard lets him. What a show. But it's strange; a half here, half there sensation. "Sorry. Just-- Not necessarily the most fun analogy. Bouchard or not."

\---

“My bad.” Tim wipes his hand off on the front of his shirt. “I want a secret maze tunnel cheat-book. But, hey, not rash. Ha! Bet I could go back to Sims and tell him I might have something, now. I doooo.”

\---

"You should get it. One less thing Elias has. Jon might appreciate it. Depending on how he is with all... The murder."

\---

“Uh, what, you mean now? No go on that one. I saw his face when you let loose, you two need a talk, and last thing I need is more proof I can’t be trusted five minutes without making bad choices.” Tim sighs. He wants to go do it so bad. “And I’m not in the mood to get ganked just yet.”

\---

"Hm. Perhaps." He looks ahead in the tunnels. "Yeah. He's probably not my biggest fan right now. Whoops."

\---

“‘Hey, boss, good news! Didn’t kill anyone. I turned right back around. Bad news, maybe more good news: your boss beat me to it’.” He scoffs. “Wonder if it happened the first time.”

\---

"Guess I'll ask. Presumably after Jon tears me a new one for trying to commit a murder."

\---

“What? Didn’t  _ Martin _ kill someone? Leitner deserved it, even if he was a little pathetic, didn’t he?”

\---

"I think so. It's convincing Jon that's another story." Gerry blinks. "Martin told you about that?"

\---

“Not told so much as dumped it while crying about twenty things at once in our meeting. We had to narrow it down: backstory or Unknowing first. Answer’s obvious, doesn’t mean I’m not on edge waiting to know it all.”

\---

"Probably not my story to tell without him present. I was there, though." He pauses. "Person deserved it."

\---

Tim hums thoughtfully, his brain swirling around in the silence a little too Grand Rapids for his liking. “I’ll resist asking. I’m worried about him, honestly. When this all went down, he only told Martin— We didn’t know. Just less and less of him around, spooked bad when he saw us in the hallways. The guy’s always been a little weird, but not  _ that  _ antisocial.”

\---

"He's not that w-- well. Yeah he is. I can't even imagine just being his coworker.” It makes him smile, amused.

\---

“I do miss when pencils used to fall from the ceiling. Or— God, right, right, he used to look over my shoulder and get me to show him how to do things without saying that was the whole point. Took me way too long to catch on he had no clue what he was doing. Then it was obvious, but, hey, credit where credit’s due.”

If one thing can be said for Tim, it’s that he cares about the people around him. Martin has been absent for a while, but that doesn’t make the memories go away. “I started snooping after one too many excited ‘I’ll get it!’s where it took him, like, ten times as long to go find something than even an intern would.”

\---

Gerry smiles and turns to watch Tim as he talks. There's something... So charming, about hearing about Martin from a less complicated time. When the Hunt hadn't swallowed him and the Spiral hadn't claimed him and and every other mark hadn't been laid upon his body yet.

When he was just some man.

"He's a good liar... To a point. It's hysterical."

\---

Ah, but was he ever just so? “Oh, for sure. I always know it’s him when I whine about something missing from the kitchen and he hears it. Mysteriously, and I won’t say how, it’s restocked by morning. Or—“ 

Ah. “Huh. Knew. Not much of that these days. Anyway— What’s the deal with—“ Tim draws a vague square with his pointer finger on the hand holding the locket. “—You’re all...?”

\---

Gerrys expression flattens. "Gonna need a little more specifics than that, Stoker."

\---

“Martin  _ wears  _ you. You do that desk lean when no one’s there but Jon Sims.” It’s a very successful tactic. One he employs often and without mercy to get Sasha out to lunch.

\---

"Okay. Right. Mmhm. Not that it concerns you. But." He pulls in a breath, and then sighs. "I mean, read between the lines. You're smart."

\---

“Oh, flighty. You’ll tell me how some old bird made you a book, let me sit in on your Leitner murderfest cut short by scheduling mishaps, and let me flip to the back for answers, but not tell me if they’re swingers who managed to score a ghost before I did?”

\---

"Swingers implies it's just fucking, Timothy. Jesus. God." A waver runs through his form.

\---

Tim catches that, connecting a few dots as his smirk grows into something predatory and dangerous. Ghosts can’t have blood. It’s not just fucking. He leans slightly towards Gerard as he walks. “Oh, is that blushing? You’re fucking... and with  _ feelings?” _

\---

Gerard keeps walking, quicker now, and keeps his face as neutral as he possibly can. "I hate this conversation. Dangerous fucking game you're playing with someone who almost murdered a man today. Fuck you."

\---

“Oh, no.” Timothy Stoker instincts kicking in. “You and I both know I’m no Leitner. What was that, you said? I deserve purpose, and I’m useful? Ooh, or what about holding you to it? Can’t break things with me if I’m dead, Keay. Now, you were saying? Come on. Come on. Out with it. How’d a ghost fall in looooove?”

\---

He shoots a glare in Tim's direction. "I don't know. I just did. As simple as that. Give me my locket back." He jabs his hand out in his direction.

\---

Tim seems to realize he’s made a terrific mistake the second that glare isn’t charged with anything that says this is all in good sport. In another life, he might’ve learned to keep some things to himself through an extended post-worm quarantine. 

He never learned that lesson, this time around. The way he passes the locket is almost capable of being described as gingerly. “Sure. Simple as that.”

\---

Gerard's death grip on the locket is rough, painful if he had real flesh. He winds the chain around his wrist and keeps walking. Almost there.

Fine. He's being mean to Tim, who just wants to know. He'll throw him a bone and a distraction. "Besides. Whatever the fuck Michael does with Martin is way weirder than me."

\---

Tim breaks for it like Gerard’s just tossed a frisbee. “Oh?” Well, for the sake of transparency, it’s more of an ‘oooooh?’.

\---

"Polyamory was a mistake," Gerry grumbles, but he's not scowling anymore. Back to your regularly scheduled jokes and drama. "Michael's crazy."

\---

“No way.” Tim’s eyes widen, but he can’t keep the fake surprise up for long. “Enlighten me. If I can’t tease you, Martin’s my next target.”

\---

"He might die if you do that. He might actually up and die, and I, for one, am not flaying his skin to get him back." He snorts. "Michael was the entity of Madness. He just-- they just do this thing, where it's like they just dropped acid." They, as though he hasn't taken advantage of Martin's spiral mark too.

\---

“He can take it, I mean, he killed a guy, right? He’s fine. I’m just taking notes. Things. Very helpful.” He nods, a little ‘mhm’. “Go on.”

\---

That gets him an eyebrow raise. "What else is there to go on about? They fuck. We all do. Don't think Jon's gotten around to with Michael, but honestly, they went shopping the other day and it's bound to happen."

\---

“I— Dropping acid.” He sounds like a rapidly deflating balloon, and this has pretty much eviscerated his thought process. He wanted to know what that entailed. That’s what he meant. Now he’s— That. 

His voice is deadly level by the time he gets his composure back. “I think I have a few things I need to sort out with Jonathan Sims.”

\---

"About his fuck life? More important stuff to consider right now than that." He waves a hand. "Spiral Mark. Makes you crazy for a bit."

\---

Tim tries pushing him by the shoulder. “No, about our working relationship! Getting my head wrapped around a more three-dimensional view. And  _ Spiral’s _ old hat. We call that the Twizzler now. Catch up.”

\---

"... I'm not calling it that. What the fuck." Pause. "If you get Michael calling it that, you're my next victim."

\---

“Noted. I’ll go roll a joint for us right now and make it happen. Just for you.” He winks in a way that ought to sparkle. “And your next victim’s a book. With me. Then you can try a left hook to my jaw.”

\---

"Anyone ever tell you you're insufferable?" Ah. Thank God. The tunnel has almost led them back. He's through with standing around damp subterranean passageways.

\---

“Not for long. Usually my mouth’s busy before they mention it... and by then, they’ve miraculously changed their minds.”

\---

That gets Gerry to snort. "Now you sound like Michael. Institute full of whores!"

\---

“Part of the hiring process. I had my own Elias-adjacent suspicions, still crossing my fingers for Sasha. She surprises me every day.” Ah, there’s the light at the end of the tunnel. Literally. “I’m a  _ classy _ whore, for future reference.”

\---

"Oh, are you now. Good to know. I'll absolutely need that information later. Yep." He kind of rolls his eyes.

\---

“Is that sarcasm I detect, Mr. Keay? Sad. We’ll see once the future comes.” He reaches the door, and fuck, he’s got to stop forgetting to leave it ajar. That’s the whole point. 

One hand on the wood, Tim ushers Gerard through. “Hot ghosts first.”

\---

He goes, and the moment the air changes, the temperature regulated archives that he can't really feel, per say, but can sense, he all but deflates, letting out a solid breath. It all starts to crash down on him, and were he weaker, he'd just disappear here and now. He won't, even if he's losing energy and fast.

"Thank you for coming with me. Honestly." He mutters, and squeezes the locket again.

\---

“Thank you for, uh, actually looking me in the eye! Hah. Now that I know about the Stranger, it’s all— I need something to do with my hands. Not this ‘wait a week for answers and try not to blow up’ stuff. This is nice!” He means it. The smile so warm it’s loud says that, if his words somehow don’t get that message across.

\---

"Sitting with thumbs up our asses isn't great for productivity, no." He blinks. "I have to go talk to Jon. Shit. Didn't mean to lose my temper at him back there."

\---

“Eh, you had a good reason. He’s in need of a few time travel etiquette tips. Like, don’t forget to tell a guy his nemesis is in the building. Or that in another life Sasha gets eaten by your nemesis in the same building. Wow. Very similar issues, us.”

\---

"Your nemesis is a bit more understandable. Turns out mine was just a pathetic old man." He starts angling his way out of the stacks. "I'm going to have to tell Martin about this later, and he's probably going to get that fucked up all sad face he gets sometimes and I'm going to hate it."

\---

“About what? You finding out your long-hated rival was actually - told you so, by the way - sad? Or whipping your shared Archivist into stunned silence? Awesome show, by the way.”

\---

"Yeah. You seemed to get a kick out of that. Um. More about the murder thing. Guess we'll see." He pauses, and then shakes his head. "Not used to being held accountable by people I actually trust."

\---

“Ah.” In Timothy Stoker’s internal counter, Jon earns one tally onto the side of trust. He’s feeling generous today. “Want some space for that? And— How does this work, I just... go to Martin? Bit fucked up to have to ask for a date from the other man.”

\---

"Unless you can find me, if I'm up that day, already. We're-- working on a system." He opens his palm to look at the locket. "I can't manifest, at least yet, without being called. Used to be, you'd have to read my entire page. Getting easier, especially when it's Martin. But you can't just call from the other side of the Institute and expect my soul to hear; this is my physical body."

\---

“Yeah, no. Not like you’re haunting the Institute. Think I’ll have a sit down with him after our next meeting.” Tim shrugs, and somehow it’s a fond gesture. “Won’t be great on my end if I go asking questions out of left field and get him skittish.”

\---

"Heaven forbids he growls at you." Gerry says around a smile. He likes Tim. Fucking normal, when he's given the chance to be level-headed.

\---

“Oh, no. Him? Pink-haired, pretty necklace weari—“ He revisits that thought. “Right! He’s killed people. On my list to stop forgetting that detail. Might come in handy. Uh, I’ll leave you to it, then?”

\---

Gerry gives him a solemn nod. "Thank you, Tim. We'll talk soon."


	62. Chapter 62

Of everything they have, and have lost, and have gained, the one aspect of their new lives that Jon is certain he will never get used to is the privilege of waking up curled up around Martin. Whatever vestiges of the dream he was having always fade away all but immediately, leaving him with just the vaguest intuitions of what Martin's dreams are doing, or Michael's if he's close enough to their cuddle pile. 

(Michael, it seems, sleeps differently every night, sometimes sprawled across them and sometimes the smallest of balls in his own corner of the bed, and sometimes pushing against them with all his limbs splayed in a way to give them no room whatsoever. Hardly any rhyme or reason. Jon's starting to become enamored with it, when he doesn't have the inclination to be annoyed by it.) 

But it's just him and Martin, this morning. Michael had woken up early and left them, and Jon had just hummed noncommittally about wherever he said he was going, too half-asleep to pay much attention or do much more than squeeze tighter into the crook of Martin's neck. 

Now, he just hums against Martin and ghosts his lips across the bottom of his jaw, pleased with the stubble and the way it feels against the soft flesh of his lips. He'll never get used to this, and he hopes he doesn't. It makes waking up such a beautiful thing. And now-- Oh. Now they have a house to think of, and it puts him in such a stunning mood to think about it now, all the malaise and fear and anxiety and anger that he normally gains throughout the day just utterly and completely gone.

\---

The only thing Martin believes he’s lost is a desire to push people away greater than his need to fight against the impulse to stay. He never had much of an unshakable sense of self to begin with, and they’re patching that up, he’s patching that up, with wonderful company. Most of the time, anyway. 

He won’t lie and say he’s put his mother out of his mind. Not at all, really, but he’s doing better. Grounded at all ends by love in a way that fills him up differently. The difference between garbage to keep your stomach from growling and sitting down for a meal with someone you like. 

He wakes up warm. That’s always a good sign. There are times where the cold air bites at his skin from a blanket knocked loose, and increasingly rarely an empty bed, but most of the time... most of the time...

One of his newest talents is knowing whether it’s Jon’s mouth near him, or someone else’s. He knows it’s Jon even before he wakes up properly, and he knows it’s Jon in a good place. Plenty of cues for that, never mind the noises of contentment. 

Martin has one of his own to make as he finally registers Jon’s lips above his throat, tilting his head up to give him breathing space even as he pulls him closer by the waist. He doesn’t bother opening his eyes just yet. “Comfy down there?”

\---

"Very," He murmurs, and leans back enough to look up at him through contented, slitted eyes, a small smile dancing on his lips. "You're warm. Love it when you're warm. Sometimes I can feel your dreams now, you know that? It's so strange." 

He's in a good mood. A rare thing, but he's not going to waste it. He hasn't had a moment alone with Martin in a while, anyways, and the quiet that envelops the room is enchanting.

\---

Martin peeks down, sleep fading enough for a softly fond smile after a few seconds of soaking him in. He’s not quite awake enough to treat that new quirk as anything but idle banter. 

Jon somehow makes him warm, and then gives him all the credit. “What was I dreaming about?”

\---

"Well I didn't pry," He says, and laughs softly against him. "I just felt-- It felt warm. Soft. Blue. That's all I got, really." He goes back to rubbing against the underside of his chin. "Nothing bad."

\---

“Blue.” Martin weighs the word on his tongue. Not too heavy, vibrant skies and clouds of cotton. “I like that. There’s blue in your eyes. Little flecks of it.”

\---

"Really? I haven't-- I try not to look at them, in the, uh, mirror. Interesting."

\---

“You don’t?” Martin holds the bare minimum of distance it takes to find his eyes and stays there. “Depends on the light. Mostly cream, then when you move there’s blue, orange— I’ve seen red once or twice.”

\---

"They change? That's-- That's freaky." He wrinkles his nose. "I'm freaky."

\---

“Stop it.” Martin almost growls, sparing Jon the intensity of his eye contact as he shifts. It’s not hard to move him with one arm around his center of gravity so Jon’s weight sits warm and heavy over his own body. “They’re gorgeous. Reflective, shiny. Intense.”

\---

"Ugh," He lets out, and squirms where he's been placed. "You just think I'm attractive and you love me. Biased. Utterly biased. I look like a demon."

\---

Martin squeezes tightly around him with both arms. He’s smiling up against where he’s decided to nose against Jon’s neck even as he threatens him. “Go ahead, Jon. Say it again and I’ll make sure you never get to say another word.”

\---

Jon wrinkles his nose and smiles around it, holding back a laugh. "Demonic, Martin, I'm  _ demonic.  _ You're in love with a demonic creature."

\---

Fine. He asked for it. 

Martin is eternally grateful that Jon is so small, if only because it’s incredibly easy to roll them again. Just as easy to bend over him with both hands holding his face in one spot. “You’re  _ my _ demonic creature, then. And the other way around.”

\---

"Yes," Jon grins up at him, and doesn't even try to move. This is fun. What a fun way to wake up. He's not even speaking with any heat behind his words. "Your demonic creature. You got it. Tamed with the power of love." He laughs.

\---

“What do you think happened to me!” His voice cracks as it rises in pitch, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “It’s like— Like co-evolution. But— Jon, they’re just opals. Dramatic.”

\---

"I'm the dramatic one? Calling my eyes  _ opals.  _ Pah. Poetic to a fault, that's your greatest sin." He tries to pull up from Martin's grip on him, so he can sneak in a peck of a kiss on his cheek.

\---

Martin dodges the kiss only to parrot the motion on Jon’s opposite cheek instead. “That’s what they are to me. It’s literal. If I was being poetic, I’d say... they glistened in the sunlight bright enough to scare darkness away, or something.”

\---

"Oh my God," He murmurs and turns to hide his face in Martin's hand, a flush creeping up his neck and cheeks. "Pitch black being bright. Come on."

\---

“Wait, what?” He doesn’t move, the contact is good, and Jon’s getting warmer, but. “You just see black?”

\---

"No, but-- you know. My eyes. They're black. Not the iris, or--pupil, I don't even have one now, but the rest of it. Obsidian black."

\---

“Oh.” Thank Christ. That sounded horrifying, like he only saw complete darkness in the mirror, or something. Martin doesn’t like the mental image. 

He recovers by briefly moving upright to stretch his arms above his head. “Technically you do, since you can still see normal, it’s just like— Contacts? Except they’re, you know. Not.”

\---

"Right." He snorts. "Like contacts but not." He wrinkles his nose. "Always hated contacts. Irritated my eyes, long as I can remember. It's still-- you know, I still sometimes forget that I don't need my glasses anymore and then I have this little panic attack that I've lost them."

\---

“It’s a win overall, I think. You’ll get—“ From where he’s sitting up over Jon, Martin reaches out to the locket. He finds his neck bare and his own eyes widen as he scans the room for Michael, too. “Did— Did they go somewhere?”

\---

"Michael did. Mumbled something. I wasn't paying attention." He pauses. "Did he take-- he took Gerry?"

\---

Martin nods slowly. “How in the world did he get that off my neck without waking me up?”

\---

"You are a deep sleeper. And his.... Fingers? Are long? I don't know." Jon laughs a little. "Guess he wanted some quality time with the ghost."

\---

“And his fingers are long.” Really scored with this one, didn’t he? Martin grumbles and leans back down, tilting over to rest at Jon’s side. He rests his hand over Jon’s chest. “That just means I get time with you.”

\---

Jon hums, pleased. "Yes. Haven't had a morning to ourselves in a while, Hm? Can't say I'm sad we're not going to get woken up by one of Michael's... Games."

\---

Martin wishes he could control his embarrassment. “You’ll be spared once we, erm, get our own bedroom. Hopefully?”

\---

Jon's smile is amused. "I don't usually mind it. He's-- you know, he's got his charms. But, oh, yes, our own bedroom. And we'll even get a bigger bed so they all can stay with us, when they want."

\---

If only there was a way to convey the extremely specific, watery-eyed pleading emoji without using the thing itself. “It’d be massive. I’d never leave.”

\---

"Mm. That's what you said when we got this bed. I think we'd manage."

\---

“Oh, I did?” Martin moves his hand down to Jon’s stomach, warm even through the fabric of his shirt. “I’ll make sure to never get up again. Starting now.”

\---

"I wish." Jon yawns, and says, "What time is it, anyways? Kind of okay with Michael taking Gerry today, anyways. Prick."

\---

“I dunno,” Martin says around a yawn, reaching over Jon to look for a phone. “What’s wrong with Gerry?”

\---

"Beyond the fact that he attempted murder yesterday? Or that he talked about Him right in front of Tim? Or that he took Tim to the tunnels for said attempted murder?" Jon sprawls out further; he's too comfy to get properly upset, and curling around on the bed helps to keep it that way.

\---

Okay. Time to abandon the phone search, then. “What— Are they okay? Murdering who? Why?”

\---

"I... May have forgotten that Jurgen Leitner is living in the tunnels. Well. Was, I suppose. It-- he. I guess Tim and Sasha met him? And Tim said it when he popped in yesterday and-- well, you know Gerard's thing with Leitner." Alright. He slowly sits up and rubs the rest of the sleep out of his eyes. Now that the soft, early morning fog is leaving his head, he's realizing that it was, in fact, a big deal what happened yesterday. "They didn't kill him. He was already dead. Elias, we can presume, considering he has the book Leitner owned."

\---

Martin has to take this one lying down. He ends up facing Jon from his lap. “That’s... a lot. Wait—“ Screw lying down. He jolts up. “I  _ told _ you we needed to keep an eye on him! Elias kills people now?”

\---

"I mean... I think he killed him last time, too." Alright. Now he looks sheepish. "And we already suspected he killed Gertrude! It's not... New?"

\---

“Oh. Right. Shit.” He shakes his head. “I need to start writing this down. It’s like - like twenty things happen a week and then, oops, I forgot our boss is a serial murderer! Totally normal. Why was... why was Tim there?”

\---

"Tim came by to-- honestly I think he just wanted something to do so he wouldn't focus on that damn table, and once Gerry flew off the handle, he-- he made Tim take him to the tunnels?"

\---

“And you told him you forgot? I-If that’s why, I mean, it’s not like you kept it from him on purpose, you can’t— You can’t just  _ unforget.” _

\---

"I didn't have a chance to tell him, he-- he immediately yelled, and stormed off. Wasn't a fan of that. I just... Kind of hadn't thought about his grudge against the man. Especially considering he'd beaten him up once and let him go!" He groans. "Told me I couldn't say anything, couldn't stop him unless I wanted to bring  _ Him _ out to stop him, it-- I honestly was stunned."

\---

“Okay. He was—“ Despite the gravity of the situation, Martin smiles. It’s good to be on this side of things, try to help Jon process without necessarily being involved. “He was probably just grumpy, Jon. Or, I mean, Tim was there, and when Gerry has feelings... um, sometimes he has a fit. Maybe he was embarrassed about it? Did you talk to him after?”

\---

"Yeah, we talked, but he was-- well he didn't exactly apologize, he just told me what happened and disappeared. Like I said. Prick." He scowls. "I wanted to-- to follow, but honestly I didn't want to deal with him raging in the tunnels like a maniac."

\---

“So we need a talk about disappearing at really, really bad times. Like when he told me—“ Oh, Martin forgot about that. He speaks low, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to tell. “He dropped the L-word for the first time. And then disappeared from under me.”

\---

"Oh, I." Jon blinks and sits up a little straighter. "Oh, wow. He-- that's big. I mean. I don't blame him. For that. Like you said. Him and his emotions. Wow."

\---

Martin would love to say his embarrassment is secondhand. It absolutely isn't. "Yeah. Yeah! Big. Um, but, it's, y'know, something to work on." Veer hard left. "Tim just... went with him? To murder someone, in the tunnels?"

\---

Jon scowls. "I'm not surprised. He's foolhardy at best. Suicidally prepared to just jump into things without thinking about it. Evidently, Gerry is more  _ that _ than I thought."

\---

"I... Didn't Gerry want to die, the first time?" That sounds bad. Way too heavy for the morning. "Sorry, I'm just-- I'm sure it's more than that. But they came back out okay, that's-- that's good!"

\---

"Well-- yeah! Of course it's good, Martin. But it definitely has me worried. Right? The Unknowing, and-- Tim, and-- I don't know. Not exactly a show of confidence that he's not going to do the same thing he did last time."

\---

“No, no, I get it!” Martin hums, looking for ways to bridge the gap. “He could be worse. It’s not like you told him how to, erm, show he won’t. But he hasn’t done anything crazy. Gerry’s good at taking care of angry people. I wonder what he thinks of him.”

Right. Can’t ask him. Michael’s run off with his ghost. The thought of him being able to take it off with Martin unaware has him nervous, but he does plenty of other things with Martin unaware, so.

\---

Jon shrugs. "I didn't really ask. Or, well, didn't exactly get a chance." He sighs, and flops back down onto the mattress and pillow. "It's fine, you know, it's just-- well. Tim already doesn't exactly respect me. I doubt having a ghost scream at me to stay put or else did my authority any favors." And it shouldn't bother him. But it does. And he feels like a jackass for caring, but. Fuck.

\---

“But maybe it did Gerry favors. And Gerry’s part of us. It’s a start.” He moves to Jon’s other side so he can knead against one of his shoulder blades. “So now... You might get more chances to be someone he can respect, if he liked him. Hard not to like Gerry.”

\---

Jon hums noncommittally. He gets what Martin is saying but-- oh aching ego. "Yeah. Maybe. Or he'll just work with Gerry and refuse to work with me. Guess we'll find out." He sighs so, so dramatically.

\---

"That won't happen, Jon." Martin says it around a fond laugh, shaking Jon's shoulder gently. And then he leans down, possessed by something mischievous. "Remember, you're my boss, but I'm  _ Gerry's _ boss."

\---

"Oh, is that how he sees it? You're in charge now, huh?" He laughs too, some of his frustration dissipating.

\---

"I wear his skin around my neck and he comes when I call him! That's how it works, isn't it?"

\---

Jon giggles. "Sure! Sure! But the way you both say it, he's got you-- He's got commands for you, Martin!"

\---

"Commands I made up based on things you made up." With one somewhat notable exception. Not relevant. "See how it all-- It all just comes back around?"

\---

Jon wrinkles his nose. "I-- I guess? I suppose. Still don't think it's a chain of command, Martin." He laughs again. "What about Michael? Where does he fit in?"

\---

"Michael's... Michael? It's - It's not a chain, it's, um, you all own me as much as I own you." He laughs nervously. Martin, that's a completely insane thing to say. "Like a bunch of circles. Michael's only in charge of me when I'm at my most stupid."

\---

"Your most..." Jon laughs. "Your most bitey, too, it seems. Your dynamic with him is... It's interesting. I wish I was there, when it all... When you were in there for so long."

\---

“It’s just a combination of...  _ stuff. _ I can’t even describe it right, since— A lot of it is just layers of really vague associations. Sort of hurts to think about except—“ He buries his face into the crook of Jon’s neck. “—When I’m spinning? Then I get it. Almost.”

\---

"I get that. I've felt-- I mean. Some of the Spiral mark. Not, you know, you went deeper than I did, and I think even last time my Spiral mark was deep." He laughs a little self consciously. "Think Michael's doing alright, all things considered."

\---

“Alright enough to steal Gerry for... hm.” He rolls to the end of the bed so he can find his phone. “Maybe I should ask. I’ll think too much if I don’t.”

\---

"It  _ is _ strange, right? I feel like they hardly ever talk together? I mean-- I am cooped up in the office usually, but still."

\---

Martin makes a soft noise at the back of his throat to show Jon he’s listening as he types out a message to Michael. 

Messenger, he sure is. ‘Where’d you and Gerry go?’ is exceptionally professional. He tosses his phone back down assuming it might take a while for an answer, and then he’s back up in Jon’s space like he won’t survive without his body heat. 

“I think Michael’s catty for show.” And they bonded over body paint. Always the start of a wonderful friendship. “Any plans today, aside from being cooped up in the office?”

\---

"Just more officework," Jon says. "Nothing-- monumental. Statements, where applicable. Been needing more, lately. Weird, being this far along, but so soon, you know? I keep forgetting that I'm-- Hm. More of, well, an archivist already than I was last time.  _ An,  _ because I used to be  _ the  _ archivist. Again-- Prick, taking my title." He huffs. 

The phone buzzes. 'house hunting lolz ;-P gerry haaaaaates it bc i can get daydrunk on their wine and he cant'.

\---

“You _are_ the archivist.  _ Mine, _ too. We should—“

He brought it on himself, but the interruption still makes him flinch. His smile slowly sinks, if only so he can squint with disapproval at the words he’s reading. 

Before responding, Martin opts for bringing the phone onto the bed to sit between them so Jon can see his screen. “This might make you feel better about Gerry being a prick?”

\---

"I've been shopping with the man sober. I can't-- I can't imagine house hunting drunk and captive with him." He giggles again. "Poor Gerry."

\---

‘Be safe and tell me if you find anything good?’ He deliberates before adding a ‘:~)’. Spiraling over text is, in fact, possible, but he won’t. 

“There you go. Mind if I keep you company this morning?”

\---

'Mmmmmmmmmm and what if I donnnnnnnt haha ;~)' which is immediately followed by 'He's on his fourth glass of wine and it's ten in the morning. Just a quick FYI on MY morning.'

Jon smiles. "Keep me company. Not doing anything specific except finalizing, more research, all that... Fun groundwork."

\---

“Sure. You know—“ He blinks down at his phone. “Hm. Do you... remember the last time I even read a statement?”

With that out of the way, Martin speeds through a ‘stop him if he starts talking in numbers! Love you!’ before he can second guess himself. That way the mortification can’t kick in.

\---

"... I. Honestly? No. But I mean-- haven't you done them in person? Or no?"

'Love you.'

'He's just babbling about front rooms. Who the fuck has a front room in Britain?'

\---

‘Us in a few weeks maybe!’. His voice wobbles as he processes the texts. “Statements? Um, no, unless you mean giving them? I don’t know when I last recorded one.”

\---

'these houses are all small as shit i hate it! Ungodly! Ghost keeps stealing my phone! Asshole! :~('

Jon shrugs. "I try to remember, but they just-- I mean. They choose sometimes, when they want to turn on. I usually record, but--" He takes a heavy breath. "The Eye is closer to us, this time, I think."

\---

“I just remember you mentioning we’d get sick without it. I feel fine, though? I think? Unless you mean that’s why.” 

‘You’ll find one! catch me up later. spending the morning with Jon’. There. All done. He can put it down, now.

\---

'dont fuck too hard. hes all persnickety ;~P'

"I mean... I do. I get sick. But--" Jon shrugs and squints as he thinks. "Clearly you have a different reaction than I do. I mean-- Maybe you were right and I'm just... unique, in my reactions."

\---

Martin tosses his phone to the other end of the bed. “Maybe. Just having a hard time thinking there’s no catch.” 

But he doesn’t want to bring this down, not with idle speculation with no point. Better to fix it with a kiss to Jon’s cheek. “Unless you’re the catch.”

\---

Jon snorts. "What a catch. Now that would be a punishment, huh. One Jonathan Sims."

\---

“Fits the crime.” Martin presses forward to bring their lips together. Just long enough to remember the feeling. “We should get up. This bed sucks me in like a massive black hole.”

\---

Jon follows the kiss like a hopeless fool in love, because he is one. But then he hums and nods, like Martin is making all the sense in the world, no matter how sad it makes him. "Alright, alright." He sits back up and then pulls himself over the side of the bed and starts to stretch the moment his feet hit the floor. "Can't believe Michael went house hunting without us. I don't trust his judgment."

\---

“It gives him something to focus on,” Martin huffs as he follows suit, not too keen on getting up despite suggesting it. “I really doubt we’ll avoid getting dragged out eventually. I’ve always lived in tiny places, it’s exciting.”

\---

"He does seem to know a lot about well-to-do places. It's weird. And then-- you know Gerry hides it, but he had money too. So peculiar."

\---

“Mhm. Michael was rich. I saw his house. God, his car.” Martin giggles. “Gerry’s more like— Sure, money, but it’s not like it all went to him. Her stuff, right?”

\---

"Ugh. I can't even imagine his car. That bad, huh? Was it-- I mean, was it real though? Like what he actually had?"

\---

“It was...” One of his hands grips his shirt to ground himself, but it’s not the most pleasant or helpful sort of tactile feeling. Time for a fact check. “The hallways, the mansion, maybe— No, the car was real, and, I mean, you know the bank account was real. The dress— Maybe? I-I don’t know.”

\---

"The dress? It-- I believe you, I was just... I can see him making things up? In the spiral? That's why I asked. You know?" He looks back at Martin.

\---

“Sorry, the dress— If the stuff in his flat was real. Clothes. But he didn’t make up the money. Or— He can paint, too. The paintings weren’t real, but they were. That—“ He turns to the dresser to find one of his sweaters. “The eclipse wasn’t. But it was? I, um, I don’t... Did he make it up?”

\---

"Martin, I don't-- I don't know what you're talking about. And I'm not going to read your mind, here." He shakes his head.

\---

“All the sequences. When we— It started in a church, and then... then I was back in the Spiral. There were more, like - like time bubbles. But they all felt real, when I was in them.” Martin finds one comfortable enough to pull over his shirt. Heavy in a way that grounds him. “His money is real. You can see that. He’s real. I’m—“ He tries shooting a smile in Jon’s direction. “Sorry, that’s a, um, an intense question.”

\---

"Sorry, I, uh-- Martin I didn't really realize it was-- well, I guess I should have guessed the Spiral would be confusing in its memory and reality. Shit." He steps over to the dresser to start pulling clothes as well, a little haphazardly. "Didn't realize it'd play so heavily on his memories, you know?"

\---

“I convinced him to come out. I couldn’t if he didn’t want to, I— I mean, now I’m just thinking about...” He brings one hand up, now that Jon is closer, to rub against Jon’s back with the flat of his palm. “If the feelings were real. If, I-I mean, it’s silly, if this is real. I know it is. Obviously. But, I mean.”

\---

Jon lets out a breath and leans into the touch. "I know what you mean. It's-- hard. Sometimes. To figure it out. Happens to me, too. More-- more often than I'd like to admit."

\---

“You’re from the future, and I got eaten by hallways and spat out. We’re a bit unhinged, aren’t we?”

\---

"That's putting it mildly. Think we quantify as mad at this point." He pulls a shirt over his head and snorts. "Deranged, if we're being uncharitable."

\---

Martin sneaks another kiss just as Jon’s arms come back down. It helps him. All in the anchors. “We’re all the words. Charitable or otherwise. So, itinerary— You need a statement, right? I can sit in with you, be there for you after?”

\---

Jon smiles, and it's a look full of utter love and devotion. "Okay," He says, "Been a while since we've had a chance to do that." He likes the sound of it. He likes the sound of having a day with Martin. Nothing too intense past psychologically feeding off of trauma. Normal.

\---

He returns the look with a playful nose wrinkle. “Did you ever get around to listening to those tapes from Gertrude? I swear, I blink and you’ve moved everything around again. Workaholic.”

\---

"Some, not all of them." He rolls his eyes. "Sorted through the ones I've listened to, already. Could listen to one of hers I haven't, yet. And I work the right amount, thank you."

\---

Martin shoulder checks him gently as he passes by into the main room. “For the title you have, maybe. I’m surprised you get any work done with us around!”

\---

"Mm." Jon thins his lips in a parody of displeasure. "Me too. Distracting. Especially you." He follows behind, and then laughs. "Not that I mind too much."

\---

"Otherwise you'd kick me out. So full of mercy, you are." He sinks down into the guest chair, pleased with how comfortable it is. Seems a century since they've had the old one around, and that's a good thing.

\---

"Oh yes, always," Jon says, and he spends a moment doing nothing but smiling openly at Martin. God, of everything that's happened, he doesn't take enough small moments to just bask in the small allotments of happiness this life has provided him. To just be satisfied in the way Martin looks at him, and the way Martin looks, and the way Martin is.

He settles into the Archivist chair and pulls one of the never-ending organizational bins closer to him, filtering through it for a while before he finds a statement that calls to him. Most are just manilla folders with statements; Gertrude's are a bin with all the tapes labelled, thus far, with what he can feel from them to be the subject, based on her own filing methods and his own intuition.

"I've been meditating again," He murmurs as he does so, the soft flick as he sorts through tapes a level background noise. "When I'm organizing, that is. They all have a feel to them, the statements. Sometimes the Eye wants me to read in a certain order, I think."

\---

Martin is starting to like the attention. It’s a creeping revelation, one that seeps into every corner of his mind until he’s just at the place he needs to be to accept it. “Meditating is good. Are they in linear order, or something else?”

\---

"Mm. Depends." He finds the statement that speaks to him and pulls it out with triumph. "Sometimes... Usually, really, it's just... I know when to read it. And it doesn't feel right to read it until I get that feeling. I mean, I probably could read it, obviously, but it just... Full potency? Like saving a beloved dish until the right mood." He sighs down at the page. "The Eye can be so picky about it's meals. Especially when it knows I could just compel them directly."

\---

“Right.” Ah. Sometimes he forgets that Jon is a reborn being made up of Eye stardust and fear powers. “Makes sense. I had trails, but yours was always  _ the _ trail. So it’s leading you to... important things. Like that?”

\---

"I mean, maybe." He gives a nervous laugh. "Who knows what it wants to lead me to. I think sometimes it just... Enjoys it? Sometimes it's a chase, and sometimes it just... Wants me? To see something." He pauses. "I've... I haven't really been as worried as I used to be, about it."

\---

Martin meets Jon’s laughter with something much less openly nervous, but maybe he’s just in a good mood. “I don’t know how they come up with this stuff. The Eye is giving you... taste. But you’ve said that before, back— Um, at that bar, you said it wasn’t even a good statement. You’ve always been picky.”

\---

"To be fair, it was a shitty statement. Hardly one at all! Barely anything scary! Run of the mill scare." Jon scoffs. "A run-in with the vast. How very spooky. How very predictable. Now, an eye in the sky, that's scary. Just-- The sky? Come on." 

Yes, he sounds insane right now. He's allowed, he thinks. He never gets to talk candidly about this with anyone.

\---

Martin tilts his head down with a mild sense of shame. Bad performance review. Thanks, Jon. 

He doesn’t take it too personally, though, and after a few seconds he’s back up again and quirking the corners of his mouth back into a smile. “I wasn’t talking to him to rate his statement, sometimes people just like someone to listen. And— That’s not scary. Standing on a freezing boat in the middle of nowhere towards your doom is. Stole that one from Michael.”

\---

Jon clicks his tongue. "He didn't even know it was going to happen. That's hardly scary. I bet he felt righteous, considering all Gertrude told him. He had no idea what the Spiral even was then!"

\---

“Jon, his friend was taken by the Spiral way before that. And he was Gertrude’s  _ assistant.  _ Of course he knew.” He makes sure to put fondness into it. “You’re so defensive.”

\---

"I'm not defensive, I'm just-- Telling it how it is! How-- I mean, I doubt he knew it was the Spiral until he became it, right?" He rolls his eyes. "I didn't know the Leitner was the Web, growing up, I just thought-- You know. Monster?"

\---

“Pretty sure he did. Might make a great conversation for you two later.”

He pauses. “Is that Leitner still just... just out there?”

\---

"Pretty sure he didn't. Whatever. Not like I can just Know truths or anything." Jon rolls his eyes. He's in too good of a mood to seriously be an ass about this. "I mean. I think so? Probably. Ugh. Chilling. The Web." He shivers.

\---

"Who knows!" Yes, that one's on purpose. "I thought you had a statement to read?"


	63. Chapter 63

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> House-hunting with Michael and Martin, what could possibly go wrong? Why, nothing of course. Nothing that could possibly make this scene 20,644 words long.

On the days he spends without the locket around his neck, Martin feels naked. 

At first, it was only a momentary discomfort where his hand found nothing but air, but now— Now it’s a noted loss. There’s something deeply comforting about the metal weight that now hangs where it should be, cold against the few spaces it moves against his skin. 

Not that he dislikes Gerry having his own time with other people, not at all. It’s an assurance that no matter where he is, whatever happens, Gerry is a call away. Inherent safety warding off the evil eye.

Oh. That one’s pretty good.

He clutches it within his palm, not a conscious gesture, as he waits just beyond the stairs leading into the Institute. Hard to see it the same, both from his own growing knowledge about what sits in its depths… and from a false reality that never existed. 

If he were capable of breaking the fourth wall, he might even get the impression that all his recent questions - regarding how real Michael’s feelings towards him and his own towards Michael are, how real he is at all, how real this happy world with people he loves actually is - might somehow be related to the next mark-to-be in line for actualization. 

He isn’t, though. But Michael asked him to meet up here, something about a surprise, and there are no raindrops of paint or canvas tears in the ground anymore, just normal air and normal sights outside an abnormal building on a normal day. Most things add up.

\---

Michael, you see, has a plan in place. He understands that Jon, Martin and Gerry are content to talk about getting a house while still languishing in that hellhole of an office that still smells like  _ her  _ in some capacity, but he is no such man. No sir. And it's not like he has much else to do while he slowly and begrudgingly pieces himself together. So he's been house-hunting. 

He took Gerry with him first, because he assumed the ghost wouldn't give much of a shit about how the house looked. See? He's smart like that. Start with the easiest one, second with the median (he knows Martin would love to pretend he's okay with whatever and roll over on his back, but Michael knows better. Martin has all sorts of opinions on all sorts of things, depending on how silly he's being that day), and then finally, hopefully, to rope Jon into the house of their dreams. 

Jon might be difficult. Maybe he'll take that Archivist fellow out for a spin before Jon. When he was the Distortion, Jon was a silly, funny thing. He still is, but the intensity in such a non-human human body definitely affects him more now. He is no coward for admitting it. 

Michael is all but skipping down the steps of the Institute where Martin is, and he absolutely does not almost trip on his ankle length bohemian skirt on the way (yes he does, he really very nearly does and it ruins the grace with which he moves for all of two seconds before he picks himself up again). He greets Martin not with words but with a kiss on either cheek; he can't help the excitement. He likes looking at houses. 

After all, look at who he surreptitiously chose to be his replacement. He loves the madness of an open house. 

"I hope you're ready. Long day ahead of us!"

\---

So that's the energy for today, isn't it? Standing motionless with a vacant smile while Michael nearly cracks his skull open on the way to greet him. He's looking very red-orange today, it seems, the kind that almost hurts to look at... and, there's that symbolic rainbow shrimp catching up with reality. The energy that buzzes off Michael leaves his cheeks somehow both numb and oversensitive, dual currents of static electricity that are all in his head. 

"Um--" Martin pours the overflowing excess distraction from his mind so he can talk. "I still don't know what we're doing. Should-- Should I have packed a bag?"

\---

"Only if you're planning on staying the night in a model home! Ah, lover's spat with Jon; pity. Must sleep on the bare floor of a house built a month ago and sold for overpriced market values!" He laughs, and runs his hands down Martin's arms. His grin is manic, ecstatic, a bit much really. Poor agents in the houses doing open houses. Oh well. 

He pulls a small notebook from the bag at his hip and flaunts it wildly in front of Martin's face. It's covered in colorful post-it notes. "House-hunting. The purple post-its are for Gerry's opinions. Very raven-like, I thought, you know. Almost went with green, but decided that's more Jon, even if Gerry glows. Colors are difficult to choose a permanent designation for."

\---

"Oh." It's too early for relief, but Martin dips into it anyway, breathing out a sigh. It  _ is _ a bit much, but that might just be a good thing, here. It's not like he can go full Distortion for enjoying something these days. Just pure Michael. And whatever the Spiral left behind, but that's not important. He's too busy being inwardly delighted at all his people finding hobbies, going out places, finding things, bringing them back, like neat and shiny trinkets. They come back to him, and that means quite a lot, really.

"They're not  _ permanent _ permanent, just as long as you keep using the post-its." Something snaps into place in Martin's head, though he's not sure what. "I think it suits him. More subtle that way, more him. Not just eyes." He raises an eyebrow. "He had opinions? On a house?"

\---

"He had opinions on  _ me, _ I'll tell you what. Partly my fault, but still. Such a rude ghost." Michael tugs on Martin's hand, trying to pull him forward. He's in a good mood; his favorite person to go look at houses. Excellent. Wonderful. Amazing. He's not even all depressed.

He leans forward a little conspiratorially. "But he did have opinions on houses. He wants a library. I made fun of him for an eon about it, but it was quite cute, honestly. And I wouldn't mind a library myself. I do like to read, sometimes."

\---

Martin lets himself get dragged away, twining their fingers together to get a better grip. "I want him to have a library. Jon would-- You'd all like it. A fireplace might be nice." 

He absolutely wants them to have a library. He can vividly picture the cozy, quiet air to the place, meditative and safe like some kind of home. Shit. It's all hitting him. He sucks in a breath and moves on quickly. "What's my color?"

\---

Michael moves fast, but at the question, he stops in his tracks to look back at Martin, cocking his head slightly to regard him. Hm. Swirls and swirls and swirls and swirls. Disorienting. Good thing he's got practice with that. 

Martin's a lot, right now. All of him. It's alright, but there's nothing solid. Or at least-- Martin wants it to be solid, but it's not and that makes it all the harder to define. At least transience, in its confidence, has a name. But that's not what Martin's asking, now is it. 

So he picks one semi-at-random; it's not wrong, it's one of many that Michael feels and sees and hears and tastes, but it's not the full truth. Oops. Good thing he's not the Eye. "Yellow. Lucky, lucky." He keeps moving.

\---

No, he most certainly is not the Eye, but Martin gets the sinking feeling he's been turned inside out to be dissected. Somehow, that's a... positive? He's not entirely sure, but he's waiting childishly breathless for Michael to pick something of substance out of him. At least that's the problem. A whole bunch of substance, not a lack thereof. 

And then Michael tells him, and the weird space he sat in has disappeared. Lucky, sure. He can be lucky. They'll be lucky today. Martin squeezes his hand tighter, to pull Michael back into a more controlled pace. "So you have-- You have yellow post-its, right?"

\---

"Yeah, but the yellow post-its are my color. You--" He laughs, loud and rambunctious. "Oh. You asked what your color for  _ post-its _ are. Duh. Stupid Michael. Whoops. Yours are red, duh."

\---

"We could always swap, just - just for fun. See what it's like. I'm already yellow today, aren't I? Maybe you're red."

\---

"Oh, I hadn't thought of that," Michael says, and he presses a finger to his mouth as they walk, thinking. Red thoughts. Red thoughts. Oh! Yes. Red is a fan of the letter H. Oh, Martin's let him fall off the deep-end and the morning hasn't even started. Hope he's ready. 

"Hot Hemoglobin Haunting Horrid Houses; Hilarious! ! Horrendous! Harmonious! His Hearth Howls Her Heartsick Hymn!"

\---

He was kidding. Oh, God, he was kidding. Someone's about to drop a piano on them from a few stories above levels of cartoonish heart palpitations in his head.

Wait, no, that won't happen, he's lucky today. Maybe nothing bad will happen. No, he won't play into that. It's just colors. He's not sure he's ready for this, just yet, so he whines out Michael's name, like he's pleading with him. "Slow down! It's not a race." And yet, here he is, giving another opportunity for it with another question. "Why H?"

\---

Michael snaps and holds his pointer finger and thumb up as they walk. "Heart! Because of heart. Red has heart, you have red, ergo--" The gesture turns into an open palm of obviousness, "--You have heart. Soul of the whole operation, you know that. That's why I chose you second. I need you in the middle, because hearts live in the core of things. There's an order to it all, you know." 

He pauses, just long enough to blink a little and tug on his hair. "Oh god. I'm off the walls today. Poor Martin."

\---

Poor  _ Martin?  _ Regardless of what color he's told he is, a flush finds its way to his face just the same. 

He doesn't know how to process that. Michael always gives him a lot to process, but the strangest - sorry, weirdest - part is it never feels like a bad thing. At least, he can't remember it ever being a bad thing, right now. "No, it... It makes sense. Just-- Just slower, I need-- Slower." He lowers his voice, not quite mumbling but unsure how else to wade through something he's felt and understood before. Before Michael was even there. Why is he thinking about Beetlejuice? "I like being in the middle."

\---

"I know. Good quality. I hate being in the middle. Not very red." He pulls in a breath. Maybe he is being too much.  _ Slower.  _ Hard to; he's excited, and he's focused, and he has a purpose for the first time since the Distortion aborted him.Truthfully, longer than that. His Distortion didn't have much purpose. They didn't even bother to have an identity, let alone a purpose. Depressed bastard. He aches for it sometimes.

The day is bright; he enjoys that. He likes the sun. Always has. Likes it more now, with horrid little false memories giving him fond psychological attachments to falsehoods. The Spiral never left; it's all still truths and untruths twisted together. Fuck, he's cognizant enough to know his thoughts curling like this, over and over and over again, already, isn't a great sign. It feels like something's coming. But it could just be his brain. Damaged.

\---

“That’s not... is it a quality? I don’t know if preference has anything to do with colors.” Martin squeezes his hand tighter, and this time it’s not to rope him in. Just an attempt at comforting pressure. “I’ll catch up. But only if you wait for me, not - not full-on Olympics.”

\---

"Gold Medalist, you know. Tonya Harding, all the way. She deserved better." He's trying, Martin. He's just excited. At least he can hopefully get the jitters out before they reach their first home. It's why he chose to walk, not bus or cab; he needs this space. He and Martin need this space. 

Like shoving as many salt and vinegar crisps into your mouth at once to get over the hurdle of dealing with that taste, so you can actually enjoy them on a more mild scale the further into the bag you get. That sort of thing. He thinks.

\---

“The ice skater? Didn’t they break her legs?” He can’t claim he’s trying to play the composed one, not when he spoon feeds questions for Michael to spin. Strings, he’s in the middle, they’re all on strings or maybe they’re rings. 

\---

"I think she broke someone else's legs. Badass bitch. I got called Tonya Harding at school once when I wacked a lass named Chelsea with a tennis racket. Said it wasn't on purpose, but it was." Michael laughs. "She called me a pussy at recess because I cried when I found a dead praying mantis. So I made her the pussy. Gold-medalist. Always."

\---

“I’d be upset if I saw a dead praying mantis. That’s awful.” He swallows. Kid stuff. “Jon told me once he used to bite people as a kid. I barely did anything. I wish I had cooler stories.” He takes a breath before he keeps talking, trying not to speak too fast. “I-I was much cooler in your door memories. I was never that cool.”

\---

"Real or not--" He swallows a lump in his throat. Hard. Difficult. Painful to think about. He won't, right now. Not the right kind of mood, not the right color, not the right feel. "You are, and I rather fancy you, so I bet you were fine, and groovy as a kid.  _ Boys. _ I never hung out with a boy as a kid."

\---

Martin laughs, covering it and his flustered embarrassment up with a hand. ”Groovy. Like lava lamps. I could watch those for ages. I mostly hung out with animals and - and me, really, erm— boys are overrated.”

\---

"I hung out with... Hm. No one, really. You! I hung out with you. Once. Twice? Thrice. As a child. Mmhm. Not real, though." He's trying. Failing. Maybe his childhood is even more tainted now. That's a fun and exciting and amazing thought. He's gonna twist. So instead, he says, "Fourth, we should get a lava lamp in the new house. I want to make the Archivist experience culture shock."

\---

“Real. Real feelings.” His grip is way, way too tight where he digs his fingers into Michael’s skin. “He might like it. I’ll tell him. It was one, two... three, yeah. Sorry. How far is this place?”

\---

"Another block. It's not a realistic house, but I think it's important to start off-- Unrealistic! Makes the more realistic houses seem humble, down the line." He laughs. "Nothing like pretending to be a Kardashian in a 47 million pound home for an hour, right?"

\---

Martin blanches. “A... what? I thought we were looking for places to live, Michael! I don’t even look like I could buy a normal house.”

\---

Michael snickers, and turns back to grin at him. "That's why we start out ridiculous. Get the nerves out, at a place we have no chance of getting. Then from there, we go to more... Attainable? More attainable houses. All part of the plan. We can have fun at this one. All fun."

\---

“...Okay.” Long day ahead of him, indeed. “I like seeing you excited about it, by the way. I just need to not be, um, self-conscious. Get rid of that.”

\---

Michael blinks and purses his lips as he looks ahead, and as sudden as he can, he spins to face Martin, taking both of his hands his own and crouching slightly to match his height. His grin is ear to ear. 

"It's easy. It's so easy. You just be someone else. Someone fun. Like a- a show. Right? Haven't figured mine out yet. Yesterday, with Gerry, it was 'Wino Mom who clearly just wants a soundproofed house so she can fuck her deadbeat goth husband and not listen to her kids complain in the other room.' It was a bit-- You know, sad after a while. Gotta think of something new for today, with you. You're more fun than Gerry."

\---

Martin twitches, but that’s all he can manage with the burst of motion whiting out all his thoughts. He’d wonder if that was intentional, but he’s already forgotten it like everything else. 

He stands still with Michael’s hands over his, wide-eyed and overwhelmed, mouth slightly open as he recovers. When he does speak up, finally, it’s almost a whisper. Like he’s completely unsure of himself while also eager to come up with something good. 

“You’re the rich wife who calls all the shots in the house and your husband is hardly ever around, so— So naturally you’re the one picking out the house, and you brought me, and I’m like your attractive no-strings-attached entertainment to handle the tension in your marriage, but the funny part is I’m also the same thing for him like that’s normal.”

He clicks his mouth shut immediately.

\---

Michael's grin is utterly addicted. "Oh,  _ yes,"  _ He stage-whispers back. "That's good. Clever little thing, aren't you." He leans in and presses his nose to Martin's, a small, gentle gesture that belies the ferociousness of the rest of his movements. That's just for them. A gentle reminder that it isn't all games for Michael.

And then he's leaning back, and he slaps Martin's ass and continues walking, rounding the corner to the obscenely expensive house.

\---

No one will ever get him to admit that the noise he makes is a yelp, but it’s not even feasibly debatable. He’s balancing on the edge of a cliff that drops straight into a spiral vortex. Michael is a lot today. 

That could be perfectly fine, or it could be really, really bad. Always the praise that gets him. Hopefully they won’t do anything bad. But— What could they do? It’s just a house showing. 

At least the walk helps him warm up out of his jitters. He hasn’t even gotten that good of a look at it yet. “Oh, it’s not  _ that  _ impressive.”

\---

"I  _ know.  _ With an awning like that, you'd think 45 million max." Michael scoffs, and rolls his eyes skyward. Ridiculous. “We can do so much better, dear."

They reach the yard, and Michael pauses, leans close again, and says, "This one's just for fun. Just have fun, okay? Go along with it, I'll go along with you, too."

\---

“I am having fun.” Martin says with the teeth-chattering strain of an animal at the end of its rope. So much harder when they don’t hit the same points together, when Michael is ahead of him. Makes it dangerous, like he can’t tell which direction they’re going and that makes a difference. 

“I hope you’re ready to take notes, Michael. I think I might have opinions. Like all front yards should have hedge animals. What’s the point otherwise?”

\---

"Too true! And obviously, I need the bedrooms to be Jack and Jill, just in case..." He grins. "Just in case that lousy arse of a husband doesn't put out and I'm left with no choice but to languish in your bedroom!"

\---

“Oh, I’m getting a bedroom? Making this a full-time position, I see.” He lifts his chin up with a scoff. “Honestly, I— I have no idea what his excuse is, everything down there works perfectly fine. I’d know.”

\---

"My running theory is that he's gynophobic. But the jury's out because he won't admit to it." He knocks on the door before he lets himself in, holding it open for Martin to file in before he, too, steps in to a lavish foyer garishly outdated in obscene displays of wealth.

\---

Martin steps forward, quietly reveling in the sound his shoes make against the tile. His mouth is open to make some snarky comment in return, but his eyes are fixed to the ceiling. His eyes win out for control of his brain, eventually. 

All bright lights and glitter. “I’ve never seen a chandelier this close.”

\---

"Bit gaudy, isn't it? Always found them a little too much. All that light refraction. Ugh." He glares up at it like it's offensive. "And really? Not even in-- in a hotel?"

\---

“I don’t think so. Never stayed at one that good.” Unless the hotel he and Jon shared had one, but Martin’s experience in that lobby isn’t one that finds it important to pick out that detail and commit to memory. “I like it a lot, though.”

\---

Michael hums, and flips open his little book and starts to make a note. "Good to know. I think you and Gerry might have to Duke that one out, though. He'll think I want one. All the comments he made about the way I grew up... Sheesh!"

\---

“I just like how it moves when I move.” Martin inches further inside, like he’s hesitant for his own safety here. Okay. He can have opinions. They’re opinions he has as the arm candy of a deliriously rich couple, but that doesn’t mean they’re not opinions he already has. 

“White walls freak me out, they’re— They’re too open. Even when you put paintings on it it still hurts to look at. And the tile in here looks like it’s supposed to be in the kitchen and - and that’s a totally different kind of tile. Makes me feel like I’m at a pool, for some reason. Slippery and wrong.”

\---

"Agree. Whoever built this house had very poor taste indeed. I think we should have a shag carpet in our house, by the way." He pauses. "I don't mind white rooms-- you've seen my bedroom growing up-- but it can be better. Classy doesn't have to be  _ minimalist." _ There. Opinions. Love it. He steps further into the house. He guesses the agent here is in the kitchen; he loves how they put on their tours.

\---

“Nooo.” Martin whines pitifully. “The stains, Michael. They’re the worst. Shag carpet is awful. And really, really uncomfortable to lie down on.”

\---

Michael blinks and then nods and writes that down. "Lots of opinions. I knew you would. Come on; we have to find this agent. I want to have fun."

\---

“I just don’t usually say them. I could live anywhere. I-I mean, I shared a cot with Jon in what’s basically a closet. And we were almost killed there.” 

His life is a nightmare. Martin lowers his voice as he follows along. “Are we using our real names?”

\---

Michael lights up. "Oh, yes, you and your  _ names,  _ let's use different ones. Make one up for me. You're good at it."

\---

“Maja.” The first one comes out easy, a knee jerk reaction to avoid overthinking it. “Last names are harder. Mmh.”

Oh, oh. Oh! “Poets. Maja  _ Silverstein.” _

\---

"Oh! Oh... Yes. Maja. I think I quite like that. Lovely." Michael grins. "Maja Silverstein. And you?"

\---

“Why do I have to do both?” Martin rolls his eyes, like Michael’s greatly inconvenienced him. “You own me, might as well name me, too.”

\---

"Oh, yes, I've never ever ever in my whole life named you not once, but twice, oh, maybe even three times. Now I have to do a fourth?  _ And _ make it real?" He drags his hands down his face oh-so dramatically." Maja Silverstein is a bitch, he's decided.

\---

“It’s not real, it’s—“ Martin puffs up defensively. “‘Go along with it, and I’ll go along with you, too.’ I’m not doing Kelsie again!”

\---

"Aw, why not? I like Kelsie. They're a sweetheart." Michael pouts. Fine. Fine, he'll play your stupid game, Martin. Ugh. He brought this on himself. Martin loves to get serious about the spiral. So funny, so oxymoronic, so very spiral in a very unique way.

"Samson. Sam. Biblical. Love it. Samson... Ah! Blavatsky."

\---

"They're..." Sure. Multiples on multiples and neutrality that isn't. He won't press. "That doesn't fit me at all. Sam-I-am-not." Martin still grins up at him, confident in his opinions now that they're some sort of Samuel's. 

"If we do have carpet, white won't go well. We make too many messes. No dangerous vases everywhere, either." He points to a particularly precarious one on an obnoxiously reflective table as they pass by. "Shattered in a week."

\---

"Maybe that's the fun of it. Ooooh, when will the vase shatter this week. What a mystery. What an omen. A vase shattered on Tuesday... Bad luck. A vase shattered on Friday... L'chaim!" He wrinkles his nose. "Carpet... Yeah. If I can't have my retro shag, carpet's out."

\---

Martin’s voice turns gravely serious. “A vase shattered on Saturday, you’re sent out to the shed.” 

He loops his arm around Michael’s, connecting them at the elbow. Who’s leading who, well, that’s the question, isn’t it? “I didn’t know hunting down the agent was part of a house showing.”

\---

"Neither did I, dear, but you know, I can always complain later," He laughs, and presses his face to the side of Martin's for a moment, knocks heads, before continuing on their way.

The housing agent is a plump, cheery lass, and her greeting is, "Took you two darlings long enough to make your way here! Did you miss the sign outside?"

Michael loathes and loves her immediately. Charming. There's a reason he chose a real estate agent last time. What a fine mixture of hatred and love and oxymoronic tendencies. Delightful. He grins at her. "Must have missed it, lovely. Did it state the labyrinthian map to get to the kitchen? Because I would have done better; I'm really very good at maps.

Poor dear. She blinks and then laughs, but Michael knows nervousness when he hears it.

\---

Oh, God, they’re here in the belly of the beast. Bundle up the anxiety and clutch it close, or let it fall to the ground to be picked up later. Why is he struggling so much with this today? 

“Hi!” He says, a bit too late, a bit too perky, and the way it echoes in the kitchen, chasing off the remnants of her laugh, makes him want to bite his own hand. He rambles instead. “The kitchen’s... a lot. Intimidating. Very big. I wouldn’t know what to do with all the counter space, like - like if I’m not baking three cakes at once, I’m doing it wrong!”

\---

"I take it you're not a cook, then, sir?" She asks, and there's a look in her eyes, and oh, god, Martin's nervous, which means Michael has to pick up the fun. He kind of wants to unspool. 

He grins and steps up to the large island. "Very specific dietary restrictions, ma'am, so we have a personal chef come in a couple times a week to meal prep for us. More than enough, more than enough, but tell me, how authentic is this granite? Because I've been burned in the past by liars who sold me less than standard stone." He runs his finger across the tabletop.

And so begins the dance. Nothing more fun than a person trying to sell you millions of dollars worth of merchandise trying to bend over backwards for your demands. Where he and Martin are connected, Michael tightens his grip.

\---

No, definitely not a cook, though he'd like to be, maybe, someday. Never had the right space for it, or people he wanted to feed, or a family he wanted to take care of and oh Christ he's domesticated. At least Michael's confident. Soak that up like a solar panel on a sunny day, why don't you?

He'd love to, but he tightens his grip right back, because what the fuck would he know about expensive houses? Martin tries to pick out one specific thing and roll with it. "Are those designs on the underside of the island hand-carved? I'd hate to think someone's cutting corners with - with anything but custom designs. I  _ swear _ I've seen these before."

\---

"S-Sir, I assure you, they're unique. Here-- About we do a tour? I can pour us some wine, you tell me what you two are looking for, and we can peruse, yes?" She flashes a winning smile to them both. Oh, she's good. Keeping up the energy even through both Michael and Martin faltering, for just a moment.

\---

Martin has no idea what game they're playing, here. He keeps his tone amicable, but there's something snobby to it that he's not sure how well he's pulling off. "Mm. That depends on the wine, doesn't it?"

\---

"Oh! Well, lucky you," She kind of postures like she's letting them both in on a secret, and gestures to an ice bucket on the island. "Vinho Verde. Very good. Nice and light, for our venture today, because as you can see, this home is all about the light and the bubbly. Modern blends of airy spaces and refreshing home decor; exactly like our friend, the Quinta de Santiago bottle here." She pulls two glasses and starts to pour.

\---

"Sure, sure. Very-- Um, very light. Exactly how I'd imagine the lobby you wait around in to find out if you're getting into Heaven!" He tries tugging on Michael, an attempt at a subtle help me. "Lots and lots of lightbulbs."

\---

Michael takes the glass of wine and takes a sip from it, and then grins at the realtor. "Wonderful! Exactly what I imagine acid tasting like. Beautiful! Take us to the bedrooms! I want to see them immediately and with impunity! You know, we're in the market because--- well, My first husband, sadly, passed away. Bummer. Second husband! Well, he's a bummer too! But I'd love to be in a beautiful house away from murder." 

The agent gives them both a look and then slowly, slowly nods. "Um, right this way." And she bustles out of the kitchen.

\---

Martin takes the second glass only once he's sure Michael's not been poisoned, taking a sip that's far too long compared to people with sensibilities, or whatever. It tastes basically the same as all the similar wines he's had in the past, but with less of a cork taste. He always ends up dropping the cork in it when he's in charge of a bottle. "I'm not the husband, so I'm content with my lot. No danger for me, just a chance to stretch my house-judging muscles and get away from our horrible shag carpets!"

\---

That comment earns Martin a glare. Mean. 

"No carpets here!" 

Michael takes another drink, and then grins at her. "Mind if I just... Let the bottle accompany us?" He doesn't wait for her answer. He just grabs it, and shoves it into Martin's free hand and begins to follow her down the hall, pulling Martin where they're still linked. 

"Oh, um! Will he be--" 

"Well, I was hoping for a guest bedroom. Or two. Or three. Many escorts, you know, and I'm not one to skimp on comfort!" Oh, they're going to get kicked out of this one. He hopes they do. That would be hilarious. Martin will probably get all freaked out. Hysterical.

\---

Martin grips the bottle like his life depends on it as they make their way over. He almost tunes out of their conversation, actually, while he remembers the last time he waved a bottle around. Christ almighty, they were ordering furniture. And now Michael's wanting his opinions on house furniture and carpets and soon they'll be talking about bedroom things and Martin tilts slightly at an angle so he can take a dreadfully anxious swig from it. Hopefully neither of them notice. 

His mouth is dry. "I'm the favorite."

\---

The agent absolutely notices and gives both of them a smile that is teetering on the nervous. There's a part of Michael that loves it, an instinctual need to feed from this. No longer the Distortion, but he knows what he is; he may have given himself to the Eye and to Martin, first and foremost, but Martin, too, has given himself partially to the Spiral. Twisty, like that. They can feed. He loves this energy. 

"He's the favorite," Michael confirms, and then laughs, like a housewife telling an awfully cheesy joke. "No nurseries for me! Just bedrooms to rekindle my marriages and house my men! You know how it is, Christina!" 

"...Well! My name is actually Patricia, but that's alright! Let's show off the master bedroom first!" Does She look horrified? She does! Michael thinks that's winning.

\---

"A hysterectomy in '09 changes everything, really." Martin mumbles around the neck of the bottle, and the tingling feeling at the tips of his fingers has nothing to do with wine. "You know, outside it does say Christina. Back by the sign, next to your face. Are you sure it's Patricia?"

\---

"I'm-- I'm rather certain I know my own name, yes sir!" She stammers, and oh, there's that flash of fear. Whoops. Not even drunk today, like he was with Gerry, but that's Martin for you. 

Michael laughs. He's delighted. He's his worst self right now. He knows that, he does, he's well aware, but it's fun. He kind of knew this would happen. Best to get it out before he takes Jon on the journey out, and besides. Martin will have good ideas, interspersed with this. He always does. He's always good.

\---

"Just a typo, then. Maybe." They haven't even done anything aside from be a little odd to a real estate agent who must have seen much, much worse in her career. He just feels like he's doing something bad. But Michael is prodding him on with all his indirect praises, the ones he doesn't say aloud but are readily felt against his skin. The kind that ease him into spitting out the first thoughts that come to his mind.

"I think I'd like to paint the walls by hand. Finger paints and all the colors whatever vacuum sucked out of the place."

\---

"Well! If you purchase the property, I'm certain that could be arranged, sir!" She laughs, but there is absolutely tension in her poor shoulders now. Should have worn a cardigan. Unfortunate dear. 

They reach the master bedroom, on the second floor, at the end of the hall. It's spacious, large, bigger than even Michael's first flat that he rented. Suffocatingly rich in a way even Michael isn't used to; money, sure, he came from, but it was the old kind, in a rotting estate in a rotting family, in a rotting house. This is new money, the kind that confuses him and blinds him and makes him want to spin and spin and spin round and round and round.

"Room for a big enough bed, at least," He says, and it's far too genuine for the joke, because he's, for a moment, taken out of the game.

\---

Seems there’s enough genuine to go around. It’s too big here, too open, and he doesn’t know what the game is, or the right way to say things to keep it going. She keeps getting nervous, and everything is pulsing at him. Maybe he’s making it up. 

He still speaks softly. “Are you upset with us?”

\---

"I'm... Sir, of course not!" Obviously she is. Half certain it's a prank, but not quite at 50% enough that she can warrant kicking them out. Michael knows. Michael knows how to play the game. It's not _ the _ game, though, he's just playing games. 

He nudges Martin. "Whose Line Is It Anyways," He mumbles, so quiet. Come on. Sometimes the best Spiral is one without a goal but just very good acting.

\---

A tape coils all its black wiring rightly into place, winding up and around to form a tight circle so it can play from the beginning. The idea that Michael is asking for something far less specific than what he’s jumped to at first association never crosses Martin’s mind. It just presses on that plastic sideways triangle, and off it all unravels. 

“I know we’re eccentric, Patricia. We’re a little weird, and - and we like to keep that in the house. Spare society at large, but— When we think we really like a house, it’s sort of—“ 

He gestures vaguely to the bedroom with the bottle. “It’s a test. If it’s a home, if we can be weird in it. That’s kind of how you know it’s the one, right? I just want to be transparent. And maybe ease your nerves about us?” He makes a vaguely dejected puppy dog look at her. “Can’t imagine it’s an easy job.”

\---

"Oh, no, it's not an easy job," Patricia blathers, and then snaps her mouth shut. Oh dear. What a slip up. Oh unholy captivation. 

Michael grins. "Yes! Yes. Strange homes. This is a strange home-- in a good way, you know, ma'am. Definitely on our radar. Love the bed. Love the rug. Love the-- Oh? It's not an easy job? I'm sorry to hear that. You'd think bottles of Vinho Verde everyday would be a glorious life, frankly."

\---

Martin hits him with the back of his hand, still twined around Michael’s arm. He can do it, now. “Of course it’s not! I’m sure you get loads of people who don’t even explain  _ why  _ when they get snappy. I didn’t come from money, stumbled into it, so it’s still such a wonder for me.” 

He unhooks himself from Michael and spins in a full circle to take in none of the room at all. “You could always get weird with us. Dealing with snobs all day, I want to know what you really think.” 

Static buzzing winding slipping Michael this is your fault.

\---

She gives them another nervous giggle, but she's blinking rapidly. Huh. She could get weird. Huh. "They have no idea! I mean! That bottle of wine was thirty pounds at Tesco, it's just a white wine from Portugal, not the queen's private stash, you know! It's ridiculous! Utterly ridiculous! This house is such a sham, I'll have you know. Built for people like  _ him," _ she points to Michael," Who grew up rich and knows nothing better! The house is so much less sturdy than something older! It's just covered in nice things so it's not quite so fake looking!"

"Okay!  _ Wow!" _ Michael's grinning again, and he shoots a look at Martin. He did something and it's fun and something Michael can't do, anymore. Or maybe could never do.

\---

“Ha! I knew this tasted like all the other wine I’ve had before!” Martin isn’t accusing her, but instead beaming up at Michael, heart beating jackrabbit fast once he notices the smile on his face. Back to her, then. “Okay, okay, tell me the worst stuff about it. I need to know what I’m in for.”

\---

"Oh, yes sir," She laughs. "The wood isn't even solid." She taps her foot against the hardwood floor. "Wood grain, sure, but not solid.” She leans in conspiratorially. "Between you and me, you can get even the granite for faaar cheaper and just hire a contractor."

\---

"If that's the worst, it can't be that bad. I want to hear about the bathrooms." Martin tilts back to Michael, resting his head on his shoulder while he looks up at him. "You're taking notes, right?"

\---

"Mm-hmm," Michael says, and yes, he's writing. "More about you than this dreadful house, though, love. Excellent observations.”

Patricia titters and leads them to the bathroom, flipping on the lights. Garishly bright counters, near-fluorescent lights. The same kind of rich bright minimalism as elsewhere. "As good a place as any to lose yourself in," she laughs, high and not so nervous now. "Far too bright. I think the rich just don't like being able to see any specific thing for too long for fear of realizing how devoid their lives are of most things non-material! Scary!"

\---

"That's why I hate the white walls and all the wide empty space. I want things, but not like - like the expensive stuff, just things I like so I can remember they exist." He reaches up to grasp at the back of Michael's shirt. No use impeding his note-taking, but he wants the connection. "I also want a bathroom with a tub. One that's, erm-- One that's big enough for more than one person, maybe."

Another drink of wine down the hatch. He needs a stress ball or something. Back to Patricia. Prodding. "What else do you think is scary?"

\---

"The tub is--" Oh, dear, but that's not what's being asked anymore, is it. Patricia blinks and takes them closer to it anyways, and her voice runs fast and quick and manic. "Baths, really. Ever think of the weight being just a wee too much and the whole thing collapsing from beneath you? Goodbye house, and goodbye you. This is a gorgeous vintage claw foot tub, by the by, probably a bit smaller than you and yours are looking for."

She steps away and turns on her heel to have them follow her through the rest of the house. “Beautifully strong windows; no bugs there. I'm awfully afraid of moths, you know. One is fine, but an infestation...? Absolutely terrifying. I came across one once as a child, in the basement of my home, and I still dream of that wriggling mass of larvae to this day. Speaking of! No basement here, but ample attic room and a detached shed in the back!"

She stops at a nice window landing on the stairs, gesturing out to the back, where a shed has been built. Her voice is quiet, scared. "Afraid of them, too, you know. Always hate showing them off. All the power tools I know nothing about-- nightmarish to think what the husband does out there when he stomps off in the middle of an argument with that look in his eyes."

Onto the first of the guest bedrooms. "You know, I think I might be scared of my husband, now that I think about it. Might sleep in the guest room tonight. Shouldn't leave my paranoia to fester! He just gets so detached sometimes, you know? Horrible to think about, might be a bad person myself for thinking it, but sometimes I reckon he has no morals or emotions at all! Hah! This guest room has a deliriously beautiful walk-in closet space, quite large for a guest, but considering your guest is, well--" She gestures to Martin, "--You might need it!"

She runs out of a little steam and rocks back on her heels and her brow is heavy and her frown is wrinkled. Michael is trying not to laugh and grin along for the show, pressed close, close, close to Martin. His heart beats fast, fear in his own body present for the show.

It's different to watch this display of fear creation when you yourself are human again. Something instinctual churns in his gut, in equal mixes as the excitement.

\---

For the first time, Martin is able to comprehend that he’s held captive just as much as she is. Walking about this house of horrors without a single word on his own lips. Vivid imaginations of each fixture reflected in her eyes, surrounded by traps that lie in wait to spring. Parasitic nests and floors collapsing and dark unknowns of rooms without windows and lonely nights in beds that aren’t your own and people you love but want to hurt because they might just not be people. 

Martin takes a gasping breath of hair the second he’s free again, and he drops the bottle of wine on the floor. It doesn’t shatter, not totally, but the neck comes apart into a few big chunks while the liquid pours around his feet. 

He can’t deal with the embarrassment of having caused that, so he winds up again. “Would your life be better with him gone?”

\---

She doesn't even have time to chide him for the bottle dropping. Pity. She thinks she'll be upset about that later.

Michael leans down to pick up one of the glass shards, and he sticks it in his pocket, leaving the rest to pool and get sticky-wet.

The look Patricia gives Martin almost has a pleading note to it, some instinctual cry that knows he's making her feel this way. Her eyes are wet, and she says, "Yes," and flings open the large armoire to reveal the spacious emptiness of a home not lived in.

"He's a boring man, a waste of one, really, and whatever passion I felt twenty years ago has long dried up. Horrible to say, but--" Oh. That's what it is. "I've been thinking about upping his health insurance. I've never-- I wouldn't, but I think about it, sometimes, him being gone. Isn't that just as bad as killing him? I think it might be."

\---

That does the trick. The bottle leaking out across an old pair of sneakers might as well not exist. 

“You deserve better.” The static still whirs loud and scratchy through his ears, and his heart thumps against his chest so hard he nearly mistakes it for Gerry’s locket twitching with life from the other side. He’s not used to how steady his voice is now. “You’re not bad. Sometimes the world is better without somebody in it and that’s not your fault.” 

He’s smiling, and it’s nice. It’s really nice. “You should get home before he does and have a nice bath in a tub that won’t fall to the bottom floor— We’ll clean this up and show ourselves out, yeah?”

\---

Patricia stands mute and wide eyed, tears welling thick and blurring her vision. Why does she feel so terrified? It's not like she did anything but talk.

"What a show," Michael murmurs to him, pressed close, close, so close, and he loops his arms over around the front of Martin from behind, and his laugh is breathy and surprised and captive and scared.

\---

Martin shakes in the shadow of her fear, and he’s not sure why she’s scared. Did he cause that? Did remembering cause that? Does she know? Does he? It’s just a conversation. Was just a conversation. 

But Michael dotes on him through it, a safety blanket in the warmth and weight of hands and awed praises spoken close enough to feel as they pass along his skin in little waves. Just enough to keep the shame at bay and power through the muted silence that wants to loop from her to him to say, with force that starts from the thick knot of muscle in the back of his throat that shouldn’t be there, ”You want to go home.”

\---

She stares at him for another second and then pulls in a breath all at once and spurs into motion, and she says, "Yes, w-well, I think I will, actually. L-leave the bottle. I'll see you two, ah, out." She marches down the hallway, rubbing at her eyes and moving with a purpose instilled into her. Of course the man is right; going home is a good idea. Staying here is a bad idea. She can't think about reasoning those statements through the bleary fog gone cumulonimbus in her head.

And suddenly, Michael remembers a few things, but he's not going to say them yet, because now that's a thought, and he's spiraling too much to want to ruin the thought. Good warmup for the house, though! He thinks. He's a little sick to his stomach, honestly, and he pulls away from clinging to Martin to just hold his hand as they return to the ground floor.

\---

Martin doesn’t follow her, not all the way. He stops at a space half down the stairs and half up the stairs, that center point of stair where you can’t be assigned a direction. His hand keeps Michael there, too, hoping she’ll keep going. Hoping she won’t turn around. He’s not done with this house. There are noises that aren’t people upstairs, so subtle and distant like dog whistles tuned to ears beyond regular comprehension.

\---

She does, is the peculiar thing. Who forgets she's supposed to be leading clients out of a house and leaving it with nary a sound other than the jingling of her keys and her purse hitting against her side as she walks out the door? Who forgets the most nightmarish of clients in all of existence? Patricia won't; but for now, there's an unimportance there, in her brain, and it makes Michael's laugh echo through the halls when the door clicks shut.

"Exeunt," He whispers, and he stays where his Gamemaster waits.

\---

Martin makes a soft noise through closed lips, some strained ‘mmp’ that might be a whimper. She leaves, at least. 

When he chances a look up at Michael, the distinct feeling of being seen as someone he’s not sure he is crawls up his arms. And then, just as quickly, it’s gone. 

One second he’s standing motionless on the stairs and the next he’s practically sprinting up into the hallway they just passed through. His shoes leave wet stains and skid marks on the floor, and he’s left Michael behind, but that’s far at the back of his mind while he’s searching frantically up and down along the walls coming up to the first bedroom.

\---

Being left alone on the stairs gives Michael a momentary silence to stand witness to, and his brain feels like unspooling melting paint on reels. He wasn't sure it was possible for him to Spiral this deep again, but he should stop underestimating Martin's very presence.

He starts following at a slower pace, but by the time he's breached the landing, he, too, is almost at a run, and he doesn't know what they're looking for, but he knows it's important, and he says, his voice lilting and twisting twisting twisting, oh it feels good again, "Dunno what this one is yet, you keep me on the edge of my seat,  _ Saaaaaaaaamson.  _ Drama? Tragedy? Comedy? Romance? I don't think it's a Satire."

\---

Martin is pressing his ear to one of the walls when Michael comes around. His voice wraps around him, just like his arms, but he’s so focused on what he’s doing that he can’t quite understand it all. 

“I can hear it,” he whispers. “I can’t tell where it’s coming from.” His eyes move to spot him, so normal when stripped bare from his god. “It could be a romance— No, no, it’s like— A radio that keeps picking up channels, random words, pieces of songs, different ones all the time.”

\---

Michael cocks his head slowly, and watches Martin press his ear to the wall, and there's a very annoyingly new and human part of him that almost wants to reach out, and pull Martin away from this house, and pull himself and Martin away from the humming in their brains and pull far far away from all of this. He does not like this instinct. Was he like this, before it all happened? So willing to not follow the spiral down? How cowardly.

"You won't find it in the wall, Martin," Michael says, and his grin is electrifying. What an honor to see this, that's what the bigger instinct says. 

He darts forward and taps three fingers solid on his back. "Tag. You're the radio. I think we have to find the right channel."

\---

“That’s what I’m doing,” Martin growls, instantly agitated, pulling his head away from the wall so he can duck into the bedroom where he left the wine behind. The staging they’ve done with the place is utterly unlivable, violently blinding and devoid of humanity. 

Closer, but not quite. He gets to his knees, partway coating his clothes with wine, to check under the bed. No luck. “I can’t find it.”

\---

"Not under, maybe above? Antennae. Gotta get closer." Michael doesn't know. This is certainly a lot more fun all of a sudden, though. Lots of twisty twisty twisting.

He climbs on top of the gaudy bed frame, reaching his hands up to brush against the ceiling, grinning down at Martin.

\---

Martin jolts up from the floor with excitement to glance around at the new sound that’s been introduced. Maybe it’s— Oh, no, just Michael. That earns him a harsh squint for the inconvenience. He doesn’t get the hint. “What are you doing?”

\---

"I don't know! Trying to help you find it. Whatever it is. Broadcast? Maybe it's broadcast. You gotta find the frequency?" He lets his arms drop; they're on different pages again. He hates it.

\---

“Oh. There’s two things.” Cut Michael some slack, Martin, you’re not exactly giving him a chance to follow. What are you,  _ Jon? _ “I’m a radio. Yes. You can keep twisting the channel knob, that’s, um— That’s unrelated, but I’m looking for a tape. It’s somewhere. Running.”

\---

"Oh." Michael blinks. "Do you need to find it? Is she just content to listen?"

\---

“Already did, is, is doing. Listening. Was.” He tilts his head. “Sorry. Was and is listening. It’s not a good idea to leave them behind. I don’t know where... they go?”

\---

"The Eye's little spying machines..." Michael waggles his fingers as he climbs down the bed. He cocks his head and tries to listen in. Hard to focus, though. He's spinning too hard after the intensity of Martin's presence made itself known. "This house is dreary, Martin, I either want to destroy it or leave, I don't care about little nuisance tapes!"

\---

Martin rolls his eyes. “Sic me on it, then, so I can go back to entertaining you. I don’t mind making a mess of the place.”

\---

"She'll remember, though, eventually, won't she? I'd rather you didn't go to prison." Tremendous restraint, Michael.

\---

“Who?” It takes a second. “Oh. I mean, I-I didn’t really do anything, and we gave her fake names, or didn’t, we didn’t use them, I still don’t know why she was so upset. I was being nice to her.” He stands upright to take stock of his surroundings. “She’s in this room. Somewhere.”

\---

"You were compelling her, Martin," Michael says, and smiles at him kind of confused. "Don't you know? And-- help me hear her. Attune me. Are you sure she's not on you?"

\---

Oh, Christ, is she? Martin twists around in a semicircle to chase his own metaphorical tail, but there’s not a tape recorder attached to him. He only stops on the vague assumption that he’s been tricked. “Not on me. I wasn’t compelling her, I was making—“

He freezes in place, eyes wide even as his ears are how he’s listening. “Bathroom. In the— I’ll get it!” 

Like it’s a race. Like he’s not the only one invested in scrambling desperately towards the open door. He slips a bit on the wine, too, but there he goes. Chase-that-isn’t.

\---

If only the bottle wasn't broken and sticky and Michael could try to catch up. It's like breathing. One breath in and he's on the same unfurling spooling spinning path. On the exhale, he can't keep up, and has to follow Martin like he emits his own lovely trail.

He hovers in the doorway of the bathroom and watches Martin scramble. "What if you didn't? Hypothetically, I know you've got it now, but you said it's not good to leave them. What would happen?"

\---

Warmer. Definitely warmer. “The only ones I left behind are the ones Gerry... broke. I feel like - like leaving them behind is bad. If they’re intact? I don’t want a stranger pressing play and finding evidence of something I did. Especially, um, especially out of context! I don’t want them to know!”

He paces in a tight circle around one spot, and then halts in place. “Or what if they press play and it sucks them up into the Eye? That’s bad.”

\---

"That would be bad. Don't think the Eye likes messy bodies though." He shakes his head and wrinkles his nose. "prefers it's pain from afar, from the safety net. I took, and it wasn't a very fun affair."

\---

“You can eat me. It’s fine.” Martin holds his position for another precious second before he looks up. A tape recorder balances precariously on one of the half-circle light fixtures, softly purring in a way that’s almost smug. 

He can’t possibly reach it from his own height, but he tries anyway. Reaching up with both hands with twin pleading gestures isn’t the best look on him. Neither is the childish pride in his voice even as he fails miserably. “I found it!”

\---

Michael huffs. This stopped being so fun a bit ago. Maybe he's just jealous. He wonders if the spiral Martin's in is even fun. Oh well. He steps forward and stands on his tip-toes to get the recorder. Doesn't even have to try hard.

He spins, and holds it aloft above Martin's head, the soft whir of her recording her only response. "I see that. Should we let her keep going?"

\---

Ah, to be tall. Imagine how easily he could navigate the world of giants. He lets Michael take it, operating under the naive idea that he’ll hand it over, but after a few seconds he’s still holding it.

“Press the stop,” Martin starts. Not polite by any means, just vaguely agitated. His first try to take it gives him nothing, a barely-committed swipe up where he knows he can’t feasibly get to. It’s more for pity points than made with genuine effort.

\---

Ah. Here's how Michael can still win in this awful, awful house. "I willllll," He says, sing-songy, and then sidesteps Martin with it still above his head. "But you have to catch me first. Tag, you're it!" He presses deep on Martin's shoulder and then runs, runs down the stairs.

\---

For someone who once - very recently, too - toppled a man and drained his throat of life on pure instinct alone, Martin is slow on the uptake to play along. Not for lack of drive, not in the slightest, but a few switches have to manually click on in his head before his body reacts. 

What is he chasing? Michael or the tape? Which side is he on? Does he need to choose? Why does he want it? Deep questions for someone now sprinting down the hallway again, and the only answer he has is to one of those questions. He wants it because it’s moving. 

Not as quick as Michael to hit the lower floor, trying not to slip on a staircase and crack his skull open, Martin’s just about to the last stair when he yells out a frustrated, “Michael, drop it!”

\---

"I'm feral!" He yells back, and nearly clips his heel on a chair in the kitchen. He doesn't; he's still moving fast, and he's grinning. "I don't respond to commands! I'm untrained! You taught me how!"

\---

“That’s not what feral means!” Great, now they’re just screaming at each other. He means to say something else, but instead he bites his tongue to pass through the hall adjacent to the kitchen instead. Maybe cut him off that way, teach him what feral really looks like. 

Jesus. Too much, Martin. That stupid, quiet sound from his own chest rumbles like an idling car by the time he rounds the corner, slower than a run to wait for Michael to barrel through, each painfully reflective surface leaving sunspots in his vision.

\---

Argh. Curse the way he did his hair today. Just small braids scattered throughout the mass of hair, nothing pinned or pulled up, and so it gets all in his face as he runs, and he doesn't even see Martin, because he's finally having fun again and the sick feeling in his gut has disappeared in this chase.

He hears the growl too soon and tries to stumble to a halt, pulling the recorder above his head, but he's not fast enough to not entirely bumble right into Martin.

\---

In a stunning display of excited impulse he’ll be somewhat proud of later, Martin grips him tightly by the shirt and uses the faltering balance to pull Michael’s weight over to the nearest couch. One of those uncomfortable, cheaply made staged furniture things he can knock the backs of Michael’s knees into so he’ll be forced to bend. 

The second he thinks he’s managed it, he’s crawling with just about zero agile prowess over him, fumbling for the tape recorder. Some predator he is.

\---

Michael laughs and it's got a tinge of fear to it, the kind of laugh that nearly has elements of tears in it, just from the sheer sudden movement he's being forced into. Not the biggest fan, he hates being forced into positions. Always has, but his brain also gets a kick out of it. Because it's Martin, probably. Maybe. He's not sure.

He lets Martin take it and then he darts forward and kisses him, just as quick, and laughs again. "Caught me. Asshole."

\---

Martin doesn’t like the way his own heartbeat speeds up to the point of delirium at the sharp sensation he knows is fear. Doesn’t like how his first response to being kissed is to bite down on Michael’s lip just enough to draw blood. 

He abandons the tape on the floor by the couch so he can use both hands to push himself away as quick as he can, gracefully landing on the floor he now wishes was carpeted. Yep. Definitely a bruise blooming at the back of his skull that makes him wheeze out his next breath.

\---

Michael sits dazed upon the couch for a moment, Martin's sudden and abrupt absence taking a second for his brain to catch up to. It leaves him disjointed, and he doesn't know why, he doesn't know why, he doesn't know why he can't keep up and why he can't keep steady and why he's whiplashing and he wants Martin here and he wants him far away and for once he wishes he could disappear into the numbness of his hallways. He misses them; he didn't have to be Michael, always. Fucked up little Michael who's always just off.

A half sob escapes his throat and he sucks his bottom lip and the blood grounds him some, but it's not enough.

\---

Another click on the tuner and Martin sits up, stars and swirls of vertigo warping his vision even as he tracks the noise Michael made. "No-- Wait, I'm sorry, Michael, I didn't mean to--" 

He pauses just long enough to finally stop the recording and pick the thing up, nudging it up onto the couch beside Michael like a peace offering between them. "I don't... I don't know what's happening."

\---

"I don't either, I really don't, I never know what's happening!" It comes out like a gasp, and fuck, fuck. Where is this coming from? "I don't want your stupid  _ tape recorder,  _ I hate the Eye, I hate it, it's awful, it's perverse, it thinks it's good."

\---

Martin deflates where he sits on his knees at the side of the couch. "It was... it was just a gesture, Michael. Not about... that. I-I was-- Just giving it back. To you."

\---

"I think there's something wrong with me," He says, and then growls in frustration, deep and low in his throat. "None of it feels real, I feel topsy-turvy and to the left and I always have, and I hatehatehatehate being reminded that I'm wrong. Just wrong. I don't know what your gesture means."

\---

"I think I was saying sorry?" Martin swallows down his urge to match Michael's tone with something equally emotionally turbulent. "You're not wrong. You're-- I don't know. I'm-- I-I think it's real. It's real."

\---

"It is. Reality. This. This-- this house, it's real. Me. I'm not. I'm not real. I'm not really real at all. I'm pretending. For you. For you, I'm pretending, I'm finding us a house, I'm making us a life, so I can pretend." Oh boy. He wasn't supposed to say all that! Guess that's the tone of the day. Damnit.

"No. This isn't even a real house, because there's not even any alcohol because no one lives here and there's no food and there's just our mess upstairs and a woman who’s fears you ate and you became someone else, on the stairs, and it's okay, it's  _ okay, _ but it's hard to keep up with. Ha-- you're better at spiraling than me, because I'm Wrong, right, I told you that. I did."

\---

That's a whole bunch of new and not exciting developments to tackle at once. Especially for someone with a few drops of Michael's blood on his mouth. Go, team. "What part do you think you're pretending, Michael? Wanting a house? Having a life? Or--" No, hold onto that for later, Martin, this isn't about you. "I'm not someone else. And you're right. It's a-a bad house."

\---

"Being someone. It's fine. It's fine. It's--" He twists in his seat so he can sit up properly, and his hair flies everywhere from the static of being pushed into the couch. His eyes are wide, on the verge of something manic, and then he shrugs.

"It's fine. Let's go? I want to go now. Please? Please can we go? Martin?"

\---

"We can-- We can go, I..." Halfway through reaching out for Michael's hand, he stops short. There's a sound from the kitchen, something almost like a tape recorder but not quite. Something off. More scratchy. It's on the tip of his tongue. Like a window being opened, and inside wherever the window is sits a record player, but then the window closes right back up. Or a door. 

Or a door. "Um. Yeah. Yeah, let's go."

\---

Michael turns, and his expression falls and then he's taking Martin's hand and pulling himself up fast, fast, too fast, and it leaves him dizzy. Hasn't been eating well. Food is mealy and strange, still, and he hates that it leaves him woozy to not partake.

He needs something normal, or he won't recover this day, he thinks. "Tea! Tea or coffee or-- we can stop somewhere, cool off, before we go... Before we go to the real houses." He sounds like he's pleading for mercy.

\---

Never mind that Michael's apparently sharing the same fears he has, never mind that he apparently fed off some poor lady when he thought he was helping her feel better, never mind this is the worst house on earth, now Michael's scared and trying to pull them both out as fast as possible and it's so hard to keep up when he's not even spiraling and isn't even sure he has been at all. 

Something in the house must read Michael's mind. Not like Martin can tell, he's too busy trying to discern whether the faint smell of freshly baked cookies was always there, or if that's a new accessory to the drearily white, untouched house. Either way, he slows down as they pass the kitchen, and there's someone -- She's just there, everything is so very there, a woman he's sure looks familiar, somehow, alive in a place that isn't. She's waving politely with the vaguest of awkwardness - in her motions, her hurried professional attire, even the way her hair curls in ways not at all planned - that practically screams 'covering up for an as-of-yet undiscovered accident'. 

Her voice, at least, does not echo awfully along the walls. "Hello, boys! Bad timing?"

\---

Michael pulls in a breath that's just short of a hiss. He squeezes Martin's hand as tight as he can, and luckily, his muscles are human again, and it's not the vice grip of bones and muscles that should not exist, but just the tightening of a human man's hand. That's a relief at least.

She isn't. Maybe she would, another time. But this doesn't exactly make him feel real. It-is-Not-What-It-Is. That's what he was, is, always was?

She's beautiful. She's beautiful in ways he doesn't think he could be, when he was with it and it's hunger. Ethereal, maybe, but he can't imagine they were beautiful. She fits right in. Even if he wanted to leave, he does, he does, he can't. He hovers in the open doorway of the kitchen and watches her. He feels like a child. That used to be a bad thing.

"Horrid timing," he says, and his mouth is just moving, and oh, but she feels like a home he's missed and hated and loved and loathed. "You look so very good. You do, it's-- magnificent!" Pride? Is this pride? It's pride and shame all at once. Ah, dualities. At least it's momentarily distracting.

\---

"I  _ did _ try to get here on time. Traffic was dreadful, and I..." She trails off as she takes stock of them both, their melancholy desperation frozen in place at the first few stages of breakdown. Something new and old and gold, and yellow, and unsure of itself, and the next sound she makes is a soft, ' _ oh.' _ "Not quite sure who we are these days, are we?"

\---

The laugh that falls from his mouth is clanging bells of bitterness. "Spend six years as you, and it gets a wee bit confusing when I'm not, ma'am!" He laughs, laughs, and then stops, just as sudden.

\---

"As me? Oh, but I'm  _ new. _ And  _ you _ never called me!" She rounds on Martin, twin lava lamps behind her eyes intense against the comparatively dull, monochromatic pantsuit. "You never would have ended up somewhere like this if you had."

Martin stiffens, like he's being berated in a way that actually draws shame from his center, but he's quick to recover. In a way. Not really, but it's a nice thought. All he manages is an awkwardly polite wave. Bending to Michael's whims.

\---

"I know you're new," Michael whines, petulant, and at least this is a distraction. At least the Distortion distracts. Part of him wants to go with her, back to the halls, forever and ever and ever. Maybe this time he wouldn't have to be someone. Bad thoughts. Bad. Bad Michael.

"But I was you, and now you're new, and that's how identity works, and you should like the way it makes no sense! You should!"

\---

She cocks her head, a confused little gesture, and Martin swears there was a door halfway obscured by the way the oven juts out into the kitchen, but it’s not there anymore. “Oh, no, Michael. I know what you’re thinking, and the answer is no!”

She maintains the vaguely pleased smile as she moves around the kitchen, bridging the gap between them. “I do love that you think you know how identity works. Who does? What does?” Her smile softens into something genuine. “Sorry, I can’t resist.”

\---

"I know. I know. I  _ know  _ you can't," Michael murmurs, and he does not step back. He leans forward, almost. Something with no self preservation; that's what he is right now. Sniffing out something he once was. "Can you remember? Being me? Does it work like that?"

\---

“I wasn’t you, Michael.” There’s a leveling finality to her tone that says he won’t be finding any solid answers. “Do I remember? Hm. Not always linearly, or by the limits of how I could remember, before, but I do have pieces. Here and there. Do you remember everything that ever happened to you?”

\---

Michael laughs. "No, but I'm wrong, so that's not a good case study, Miss Richardson!" O, at least he's not thinking about the blood in his lip anymore. "And you're a lot more Right than me!"

\---

“Rights and wrongs, that’s not all there is. It’s not right, but it’s... a better fit.” She doesn’t correct him about the name. “We’re all a little wrong. No need to compare.”

She claps her hands together. “Now— Next house on the list?”

\---

Michael blinks. Couple choices here. Go home and try another day, or continue onwards under his own less than stellar presence. Or, well. Third option, and isn't it more than a little telling that he feels more stable giving the Spiral control of their afternoon?

But considering the ways his hands still run with slight tremors when he hands over his book, offering it to her, the addresses and times of the showings written messy and fast with a smudging garishly green gel pen he'd stolen from Tim's desk, it's not a bad line of assessment. She's calmer than he is and was, so far. It's enough. 

Besides. He's pretty sure there's a part of him that will always, no matter what, sacrifice himself to the Spiral when given the chance. 

He twists, and smiles wide and broad at Martin. "The other houses are good houses." No more of this breakdown nonsense. Postponed! There's no need to talk about anything, ever, actually.

\---

The trick is to keep it all packed tightly away just beneath your skin, Michael Shelley. The illusion of ‘calm’ is just as much in the presentation as highlighting the best details of a house’s crumbling foundation to get it all off your hands. Cheap parlor tricks and fun little sparking gel pens. 

How peculiar, that the few drops of blood she notices on either of their lips brings nothing in particular to mind. Nothing fond, nothing sacred, a strange out-of-body concoction from something-someone they once shared. In a sense. This impromptu showing is as much to satisfy her curiosities as to check on the little marked darlings-or-not-darlings-in-one-such-case.

The grace period for mindless, simple fun has yet to end. Not hungry, not yet, drawn to minds of significance in memory-that-isn’t-quite-that, seeking something that isn’t meant to ground but instead to adjust. Someone taught her about that, once, taught them about games and having fun and the naive request to forget the meaningless burden of having your godhood stripped away by force into the realm of half-living things. 

But it is easier to forget in a body that hurts far less, a mind that seeks teamwork to the point of not fusing but melding. Easier to forget when one is not alone, not even in the sense that ‘two’ is company, but instead a group, a flock, a coup. To stay within their orbit appeals to all sides - the delightfully discordant life of a team so loosely bound in so, so many directions. Fitting place for one such as Helen. If that’s who she is now.

There are much worse things to be than Helen. Strange secret to keep, that the choice to be Helen was a mutual one. That an Entity could say yes. To what, that part is unclear, but there was a yes. There’s some strange understanding in the lack of it, there. 

No matter. She cards through the pages like she’s not even reading them, a bounce in her step as she heads to the front door. Martin does his best to return Michael’s grin, only managing a slight smile, but it’s much better than nothing. They’ll have to talk later. He has a feeling they’re safe with Helen. Not necessarily from her, but with her, and that’s a very nice thought. 

As nice as her tone. “Now, did our little Skin-Spirit earn his way into a private room, or is he settling for a wall hanger? Unless you’ve multiplied in the past few days, there should be… three, plus one, not counting the secrets.”

\---

How strange, to find comfort in a being one once hated. But that's what Michael feels; this proximity to a thing he was-and-wasn't, a felt presence to a thing that is new-and-old. It's easier to not be it; it's easier to be it, but he isn't anymore. Martin made sure of it. 

He reaches out blindly and tries to find Martin's hand, a moment of genuine need for comfort and intimacy that isn't a game, isn't a joke, isn't some ulterior motive, just base need and an overt one, at that. Hard to figure out what he feels for Martin. Hard to dissect it. Lots of different feelings, and then half were torn away, and left to heal. Still healing. Haven't started yet? Who knows. 

Helen is divine. He tries not to think too hard on the matter, but he will later. He knows he will. And now she's talking about Gerry. Oh, the Skin-Spirit. His grin is amicable, in on the joke. "The Dead Eye is getting his own little library, Helen, that's the plan, and isn't it grand? I'm rather fond of the idea myself, you know. And we all know you never count the secrets, lest they become text, not subtext. How it works."

\---

“Oh, are they still subtext, Michael?” 

Martin twines their fingers together as they move through the bones of the house. He feels like a backpack, though he’s not sure what that means. How could he have possibly been the person to bring Michael out of the Spiral? Now, he’s so very small. 

She waves her hand to usher them out. The bracelets startle him out of his thoughtless silence, enough to have his mouth moving. “I think it’s nice that Gerry wants a library. He’d make it dark in - in a good way. In my head it's all, um, red walls, and armchairs, and a fireplace."

\---

"Helen! Hear that! Red walls, armchairs, all text!" Michael smiles and squeezes Martin's hand. "I hope there’s a house ready for that. I gave you my list, but if you've more..." He shrugs. "I trust you. Is that bad? To trust you?"

\---

“You can paint the walls of any house, dear.” She leans forward to say it, like it’s a well-kept trade secret, before rounding on Michael. “And that’s up to you, not me. Trust me as much as you trust your trust in your own trust!” 

She titters, covering her mouth with the pen held up like a shushing finger, before waving it about. Oh, that was fun. Magic wands. “Let’s visit one of yours, first. I need to know what you’re looking for!”

\---

"I found a really couple good ones!" He gestures to the paper. "Are you going to make us walk there? Awful. Awful, miss Richardson!"

\---

“Of course we are. I think we all know what you two would get up to given the chance, and I just finished decorating.” 

With some distance between the front door to that ghastly place and herself, she holds the notes close to her chest with a largely performative, cheery inhale. The look she shoots back to Martin is less positive. Not quite disappointed, but confused. “Someone’s quiet today. We’ll cheer you both up with a bit of house Hunting, won’t we?” 

Martin says nothing, his only response a slight scowl at the way one word seems capitalized, but he can’t prove that.

\---

Michael frowns at her. Not even a pout; what a weird thing, to be distrusted in a place you once were and belonged to. Not that they were well merged, heaven's no, but it's not-- It leaves him reeling a little.

"Moved all my vases and furniture around, did you?" He asks, and his voice is lighter than his thoughts, and he squeezes Martin's hand and pulls him along.

\---

Ah, lies embedded into tones. So moody today, they both are. All is not well in the happy household of variously misaligned forces that may or may not collapse under one another’s oppressive gravity eventually. 

“You do the same thing when you move into a new house, Michael! Out with the old, in with the new. Unless you plan on building a house from scratch. You won’t find that in commuting distance, and certainly not on your budget.”

\---

"I don't care about commuting, and I doubt that'll be important for any of us, eventually!" He laughs. Being this close, he can remember some things he normally doesn't think about. Mind tapping into the miasma of madness.

\---

“Ah, but it’s not just about you, is it? That’s why you have all these.” She lifts up one of the notes made on Gerry, waving it around at the ends of two fingers like a flag. “What would our dear Archivist do without his lovely tower at arm’s reach, mm?”

\---

Michael scowls. "I doubt he'd need Jonah Magnus' domain through which to do his bidding, is all." He crosses his arms. "And I'll teach him to drive. Or whatever."

\---

“I can...” Martin starts, thinking better of it once the first words pass his lips. Never mind, still not a big fan after the crash. He’ll get over it. Eventually. He starts over. “Should we really keep house-hunting today?”

\---

"Probably not," Michael says, and twists backwards a bit to look at him. "But I don't want to waste Helen's time." See? Very mature. He's being mature. He also likes how close to the Spiral he is, but he's not going to say that one out loud.

\---

Martin frowns down at the sidewalk. It’s not mature, Michael, but it’s not like his own desire to go home and sit in his own shame for a bit is any less immature. 

“Speaking of!” Helen chimes in, upbeat in the way she ignores that conversation. Not for Martin’s sake, nor Michael’s, especially not Michael’s, maybe just for the sake of distraction. “Let’s hear what you absolutely hate in a house. Just as important as the good, maybe even more!”

\---

"I do  _ not  _ like gothic," Michael says, pressing one finger to his palm. "No manors." A second finger. "I do not think that's in our budget, but just in case. You know? Gargoyles? No thank you. I have never had those, but imagine." He shudders, adding a third finger to his palm. "Gross. Martin?"

\---

“Ah, but gargoyles you keep  _ in _ the house are fine! Noted and checked.” She scribbles down onto the first page with a free-flowing flair. No use checking on Martin again. 

“Um, nothing too bright? Or... or open. And I don’t like hearing other people through... walls. Thin walls.”

\---

"There's no need to call Jon a gargoyle, Miss Richardson!" Michael laughs; he doesn't know who she means, but the joke makes him giggle regardless. He likes this. It's fun. It's better. It's distracting. 

He's nodding though. "Thick walls. Thick walls, please. Some people need sleep, and some people need privacy."

\---

“Am I supposed to ring a bell when I want to go to your bed?” Martin says it under his breath, sort of like a failed attempt to join in on the fun just to come off peevish instead.

\---

"Think it's the other way around, where Pavlov's concerned, dear," Michael says around a grin. He leans into Martin's body a little. He then levels Helen a look. "He acts like cell phones don't exist, and I'm the one who supposedly died in 2011."

\---

Maybe being catty will pull him out of this hole. “Right. I’ll just call and ask you if I can sleep in your bed since Jon’s off on business like I’m making an appointment with my secret affair in the other bedroom.”

\---

"Kind of hot. Sloppy seconds." Oh, that gets a giggle from him. Sorry, Helen.

\---

Martin does not say ‘it kind of is’. The Spiral that also seems unnervingly like a normal real estate agent is right there and everything. “No, it’s not! I’m not doing that! I’ll just—“ He squeezes Michael’s hand tight enough to leave little indents with his nails, casting his eyes back to Helen with a look of genuine remorse. 

“Oh, don’t mind me! Helen Richardson once sold the most charming little house to an older couple by convincing them that pole set up in the lounge could be used for accessibility.”

\---

Michael barks out a laugh. "Devious! You spiced their life up!" He wrinkles his nose and looks down at their hands and frowns. "Be nice. I'm having fun."

\---

Ah, that gets Michael quite the venomous glare. One that has Martin forgetting the last shred of guilt that kept his tongue tied to begin with. Michael wants the Spiral’s attention so bad, they can both be immature. And Martin can be nice. 

“Helen, did you— Did you come here just to keep us company at house shows?” 

“Hmm. If you stretch the definition, yes! I’m doing just that—  _ Stretching. _ Think of it as putting a new spin on an old routine. It’s too bland, otherwise, so...” She grins, encouraging. “Why not start a new hobby finding all the precious monsters their forever homes? Never a dull moment!”

\---

"The Distortion wants to be a real estate agent? Is that it? Did I just not have enough of an illustrious job title? How dreadfully persnickety." Michael does a commendable job of not thinking about Martin's glare, which is really rather nice, because if he starts thinking, he'll never ever ever stop. Not a fan of those very mundane mortal spirals.

\---

“Oh, you think this is about  _ you? _ The title doesn’t matter, it’s the presentation. You both—“ She waves her fingers at them. “—wear Assistant, but neither of you are quite the same, despite your mutual talent for landing yourselves in trouble at every turn!”

Martin snorts. “Maybe I have nine lives.”

“Not your animal, dear.”

\---

"Martin's hardly an assistant, ma'am. Less than I was." He rolls his eyes towards Martin. "Nine something but it's not  _ lives.  _ You haven't even died once yet!"

\---

“Wh— You’re here because I—“ Martin huffs indignantly. “I do plenty of  _ assisting. _ I did research to bring you out, too. And they’re not literal, just, you know, I haven’t died.” He pauses. “Yet. I should have.”

\---

Michael clicks his tongue. "It was a compliment Martin. Sheesh. You're more than an assistant. That was-- argh! So serious all the time. Exhausting. Exhausting!" What's his problem today? Incapability to not be rude? Retribution for playing a mean game of tag?

\---

“I’m not serious all the time! If I was, you— You wouldn’t even like me!” Just be clear about it, Michael, Christ. He keeps that one to himself, but it’s not like he really has time, since Helen speaks again, almost over him. He’s just now noticing how bizarrely normal her voice is. Not a hint of static in the air that he can tell. 

Somehow that’s discomforting.

“You’re both bickering quite a bit for couples set to buy a house. Is that a good sign?”

\---

"Miss Richardson, we normally don't. Bicker, that is. That's for Martin and Jon to do." He snorts. Rude? Maybe. He's testy, and he squeezes Martin's hand again. "I don't bicker. I think we should have room for either a pool or the ability to hire contractors to make us one, by the by. Rather nice idea."

\---

Well, that throws Martin off enough into wide-eyed surprise to put off his next impulsive move. “A... A pool? We don’t need a pool. None of us would even use it.” 

A nice garden he can learn how to tend instead, room for a dog to run around, maybe, and they can compromise by making sure the master bathtub is massive, or something. 

He doesn’t say those things, though, because the impulse does win out, and he lifts their hands where they connect to bite the back of Michael’s. It’s nothing dramatic, a nip that’s more of a frustrated stop-that than anything substantial.

\---

Michael immediately clicks his tongue to the roof of his mouth, and says "I wou-- ow, Martin! Fucking  _ rude _ puppy!" He snatches his hand away, and ignores how entertaining he finds Martin's bites. Now's not--

The Distortion doesn't need to see just how deep his attachment to Martin runs.

\---

Martin doesn’t bother hiding the smug look smeared across his face. It’s easier if he stops questioning all the ‘why’s of what he’s doing, actually, and it’s a much better state to live in than the frantically feverish confusion of earlier today. All it takes is a bit of bullying Michael to throw him off his pity party. 

“Maybe you can get a pool if you clean it on your own. I think that’s a fair trade— I’m not... you know, hiring people to clean after us.”

\---

"Why not? If we have the money for it, Martin...." Michael whines. Ugh. Maybe Martin's the picky one here.

\---

“We’re painting sigils all over, one of us is a ghost, another gets possessed by the Eye, sometimes I guess I scare people without noticing, we’re technically four unrelated men sharing a house, I don’t want people snooping, or getting hurt, and I don’t think if we can do it ourselves, we—“ He has a feeling that will land on deaf ears, so he waves his hands vaguely. “—we look like a cult, Michael!”

Helen leans in, smiling brightly. Her patience isn’t as thin as it used to be. “I think you passed that quite a few chapters ago.”

\---

"At least we're a new cult, then, and not-- you know. The Institute's spooky cult. Though he and Jon certainly have a similar flair for being dramatically boring." Ah, something switches in his brain and he grins, his breath coming out in a slightly surprised huff. There. 

He runs his now-free hand over his wrist and pushes one of his fingers hard enough to feel tendons and veins and Martin, but at least it all fits these days. Skin isn't so tight.

\---

“Oh, Michael, your Archivist is anything but boring. The only one of his kind. Or so he thinks! Depends on how you look at it. Us and our collective season of change. New, new, new.” 

Much better. For the moment, at least. It’s all going to blow up at some point, but they are walking in a circle, after all. They’ll get there eventually. She lifts her own hand where she thinks Michael can see, waving her fingers above a wrist equally marred. “Some old things are worth keeping, though, aren’t they?”

\---

Michael instinctively digs his finger into his flesh harder, and a shiver wracks through him. "Old, old, we weren't even that old. Positively young and new and, god, so ancient." Whoops. Contradictions. Multitudes, multitudes, et al et al.

"She likes you, still, Martin! I think."

\---

It takes Martin an embarrassingly long time to connect the dots on this one. An embarrassingly long time blinking back and forth between both their hands. He’d been so present for that. More than he ever had been, before. And now, he’s...

His own hand, marked by the Spiral, is only warped beneath the surface. The ones he’d left on himself, independent of any gods of fear, faded ages ago. The other hand, not so much, but that’s not relevant here. He’s about to have some sort of revelation when he’s startled from staring down at his own body by a hand in his hair. It’s only there long enough to mess it up, to make him lose whatever was about to cross his mind. 

The way Helen smiles down at him says nothing about how the touch was almost too sharp. “You can’t be so ancient that you stop wanting ways to put an exciting new spin on things, can you? We have to adapt somehow.”

\---

"I did adapt. And now I'm young again. Love how that works." He reaches out to pull one of Martin's hands back to him. He can't stay mad right now; peculiar, considering it was all he was once. Madness and anger swirled together oh-so-sloppily.

\---

“Young again, but much older for it.” She says it like he’s lucky to have gotten out of it at all. Words full of teeth that won’t bite by choice. 

Martin, however, now back to being dragged along again, isn’t so purposeful with his whining. “Are we close yet?”

\---

"Depends on if geography is linear right now," Michael mumbles, but-- ah. They are. He knows this. He doesn't know the exact house by rote, but he does know the area, and they're close.

He says nothing to Helen. Half of him wants to bait her. Bait and bait and bait until she has no choice but to reciprocate and hurt and twist and claw. Long nails, long long fingers, an unspooling of violent action just sitting beneath the skin like unborn larvae. But he doesn't; rather not leave Martin either dead and eviscerated or lost to the Spiral forever. He thinks Martin should get at least two business weeks notice for that.

\---

Is geography working right now? Not so sure about that one. He’s just being strung along, night as well pass the time. And change the subject back to one he can understand. Houses and dreams. Oh, a memory. “We need a nice bay window.”

\---

Oh! Oh yes. The house. And that-- "Oh, yes." He can picture it; Jon and Gerard, curled up with a book, Martin and Michael languished with them. What a nice image. The evening sun going below the horizon and casting such nice, evening air into their home. He likes it. He loves it, even, one could say. 

"Nice and big. Natural sunlight. I want to grow plants, I think."

\---

Martin gives him a gentle smile. Much nicer. He can almost imagine what scene is playing out in Michael’s head, and he likes it. “Maybe a greenhouse instead of a pool? A garden? We’d get butterflies. At our house.”

He’s way too happy about the novelty of that one.

\---

"Bees are more important than butterflies. Beetles, too, we need. And-- Oh. Hah. Ladybirds." Michael grins, sharp and happy now. "I can do that. A greenhouse. We could grow tropical plants in a greenhouse."

\---

Martin wrinkles his nose like he’s trying not to laugh. “They’re all important, butterflies are just more fun to look at. And I... Don’t really know a lot about plants.” He rubs the back of Michael’s hand with his thumb. Fond little gesture. “Not tropical ones, anyway. Like— Like flowers, or... what, mangoes?”

\---

"Just because I'm a fruit, doesn't mean I have the patience to grow them!" Michael laughs, and raises their hands to his mouth so he can press a kiss to the back of Martin's in return. Almost presses his teeth in to be mischievous, but decides to keep the nice flow of this going. Light. Airy. Summer's day breeze. He can do that. "Sunflowers, I like those, and-- well, when it comes to tropical, venus fly traps, and-- And pitcher pots, all those weird venomous ones. Orchids, too, so delicate and fierce."

\---

The suspicious squint as he tracks the motion of their hands to Michael’s mouth fades away, replaced by Martin blinking with surprise instead. “I forgot those were real. Fly traps. I don’t think I’ve seen one before, not— not in person.” He pauses to think, but comes up with nothing. “What’s so fierce about an orchid?”

\---

"I dunno. They just look poisonous. They're not, not at all! But they look it. All that matters, sometimes? I like their little tongues." He's smiling softly now, no mischief! None.

\---

_ ”Look _ poisonous? They’re just— It’s pink. Or— Purple? Somewhere in between?” Martin shrugs. “You look poisonous. Didn’t really keep you from being eaten, did it?”

\---

"Sometimes, they're yellow or blue or in between and all of them and nothing and I’m ignoring your comment right now because it was  _ rude, _ and sometimes they're red or brown or white or spotted, and I'm not even a plant, you said I was some gaudy shrimp, which was also  _ rude,  _ and--" Michael takes in a deep breath and pulls away from Martin to pull his hands through his hair in a huff. Too much, maybe. Who cares.

"Michael Shelley didn't even look poisonous, not then," Michael says, voice flat. "Only now."

\---

“It’s not rude, you’re bright! You always have the same colors, there’s just, you know, a lot of them.” He flexes his hand in the air to ask for Michael’s back. “Like orchids.”

\---

Michael fields him a solemn look for all of two seconds before acidically handing it back to him; He does not take his hand, he just offers his own in the air to let Martin bridge the distance. "Fine. I'm a lot of them. You're right. That's not rude, because now you're complimenting me and that's alright. I still want to be something more dangerous than an orchid."

\---

Martin compromises by hooking his pinky around Michael’s and dropping their hands. Schoolchildren antics. “Maybe I was always complimenting you.” He wasn’t. “And if you really hate shrimp that bad, you don’t have to be one. I’m not forcing you. What about lemons? I— More dangerous than an orchid, I-I guess, but it’s more you, just, just in general.”

\---

"Lemons aren't dangerous, they're--" Michael screws up his face as he looks at Martin, and then he glances to Helen with a 'can you believe this guy?' look. Back to Martin. "If I'm a lemon, then you're one of those fucked up kumquats that look like grapes but are orange. Orange."

\---

“Lemons are more dangerous than orchids. Try getting citrus in your eye.” 

Helen seems to be preoccupied with something in the book of notes she commandeered from Michael, scrawling with dedication Martin can’t tell if it’s deceptive. 

“And— Definitely not a kumquat. You can just ask if you want me to describe you with bad, awful things, Michael. I could make a list.”

\---

"Then do it. Please. Do it. Tell me." He can't help the sneer on his face.

\---

“Seizure warnings. Club bathrooms. A Rubix cube but one of the little knobs fell off so you can’t solve it. Big orange cat that knocks over all your cups and hisses at nothing. One of those weird spinning tops that keep going forever.” Martin hums. “A neon pipe cleaner?”

\---

Michael pouts, but what comes out is more of a splutter than anything whiny; "A-- a pipe cleaner, are you-- What does that even mean? I'm not-- not  _ fluffy!  _ I'm-- oh. I guess I asked for this." Commence more pouting.

\---

“Your hair can get fluffy, sort— Sort of? You can bend. You like art, they’re... art supplies, and—“ Martin frowns as he realizes he’s just pooped back around to compliments. “That one isn’t even awful. I thought I could be mean when I brought it up.”

\---

"Maybe you're just bad at being mean." Is that a compliment? He hopes not, actually. He doesn't know. He looks to Helen. "Are we almost there?" He should know, he knows he should know, but he doesn't. He's lost the path at some point a while ago.

\---

Helen perks up from the page. The way she tilts her head at the question lands the sun’s blinding reflection against her earrings. “Hm, are we? I’ve been following you, Michael!”

\---

"... Oh." He stops walking, his face pulling down into an embarrassed grimace. He looks 'round them, and the grimace deepens. "Um. I have no idea where we are."

\---

Michael had been unconscious that day. The core of the Spiral where the memory of Michael Shelley ceased to be a projection and returned to flesh, where Helen Richardson walked with paper in hand to a place she didn’t yet own. One that wove incoherent lines into patterns somehow both geometric and jarringly uneven. Circles within squares and cubes between pyramids. 

That’s what she holds up now with all the bright confidence of a schoolteacher. Not the same map, but it’s a path, three lines of color bleeding into one another as they walk the same trail. Martin realizes that, for all their talk of flowers and butterflies and houses, he couldn’t remember a single one they passed on the way here. Or if the nearest one, looking eerily identical to the place they came from, is the same thing. 

“Be careful, boys. You want to stop the end of the world, don’t you? Pays to look forward.”

\---

Michael barks out a disbelieving laugh, but it's not all about what's going to happen, today, is it? No need to worry Martin.

"I've looked forward plenty, miss Richardson! Just not right... Now, I guess." At least he has the decency to look sheepish, hiding behind his curls as he leans forward to look at what Helen is showing them. His expression twitches, and then he leans back and spins on his heels. "Alright! Great. Circles. Too many circles. Martin, we've walked circles."

\---

Martin makes less of a show than Michael with his disorientation, more discomforted by the lack of contact between them than their surroundings. He’s walked in plenty of circles before. It’s not so bad. 

He would tell Helen not to do that to them, but he’s not sure it’s even her that caused it. “Um, we might want to, erm— Set up an... appointment? House shows. With Helen. Set up an appointment for house shows with Helen a time that isn’t right now.”

\---

He blinks, and immediately looks towards her. "Would you do that?" The thought hadn't crossed his mind; in this space of unexpected doors and unexpected spirals, the idea of an appointment has been a foreign one for Michael for quite some time. Even his own Ritual went without an itinerary for most of its lead-up and duration.

\---

“You do know how to call me.” She turns to Martin first so she can lift her thumb and pointer into a card-holding shape. It warps into a pointed finger over Michael’s nose. “And as human as you are now, you’re tied to this as much as you are to those contracts of yours.”

\---

Michael has to resist the split-second urge to bite her finger. Bad impulse. Especially with a creature that he knows first hand is not the coy, fleshy, human finger she presents to him. "I'm aware," He says flatly, no emotion, channeling something he's been wanting to keep at bay all day today, that awful, emotionless part of him that squandered any of the remaining potential the failed ritual possessed. The chilled voice of something that once wore her skin.

"I'm not exactly running from it, am I?"

\---

Martin stares between them for roughly five seconds before getting overwhelmed with stress. He jumps in the second Helen opens her mouth. “Okay! Great. Um, nice to meet you, Helen, sort of, we met once, but— Have a nice day? Sorry, bit of a short notice. We’re frazzled.” He looks at Michael with more attention to detail, and nods quickly. “Frazzled is a good word for it.”

\---

Michael jerks out his hand and grabs hold of Martin's, giving Miss Richardson a soft smile that is absolutely 100% strained. "Your help would be appreciated in the future, ma'am. When we're not--" He fields Martin a quizzical look. "--Frazzled."

\---

“So I’ve heard from your Archivist. I’m no stranger to frazzled, but— Do call me. I have a few houses in mind.” She smiles, deviously confident as she holds out the notes back to Michael.

\---

He takes the book back cautiously, and, as though some strange impulse, dips his head slightly in gratitude. What restraint she has! What humanity! What calmness! Michael is certain it isn't just so, beneath the writhing skin and shifting doorways, but she's more stable than he was. Perhaps that's the difference. Never a total, just a nebulous more or less.

"We will call," He says, slow and enunciated and careful; no slurring, no tripping, no overt emotional overpour. Nice and professional and even; as he should be.

\---

Martin doesn’t like that performance one bit. “Okay, off we go.” He hooks his arm around one of Michael’s elbows and starts to pull back towards where they walked here, a strained smile on his face. Not ready for any of this today. None of it.

\---

Michael waves and lets himself be pulled as easy as a shell in the rising tide, spinning once they're far enough away from Helen to face the same direction as Martin. He's quiet, and the last vestiges of bubbly energy leave him with a strained huff.

\---

Martin takes a half-step back before correcting himself, hesitant with both hands until he finally makes contact with either side of Michael’s forearms. Squeezing gently, less stern, more grounding. “What was  _ that?” _

\---

"I don't know," Michael mumbles, and he hates how childish his voice sounds, but now that Helen is leaving, gone, just him and Martin again, he can't keep pushing down what happened in that house. "I don't know. Bad stuff, I guess."

\---

“Bad stuff?”

This is a painful moment to realize that taking Michael from the Spiral as a physical entity doesn’t strip him of what’s buried deeper than skin, and that somehow he just thought it would be fine. That the connection would dissipate, like that’s how it worked, you got love and kindness and a home and that’s all it takes for the pain to go away. 

Martin should know better. Love and kindness and a home hasn’t fixed him, either. “I think we need to... oh, God, Martin, you can’t just say ‘we need to talk’. It’s— Talking is good. I don’t know what’s wrong, though, I-I’d like to.”

\---

"I don't--" Michael screws up his face, frustrated confusion blooming across his features. "I just don't know-- what happened? I mean, I just--" He huffs, and turns away, and god he hasn't had a spell like that in a long, long time. Whiplashing. Thrown with the waves to whichever direction and emotion he can tangibly grab hold of like a life raft, not realizing that what he's got is poisonous Coral. "I'm all over the place? I'm all over the place."

\---

“We were— You took us to a house show, and we— I’m sorry I scared you. Is this my fault? I didn’t mean to bite you, or—“ Bad time to bring up the fact that he left the tape recorder on the couch. God, he hopes that lady quits. Patricia? Patricia with the bad husband. Patricia with the bad husband he might ask Helen about later if he gets the chance, because she really does seem better off without him, but he’s never met him, and that’s a dangerous thought, and he didn’t even ask Helen if she ate things— 

“—any of that. Just a, um, weird day. Really, really weird, off day. Upside-down?”

\---

"Sideways," Michael says, a little numbly. "I-- I think I just got too... Too caught up. In the-- well, I mean. I just kept spiraling. Obviously. It didn't feel good as... As them, but. It feels worse now, when it happens." If Martin wasn't holding his hands, he'd be holding himself, arms crossed over him.

\---

“We were just— Different waves. I—“ Bad time, bad time, just wait. “—Do you like it here? With— With us? Me? I don’t even— We never talked about it. What you—“ Good job, Martin, you complete failure. Right in the middle of the sidewalk. “—I don’t know what you want to be. With... us. Me. This.”

\---

Michael blinks. Oh. They're talking about this. Not-- not even the house. And what he was doing and what Martin, Jesusjosephmary, was doing. This is-- "Oh."

He's not-- "I don't. I don't know? Do I need to? If you need me to know I can-- I don't. I'm not sure. We're... Bound. We're bound."

\---

“I don’t know what that means!” His tone takes on a hysterical lilt before he can catch it. “I-I mean, I do, all the—“ He flashes his teeth for emphasis, which doesn’t help make him look any less deranged. “Today, I-I don’t know what any of that was. Or why I couldn’t play. I couldn’t stay just - just one thing. Off-day? I was... not falling apart, that’s dramatic, but it wasn’t Spiraling. Good or bad. Just—“

He makes a desperately strained effort to relax his shoulders. Slow it down a little. “I don’t know where to start. But you think you’re pretending, and I couldn’t keep up, and I don’t know where to start.”

\---

"I think... I want to lie down," Michael says, and it's quiet, slow, unsure; just because the Distortion has left the building, doesn't mean that Michael knows himself any better. The opposite, maybe. At least as that, he felt the loss of a purpose. As Michael, he feels the sheer absence of one.

"I think... I don't like any of what happened today."

\---

"Um..." Does he like what happened, either? It felt nice talking to the agent they had, once the conversation strayed from that awful, suffocating house. But once she left, once he was left with Michael's reaction and the reality that he couldn't control it, that was the bad part. "Let's get home, then. Talk about it when you feel better?"

\---

Michael gives a half shrug. "Guess so. If you remember. I'll be fine, probably." It's just too much. He takes a deep breath. The spiral is swirling under his skin, and it's not a physical sensation, he knows that, he does, but he feels it, and it's in his head, and he knows, he knows, he knows the possibilities, and he thinks-- 

Oh. The apocalypse scares him. He doesn't want it to go the way he knows it will. Should. Probably will. Maybe he does like this life he salvaged. It's just so hard to pin down into some semblance of a reality. Words. Feelings. Solid. "Just-- Remembered some stuff. I-- O, I don't want the Crown to happen."

\---

Martin blinks twice. The first is to flush all the other caustic thoughts swirling through his head. The second, though, that one brings clarity. “The Crown. Michael, I— I never asked.” 

Fuck. How did he forget that? Did he even forget that? They’ve been so preoccupied with houses, and the Stranger, and all their little interpersonal failures and miscommunications and troubles and the Crown. His might not be so bad. Jewels and figureheads and he shouldn’t be asking this in the middle of the walkway far away from the comfort and safety of home. “Why don’t you want it to happen?”

\---

He stops, all at once, as a full body shiver runs through him. He pulls back enough to hide as much of his face as he can behind his hair, pulling his hands back and finally giving in to the impulse to wrap them around his middle and squeeze. "Because." His voice is so small. He'd hate it, normally. 

Michael shouldn't have the images and visions that swirl in his head. The future of a wasteland only a god should see, only an entity could handle, multiple futures swirling and mingling and playing upon his mind all at once, and it's all he can do to squeeze his eyes shut for a moment, tight, and shake his head fiercely. 

He keeps his eyes shut as he talks, his voice flat and pulling up words and prose that is not and should not be his own. "The Voyeuristic trauma of a world no longer true, no longer real, and yet reality presses her brutal fingers along the scalps of helpless denizens, a not-true made true, made Real by the very forces that long to see us bleed. The Crown a blessing, but something to be lost to, something to fall into, drown, drown, oh-- the tides are so strong, how easy it would be to drown, and it would be over, but then it would be out fault, and I worry-- I worry that spider's webs, they fall apart and disintegrate in the spray of the ocean, under water, under rain, under stress. What a pity. What a fool, I am, to think this errand to stop one apocalypse will stop the end result, the ending to this story, to this genre, our genre, it's--" 

Too much, is what it is. Michael sucks in a breath, and his voice is scared and childish again. "I'm scared."

\---

Got it. Too much. Exactly the amount of much that has Martin frozen in place beyond entertaining the idea of interruption, let alone a response. Words. He has words. Words that make sense and string together that he’s not making while he just sits there with his jaw dumbly slack. 

What could he even say? Spiders and oceans and storms they don’t notice while they’re sat in the calm center of the eye, and they’re all still stuck on trying to figure out how to be people. “We’re not in that genre anymore. Ours is— It’s what we feed into. We don’t—“

Selfish. He’s selfish. Michael warned him, and Martin warned him right back. Selfish, to think he can rewrite the story in his own image. The one he likes. The one he wishes for. The one that’s his. “We don’t know how it ends yet.”

\---

"Maybe," Michael says, and ducks his head, looking at Martin from beneath his hair. "And yet the Eye has sent one of its own to infiltrate one of its own in order to ensure its victory. I can't-- I can't remember it all. Now that I'm not them. But what I can is-- I don't know how we can stop it."

\---

“I don’t think he was _ sent, _ Michael. He— He leaked through the door. I...” 

They can’t do this here. He holds one hand out for Michael’s, bowed slightly in a weak knight’s stance. If a knight was anxiously tense and comical only for how pathetic it is at a distance. Michael would have to reach out with his marked hand to finish the gesture. “Is that why you wanted to get so close? Her. Helen. The Spiral.”

\---

Michael doesn't connect their hands quite yet. He's still reeling, still standing stiff, still hiding behind too-long hair that acts more as a barrier, in this moment, than anything approaching a conscious hairstyle. "I don't-- Close? I was just--" He shivers again, and it feels like his mind is being pulled, like salt-water taffy, to every single possible direction it can go today, malleable until his atoms start to break down. 

Helen, who is not him, and never was and never will be, and yet holds parts of him embedded so deep that some part of his soul still calls out like a siren song at the sight, the feel, the colors, and presence of the Distortion. He may be himself, again, but that does not discount the years he spent as multiple selves, and different selves, and fractured, stained-glass paned unselves that languished and cried and clawed and tormented itself. 

"She's very well-adjusted," he says again, and his voice falls flat once more. "I think I killed a woman, once. It wasn't even on purpose. I didn't even mean to feed from her. I'm not sure I did-- whatever I gained from her was lost from my own misery. She didn't sleep. I made it so. Or at least-- Contributed. We-- they?-- we-- We lived with her, for a while. I believe she died; I felt it when it happened. It felt like tar being injected into my veins. Thick hot coffee tar. I think we had been laying on the floors of the Hallway for days upon days upon eons-- The time zones are really quite so bizarre-- when I felt it. It gave us energy. I wanted to weep. Miss Richardson looks healthy. More present." 

He pauses, and then sighs, and his head drops to stare down at the pavement. "Sorry-- I'm. I'm. I think I'm everywhere today. Spooling thread. Yarn fell off the table. Attic unlocked."

\---

Martin abandons his pose to follow the steps of the only role model he knows. Everywhere. God, Gerry deals with so much and Martin isn’t good at this stuff. Not with himself. Definitely not with the people he loves. 

Yeah. Loves. He loves them. 

He slides one hand up beneath the veil of hair to cup his cheek. “It’s okay to be everywhere. We’re all these colors, but they’re all real, right? I like them. I like you. I-I-I try not to hurt people, but we do, and that’s—“ 

He shakes his head. Not sure how to end that, that’s for sure. “But you don’t have to do that again. That kind of pain. I don’t think there has to be an end, either, not like how you think it happens? Um, it’s not like the yarn can’t go back in - in the ball? Just might look a bit...” He squints. Nope. Not a good analogy. “...looser.”

\---

Michael shrugs into Martin's hand, his eyes falling to half-lids. "You're too optimistic, Martin. This isn't a comedy, it's not a feel-good drama, it's not a musical, it's-- you know it's a tragedy, but you  _ never _ want to address it!"

He's seen it. He's seen the end of the world. Just a different flavor than the Eye's. A glimpse, before he was eaten and swallowed whole.

"Just because the colors are  _ real,  _ doesn't mean they're all  _ good." _

\---

"If I'm the only one trying to give it a happy ending, of course it won't work." Martin shakes his head. Not the point. Pick one. "You keep saying you're not real, you're just pretending, but you are, good and bad and everything. Too bad. So let's figure out how we can-- I don't know, not die from all these different ends of the world, being good-and-also-bad-sometimes?"

\---

Michael presses tighter against Martin's hand and gives a small, sullen nod. He can't believe, fully, but as long as Martin does, he supposes he can try. The least he can do. It eases something in him, that small admittance and need for trust.

"Okay," He says, and sighs against him. "Don't want what happened today to happen again. You-- oh. I think you scared me."

\---

Martin flinches back, nearly enough to break contact. “Sorry. I don’t— I don’t know why that happened. She just started talking about her husband, how bad he was, and I thought— I thought I was helping. Like, letting her leave work early? So she could be happy? Unless—“ Maybe that’s not even what it was. “I don’t want to scare you.”

\---

Michael pulls back a bit, just enough that he can look at Martin, squint at him, analyze him. "I know," He says slowly, and frowns. "You made her leave, though. You-- it was like the whole house was under your spell, like-- like you could just pluck strings in the air, for just a moment, and make things happen." And then it broke, the spell broke, he hunted Michael then, but Michael's not scared of the Hunt anymore.

\---

“But she  _ wanted _ to leave. I didn’t— It’s not like that. I was all over the place, too, like— I kept trying to be with you, but I couldn’t figure out where that was, and then I’d just trip, but I never felt like I was causing it.” Martin pulls his hand back, finally, just so he can rub it anxiously along one of his own arms. “I guess we just need to work on... making the good pieces bigger than the bad ones.”

\---

Michael gives a nervous laugh. "Because I kept--I was just. Emotionally? All over. Still am. Um-- sorry. It used to happen-- well. Not exactly as intense? As then? But there's magic now. But I used to, ah, freak out, kind of? You just didn't see much of that, I don't think. I used to do a lot so that wouldn't happen. The emotions."

He's quiet for a moment. "She wanted to leave because we got her to want to leave. But she was doing her job and you made her leave. I don't... Think. We should pretend otherwise."

\---

“You’re allowed to freak out. We’re all freaking out. Just— Safe place. Let’s do it in a safe place so it doesn’t...” Martin paces a half circle around him, back in the direction of the Institute. “...Hurt others. I’m not pretending. I don’t— I just don’t know how to show you how it looked in my head.”

\---

Michael follows, giving a small nod. "Safe place. Institute. Laying down. I could always--" He reaches out, quick as a snake, just to brush lightly against Martin's marked hand. "Could always see that way? Maybe."

\---

Martin shivers, and with it comes an airy, nervous ‘mmh’. “I don’t really know if that might help— It wasn’t very, um, Spirally, right? And I don’t know if... after all that.” He wants to, almost, is the thing. Freedom from responsibility. Distraction and knowledge that pours across the canvas until it all bleeds together into one vivid, nonsensical mess. “Maybe.”

\---

Michael shrugs. "Okay." He pauses. "She doesn't want me in the hallways anymore. I shouldn't care, I should be grateful, but--" His expression falls even further into unhappiness. "I don't know."

\---

“Of course you care. Bad parts and good parts. That place, being that, it’s— It’s sort of both, isn’t it? You’re still adjusting. So is she. But it’s not good for either of you, that’s why— Remember, you didn’t want to be that. I guess it’s just harder now that you’re not living it every second.”

\---

"When I was full, it wasn't so bad," Michael says, so very quiet, like it's a failure to admit it. "Fun. Even if she's confused, they're..." He cuts himself off with an annoyed growl. "It doesn't matter. Their ritual never would have worked."

\---

“I don’t think it’s about rituals anymore. I think you helped. Like— Like that human part, it...” Something almost like a blush crawls up the back of his neck. “She was trying to figure us out, I-I think. I’ve been... thinking, about the Archivist. How he might just need to see the human side to get it. You gave the Spiral that. Trend-setter Michael Shelley.”

\---

"Nnnnot exactly a vote of confidence. Me showing the Spiral humanity." He grimaces. "The-- what do you mean  _ get it?  _ The Archivist... He's. The Eye? What is there to get? He wants to rule the world."

\---

Michael is just as human as the rest of them. Eclectic, yes, but human. “Get the other side? The side that’s the whole reason he’s here in— You know, the first place? People. He’s way less scary the third time around. He’s never had a body before. I think he’s learning, too?” Martin hesitates nervously. “...Maybe?”

\---

"Haven't met him past when he hissed at me," Michael says, and scowls. "I'm not going to trust him.  _ Human. _ What if he lies?"

\---

“You hiss too!” He’s not defending the Archivist, absolutely not, but at least it’s not the worst situation he’s been in so far. “I’m not asking you to trust him, I’m just saying, I think when they have to be human it changes things for them! A little bit. Enough that they second-guess.” 

Martin stops walking to quirk an eyebrow up at Michael. “You lived in the monster-god of lies!”

\---

"I never lied to you, though, dear," Michael purrs, and his tone does not match the sullen little pout that washes over his face like a veil. "Maybe he'll lie to you."

\---

Martin stares at him long enough that he hopes how ridiculous he’s being will sink into Michael’s head. “There’s no way you’ve never lied to me. And he can’t. He just hides things. Or, well, I mean— He doesn’t even have to, it’s just if you don’t know the right questions or— I bet I lie to you more.”

\---

"It's not a lie if I tell you the truth eventually. It's only a lie if it stays a secret." Michael pauses for a second. "I already knew you lied more. People who lie to themselves always lie to others." He says it all with the confidence of a wise old sage.

\---

Wow. Okay. Sure, Michael. Can’t fight that. “It’s still a lie if you say it.” He lowers his voice to something near-inaudible. “I don’t lie to myself.”

\---

Michael shrugs. "You lived in my gut for a week. But whatever you say. No lying for Martin, nope, never. Never Kelsie, neither. Of course."

\---

Martin scoffs, and then continues his walk of shame back home. “Never. I’m abstaining.”


	64. Chapter 64

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Girl's night!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some discussions/internal monologues revolving around gender dysphoria and fear of being seen as unacceptable/undeserving of exploring gender from Martin in this chapter, particularly near the end.

Michael announces his intent to take Martin's attention away from the day with nothing more than plopping down an obscenely fat bag of makeup down on the ground in front of him, the plastic tubes and palettes clanking together as they fall to the old wooden floor that house the main stacks of the Archival department. A gaudy purple tube of lipstick falls out and rolls, rolls, rolls, until it hits one of the bookshelf, but Michael pays it no mind. He bought all this makeup new the other day; it's not like he has sentimental value for these pieces yet. 

He's ignoring a lot right now; as he should be. He'd practically slept for damn near a day once they returned home, and thank the Lord Almighty Above that Jon is too neurotic himself to check in on his resident depressed bed-sharer. Bless Jon entirely for not putting Michael to work, really; it almost makes him laugh, sometimes, how lightly Jon tiptoes around him, especially considering Michael was an assistant, and despite his purposeful naivety, he was damn good at it.

Regardless, he woke up and decided, very consciously, to have a good day. House hunting was meant to be a relaxing day, but, well. Not thinking of that, remember? Not thinking.

He beams down at Martin, twin plaits down his scalp that he painstakingly concocted this morning in order to ground himself to his body, each painful twist and pull of unruly curls forced into submission drowning another thought, pressing his feet more firmly to the soil. All metaphorical, of course; Michael doesn't lie anymore, you see, but the imagery, in this place, comes so easily to the mind. The esoteric runs abound. 

"We're going to have a girl's night," He says around his smile, and gestures with a loose hand motion to the bag around all of Martin's stuff. "Makeup and all."

\---

Michael's words rattle through the silence of dust-covered shelves long before Martin pieces the meaning together, eyes and ears singularly attuned to the sharp sound spinning away from them. It clicks once he reaches out for the errant cylinder to hand it back to him and he recognizes what it is. 

"Oh." Actually, better to drop it back into the bag than to Michael. That way they won't make eye contact, and he won't direct his wide-eyed surprise to Michael's face. Not exactly what he expected after holing up in one of his secluded corners - one of many he once vetted for weeks to gauge their privacy - to avoid thinking about his own problems, but, well. His free hand gingerly shuts the book he was only reading to skim for the pictures. Storybook stuff. "We are?"

\---

"We are. No complaints. No arguing. I think we need a night to be pretty, and frivolous and nothing else, nothing new, nothing scary." He pauses, and then lightly pushes the bag closer to Martin with his foot. "Besides. I just bought, like, five hundred dollars worth of makeup and I don't want it to go to waste, y'know?"

\---

"You bought--" No, he's never getting used to that. The spending. That mindless, superfluous coin-tossing that... just... Okay. Fine. Maybe. Martin sets the book aside like you might return a turtle to the ground, stretching upward on legs sore enough to tell him he's been sitting down for way too long. "We're not going anywhere, though, right? Um, no-- No clubs, right? Just... here. Just us?"

\---

"Well-- I think so? I mean--" Michael grimaces. "Not sure I'm really into going out to a club quite yet. Ugh. I sound so old." He wrinkles his nose. "Just us. In. I'll open a bottle of, like, wine or something."

\---

Martin bends down to grab the bag so Michael won't have to. Tries to hand it back to him like a live bomb. He has no clue how to deal with that mess of unfamiliar objects. Hair is one thing, but real makeup? "Nope. No clubs. We'd die, I think. Definitely. Oh. The dress. I-- Sorry, is girl's night a-a specific thing? I've never had-- I've never had a girl's night."

And now he's babbling. "For obvious reasons."

\---

Michael snorts, and then turns said snort into a laugh hidden behind the back of his lips. "It's just a-- A phrase. I was joking? Just because--" Well. He makes a flourish out to Martin, and then to himself. "Not that I'm a woman, but, you know, you love to call me problematic, or whatever the hell, so it fits the bill, I think!"

\---

"I don't call you problematic." Martin steps back at the gesture like Michael's casting an unknown, dangerous spell at him. "Um, let's-- Let's go, then?" 

He stands in the corner, still, unsure why he's so skittish. Anticipation, maybe. Harder when he's not sure what they're playing just yet. "Bedroom? Office?"

\---

"Bedroom.” Michael grins. "Jon's, you know, working or whatever. Don't wanna disturb him with our party. Plus I already opened the bottle of red in there."

\---

"O-kay." Somehow, that makes him less sure about where this day is going. "You really thought this through. What's the occasion?"

\---

Michael shrugs. "Boredom? Whimsy? Magic? I don't know. I dunno. Just wanted to. Is that a crime? To just be impulsive?"

\---

"I don't... think so?" Martin finishes packing up, deciding to slide past Michael sideways along the stacks. Not like he needs him to lead them back, he knows the place by now. His fingers play loosely with the locket around his neck as he walks. Slow and unsteady. "It's not a bad impulse. Art, I guess. Creative."

\---

"Beautiful," Michael says, and grins as he follows behind Martin. "You'll look great. I'm excited. Full face of a makeup and a dress. Pampered day. Making you gorgeous."

\---

"I... I don't know about that." It always surprises him, how easily that genuine, casual range of compliments rolls off Michael's tongue. "Maybe Gerry would--" 

Oh, God, would that make it worse? He can handle embarrassment with Michael, but that's a whole separate beast. "I guess I never told you about that. The-- That day you came in, she-- She? It was a whole thing. I called her my Oracle. I still have no idea what that..." 

Perfect time to trail off into absolutely nothing.

\---

"Oh! When Gerry's a she," Michael laughs... Well, cackles, really. "You could call her. Have her come along."

\---

"Don't be weird about it. It's only if sh--" Fuck. He never asked, did he? He's the worst at this. Of course he's surrounded by complicated people. "I'll ask when we get there. It's, erm, it's up to Gerry. Not me."

\---

"It's your ghost, I'm pretty sure you can help choose." Michael rolls his eyes. "Can't you change his, like, clothes and stuff? I'm sure you can dredge up this Oracle lass."

\---

Martin's outburst is a little too much. Voice crack and everything. "It's a group effort!" 

Not like they've tested it much, but he knows it's not just him in control of that. He'd like to leave it up to Gerry as much as he can, anyway. But it's not a long walk between here and the bedroom, and it's too easy to picture it all. Now that he's thinking about it. 

Is it cemented through intent? The vibrant glow of confident eyes veiled by thin silk flashing flecks of winking stars, muted by the dyed black fabric never woven by hands beyond whatever his ghost's mind can craft from the ether. 

Ah. So that's the sort of state he's in today. His ghost. "I'd have to think about it. With him."

\---

"Well? Then do it. Gerry can help with your makeup. I always go too bright, and then you'll look gaudy, and frankly, as over the top as he is, he's got some decent color combinations going on, even if they're just dark and drab and gothic."

\---

They’re not drab, they’re not just anything, and, wow, he’s getting way too defensive over Gerry’s sense of fashion. Martin says nothing as they walk, trailing after Michael so he can concentrate. This one, he takes seriously. Maybe too much. Maybe just enough. 

There’s something like reverence in the way he imagines this particular image of Gerry, something behind the limiting barriers of human or ghost, an in-between brushing fingers against the veil and seamlessly coming up on either side to speak the truth. That little blinking eye in the sky dutifully following a path around the gravity of some nameless celestial body. Documenting the cosmic truths of everything touched by the sun. Outlive them all and share their stories. 

It’s not until they’re just outside their den that he stops the aimless twirls of metal against a random set of fingers, until he lifts the necklace up close to his mouth. Like that makes it work better, somehow. Less interference. He only hesitated because, for all the buildup, there’s nothing poignant built up on his lips. “I don’t want to just repeat it, but I don’t know any better way to ask for my Oracle? There’s no... There’s no better way. Only if you like that name.”

\---

Green eyes herald her presence, and she's there, blinking almost half-asleep as she leans against the wall just outside the bedroom. Her hair is down, long, straightened, and the look she levels Martin with is half amusement and half fondness.

"I've already come when you called me that name once, you think it's just, what, going to up and stop working?"

\---

“I don’t know,” Martin manages as he rubs the back of his neck. Now he’s nervous in a different way. Enough of a way that he’s forgotten Michael is there, that his star struck staring doesn’t exist in a vacuum. “It’s just in case you don’t feel like it.”

\---

Already such a mood to start the summoning with; Martin is certainly good as setting an aura to her existence. She leans forward off the wall enough to press the tip of her nose against Martin's and smile at him, soft and just a little amused as she takes in his expression. "Well. Clearly I feel like it."

\---

His nerves break, fever mellowing out into a dazed grin and softened eyes at the contact. It makes him look younger, something naive and precious against the path he’s taken these past few months. Cartoony heart thumping stupid. “Michael said we’re having a... a girl’s night. So. I figured— You know things.”

\---

"I know things. Interesting way of putting it." She's all smiles and soft eyes, though. After deliberately summoning her as Oracle once, this time feels more real, more solid, all the more an expression she can play with with not only little judgement but clear, clear reverence. It gives her more confidence.

"What, are you a girl all of a sudden?" She angles her head around Martin's to ask Michael.

Michael laughs, clearly delighted at this display. "No, but I looked it up. 'Gender Non-conforming'. Saw it on a forum. Lots of fighting there. Didn't care. Got the word. Girl's night!"

\---

Martin just needs an emotional support Oracle to ease partway into this. Enough of the way that he’s sure they can just yank him through the last few steps. “I’m not a girl either, but I’m under the impression it’s more about the mood than the, erm, gender. I just picture slumber parties.” 

He keeps talking. Better with his mouth busy. Maybe. “Unless it’s not like that. In my head it’s like the same thing as teenage parties. Where you spin bottles and... Yeah.” His tone whips around drastically to move on. “Michael thinks you’d be good at colors.”

\---

"Did you go to teenage spin the bottle parties, Martin!!" Michael asks around a grin, and summarily starts to usher the both of them into the bedroom. Oracle acquiesces and follows even though his ushering does nothing physical, for which Michael is grateful. Keay is a wonderful companion when not fighting against Michael's impulses, he's decided.

"Hm. Maybe. Guess we'll find out. Have you ever worn makeup, Martin?"

\---

“No, I— I mean, I never played, I saw it, but I was mostly in corners, um—“ Just a little overwhelmed. Not particularly bad, but, as always, getting sandwiched between any of his people has him mildly short circuiting. “Not really. Does glitter count?”

\---

"Hm." Michael deliberates for a second, tossing the bag of makeup on the bed. "Yeah. A little. I think? That's sexy. You, all glittery? Love it. You're gonna look so hot." He's practically bouncing, energy already high. This was a good idea. Good morning. He needs this.

Oracle snorts ugily. "Don't get too ahead of yourself, Mikey. It's just glitter."

"And makeup. You know, I met him in a nightclub once wearing the most insane sweater known to man, and immediately put a dress on him the second I got him home. That was hot."

\---

“It’s a...” Martin starts, delayed. “It’s a nice sweater, not  _ insane.” _

That was one of the best nights of his life once he got past the minor head trauma and waking up to a freezer box nightmare in the Distortion’s hallways. Confidence and comfort in said confidence that could be bent but not shattered. Now, he’s just trying not to fluster too much at the words. He dances around them as he sits on the very edge of the bed. “I brought my own necklace this time, at least.”

\---

"How romantic," Michael coos. "Okay. We're doing your makeup first, because I can do mine in, like, fifteen minutes, and also you should make Oracle leave and come back with makeup and a dress, that grungy band shirt is not going to cut it tonight, ma'am." 

He starts rifling through the bag on the bed and then mentally says  _ fuck it, _ and dumps the whole thing unceremoniously onto the sheets, the clack of tubes and palettes once more filling the room. "Take your shirt off."

\---

Martin jolts away from the mess to sit a few more inches away, only so he can rest his hands on the sheets without colliding with a hundred foreign textures at once. He hesitates under the demand that could be a request but also might not be, thinking maybe he’s talking to Oracle, and also wondering why he needs to be shirtless for makeup. 

But he does follow through, blush reaching his shoulders by the time he’s pulled his shirt over his head and holding it awkwardly over his chest. “I-If we do her last it’ll be easier to focus on it.” He finally asks. “Why do you want me shirtless?”

\---

"So I don't get powder all over you, duh," Michael says, and starts to sort through everything he has. He pulls aside a foundation, holding it up to Martin's face for a second to make sure the shade matches, and then powder, eyeliner, mascara. "Unless you want your shirt covered in it. I'm not a neat makeup artist, the magic happens at the end with a clever q-tip and some spit to clean everything up."

He blinks. "I'd let Oracle be in charge of music, but I don't trust her... Tastes." He eyes her shirt again. Avenged Sevenfold. Yuck.

\---

Sure. Duh, Martin. At least now he can fidget with his shirt in his lap. Makes him act a little more normal. “I do. She liked— I was playing fifties music that time, right? I think you both like that. There’s one! Uh, one thing in common.”

\---

"I just like music," Oracle shrugs, and then rolls her eyes towards Michael. "He's the one making assumptions. What music do you listen to, Mikey?"

"Ugh. Stop calling me that. I don't know. Music. I listen to music. Martin, floor, please, darling, I want to sit in front of you."

\---

Martin gets to the ground with so little hesitation it actually surprises him that he’s there so quickly, legs outstretched on either side of him so he can fit Michael between them and still balance with his hands over the wood. “Just put something on, then. It’s just— It’s just background noise.”

\---

"Ugh. I'm busy doing your makeup. Oracle! The speaker's on the nightstand." He tosses her his phone, and luckily Oracle remembers to be corporeal enough to catch it in time, otherwise it most definitely would have shattered.

She really just puts Michael's Spotify on shuffle and calls it a day, coming to sit down beside the two of them and watch as Michael opens up a bottle of concealer, the brush at the end coming out with a wet  _ pop! _

Michael looks at Martin. "Ready? It might be a little cold."

\---

Martin grimaces. “I-I think so? You make it sound like you’re doing a surgery on me.”

\---

"It's just going to feel all.... Weird? If you're not used to it. Just wanted to warn you." He leans forward and swipes a line of concealer under one of Martin's eyes. He grins. "'Cause I could have just watched you flinch instead." Nice. That's the word. He's being nice. He wants Martin to enjoy this, which means no tricks, and careful explaining, and kindness. He swipes across his other eye.

"Surgery a la cosmetic illusions," Oracle says, and cocks her head slightly as Michael continues to swipe in thick lines of concealer. "I never did all the--" she waggles her fingers, "--fancy cover up shit. Just... Mascara and eyeliner."

\---

Not that it helps much, Martin flinches anyway. He does try to stay still as possible, though, giving Michael a stable canvas to work with. “It’s like bad paint. G— Oracle, you should try, like—“ He closes his eyes to imagine it. “—Sharp lines, something bright under—“ 

He makes a little excited gasp so he can look over to her. Sorry, Michael. “You should do eyes on your eyelids, I’ve seen a picture of that once!”

\---

"Ooooh," She says, and her smile is mischievous. Fun. "That sounds-- I like that. Evil eyeliner."

"No fair that you can just manifest it. Ugh. Jealous." Michael murmurs, his voice low as he finishes up the concealer and grabs a blending sponge to start dabbing across Martin's face, working the makeup into his pores.

\---

Martin brightens considerably. Always a great feeling when he has a good idea. “It still takes effort. We could try something complicated today.” He moves his head again, no awareness for how difficult that makes applying makeup now that he’s excited. “I wonder if we can do effects. Smoke, or-or things. Stuff that lights up.”

\---

"I'm not a Halloween decoration," Oracle says around a laugh, still clearly delighted at the concept. Martin's good at making this fun, in an experiment sort of way.

"Could've fooled me," Michael says, and wraps a hand around Martin's jaw to pull him back towards Michael, continuing to blend.

\---

“You c—“ Martin chokes himself off at the pressure, like being scruffed but somehow worse now that all he can do is squint his reluctant resignation in Michael’s direction. Trying again, this time without moving. “You have mood lights already. Too bad you’re the one who snaps at me. I can’t make you change color like a— A trick light.” 

He snaps once in the air for emphasis. “Make you purple today. Just like that.”

\---

"Mood lights. It's just the Eye's colors, I think? I didn't exactly choose green to be my fucking day-to-day companion. Might have to ask one of  _ your _ patron gods for help with the purple."

Michael snickers. "Make her pastel for a day. Bubblegum Lolita." He puts down the blending sponge to pick up the foundation, which he starts dabbing all over Martin's face.

\---

“No on whatever that is, Oracle and anything bubblegum sounds awful.” Okay, now he’s starting to find the right energy to exist in. He moves his eyes to the limit this angle allows in Oracle’s direction, flashing his teeth. “I’m your patron god. I’ll start thinking purple thoughts.” Oh, wait, shit, that’s a funny joke. Hold on, he’s got it. “All that prose paying off.”

\---

Ah, damn it. Oracle laughs, covering her mouth with her hand. She bares her teeth right back. "Oh, you're my god now, are you? Must have missed that email somewhere along the way. Memo lost. Guess we could make a compromise, you with your purple thoughts and me with my green."

"Ugh. You two flirt in the most insane way. Just thought you should know that. Weird. weird."

\---

“Dear madam Keay, it’s your god, Martin K. Blackwood, Title one, Title two, Title three, Title four, etcetera, M.Sc.” The posh Victorian voice doesn’t come off well. He’s not that savvy with that kind of history. Martin rounds on Michael and sticks his tongue out before speaking. “Like you don’t flirt with colors, Michael. Pink. You’re pink today.”

\---

"And you're yellow like wallpaper, Martin Blackwood." Michael says, but it's half-focused, his tongue darting out in concentration as he starts to blend the foundation in, too. "But luckily that's why I l-like you."

"Oh, my gracious and loving host, whom I am indebted and bound to, whatever color makeup shall I endow myself with this autumn eve?" She snickers; her Victorian cadence is with practiced ease.

\---

Michael is lucky she has him distracted enough not to notice the slip. Not that he’d do anything about it right here, but he might remember it. God forbid. He’s lucky Michael is covering up most of his embarrassment. Makeup would solve quite a few of his problems. “Well.” It takes him a few silent seconds. “Being gracious and loving and all, I really do think purple would bring out the best in you?”

\---

"Hm. Maybe I'll try it. Purple eye shadow. Might make the green pop." She has a small smile gracing her lips.

Michael leans back to grab at a few different eye shadow palettes. "Okay. No purple for you, then, Martin. What colors do you want?"

\---

“I’m all red, in that pinkish way. Maybe blue? That’s how colors work, right? Opposite sides? Is that tacky?”

\---

Michael hums and opens one of the palettes, pointing idly to a few shades, before shaking his head. "I can make it work. Little yellow, little blue, just a dart of gold...." He nods and shifts until he's sitting cross-legged. The palette balanced on his thigh. "Close your eyes. Don't squint, just relax, so I can get to your entire lids without it creasing."

\---

He squints first, just to be a tiny bit of a jerk about it, and then complies. “So that’s black and purple and green, red and blue and gold, and then— You’re pink today, but if we’re, um, kind of matching, you’d be gold and black and something red. Right?” 

He pauses, trying not to frown at the weight of texture over his skin. “Wow. I’ve been... learning about art.”

\---

"Gold and black and red. Very dark. I'll see what I can do!" He's all smiles, as he layers on the base for the color combinations he's planning, something just creamy and off-white to give a nice canvas to bounce from. "We're going to be hot. I've said it already. But it bears emphasis, I think."

\---

"You sure have that on your mind today," Martin mumbles with one eye cracked open in an expression of vague judgment. Well, it's more like suspicion, but he's in on it, too. Not complaining, just a pinch nervous. More than a pinch. It comes and goes. "We'll, um, we'll see, I guess!"

\---

"Oh, am I not allowed to think about that? Hm. I have to go to a confessional soon then. Lots to confess. Lots to admit to. Father, if you're listening..." He says it all in a mumble as he uses brushes to blend in the colors he layers on.

\---

"No, I-I mean, you're allowed, I'm just teasing." He's quiet for another ten seconds before the dark silence behind his eyes gets to him again. "Admit away."

\---

"Admit what? That I look at your ass, like, way too often, or that I think your smile is the cutest, or, or, that I love to touch your hair, or-- I mean, I can go on for eons, Martin, you're a fascinating lover, maybe the most fascinating, in all honesty. Though if Gerry? Oracle? Ever puts out... We'll see who wins the most fascinating department. Actually, thinking of it, Jon and the Archivist could be in the race too." Everything he says is fast, mumbled, clearly not thought about, just pouring out of his mouth as he works.

\---

Right. He asked for it. He needs to stop skipping right into situations that immediately put him on the spot that exact second he reaches what he thinks is peak embarrassment. Can't help it, can he? 

Martin inhales a noise that's mostly an aborted 'ack', momentarily forgetting he's supposed to keep his eyelids relaxed and not tightly squeezed shut. "I--" As he forces his shoulders slack again, his mouth gives way to a subconscious, tiny smile. "I don't think I've ever been called a l-- A lover."

\---

Michael grins. "I only use it for people I sleep with more than once." The hand on Martin's jaw tightens when he squeezes his eyes, and he continues, "There weren't many of those, though, pretty elite club we're working with."

\---

Martin rests the weight of his chin into Michael's palm. The smile gets bigger, and all he wants to do is see, but he's not allowed. So he stays put. "Me... Me neither. That's just, erm, you, and Jon, and--" He pulls in his bottom lip to avoid laughing around it. "I think Gerry only counts if you count that time we held hands."

\---

"I think, unfortunately, that it counts," Oracle says, like it's the most upsetting thing to admit to in the entirety of the world. Because it is; what a fucking embarrassment that was, even if she's in love with the man what made that experience happen. 

Michael screws up his face, nose wrinkling. "Gross! Disgusting! I think it's rather nasty, that entire--" He leans back enough to mime jerking off, "--Encounter." 

Oracle rolls her eyes and barks out a laugh. "Says the man who fucks Martin right next to Jon while he sleeps."

\---

_ "That's not what happened,"  _ Martin whines loudly before either of them can keep talking. He sucks in a sharp breath. "We didn't do anything with him in the  _ room _ and he gave me permission and when you describe without context we sound like evil people but you were nice to me and I'd like to do it again some time and I'm done talking now."

\---

Michael leans back a little, blinking rapidly at Martin before he grins wide, a pleased laugh falling from his lips. "Of course! You can always fuck me, Martin! Even if you're evil, I'll let you fuck me!" 

"Oh my god. We are evil people," Oracle says, "If only because we let Michael talk like this."

\---

"Stop it. Stop it. Stop it." He gets increasingly desperate with each one until he can't help the way his face scrunches up. "Please. Not helping me sit still."

\---

"What! I'm being nice! Very nice! I would love you to fuck me again! It's true! No lies in the house of the Beholding!" He scoots closer to Martin as he finishes up the eye shadow and pulls out an eyeliner wand. "Do not move."

\---

_ ”Michael.” _ It’s on the high end of his most pathetic noises, especially with the tense way he has his palms flat out in front of him on the floor.

\---

"What!" Michael looks affronted, almost confused, and he searches Martin's face for a wild moment. He presses the cool brush of the eyeliner to the inner eyelid. "I don't get why you're all blushy."

\---

Martin is quiet until he gets the impression he might be allowed to talk, just not move his eyes. “It just feels weird talking about sex we’ve had in - in normal conversation! Being in the room with multiple people I’ve had sex with! I get— I get embarrassed at everything!”

\---

"Well I already said I'd fuck Gerry given the chance! And it means we've all seen your dick! What else is there to be embarrassed about! I'm making you beautiful, of course I'm thinking about our lovemaking!"

\---

“Lovemaking?!” He feels the brush slide against his skin somewhere a thing called eyeliner likely shouldn’t. “Don’t talk about my dick!”

\---

"Why! It's very lovely! We love her!" Michael has caught on to the joke, though, at least, and there's humor leaking into his voice.

\---

Martin wasn’t joking. Martin didn’t even remember that until now. Both his hands fly up to cover Michael’s mouth like they’re completely out of his own control.

\---

Oracle laughs and says, "Watch out. Pretty sure he's got rabies, and he does bite."

Michael doesn't bite Martin, but he does stop with the eyeliner long enough to slowly lick up the palms of his hand, his eyes narrowed.

\---

Martin glares. It just makes him buckle down with his display of grossed-out childish spite, weight pressed into his hands, eyes narrowing right back. “I’m the one with rabies.”

\---

"Well, if you have I do, since you-- Oh. You don't want to talk about that. Whoops." Michael's voice is muffled, and with a flourish, he drops straight backwards, trying to see if Martin is so pressed to him that he'll fall too.

\---

Martin does, of course. 

They have to quit ending up like this. The half-finished, messy eyeliner job is new, though.

It’s about the principle, now, not a story involving the pronouns of his dick he never wants to hear Michael explain with his own mouth. “Your rabies is secondhand. It’s not as— Not as...” He’s not exactly sure how rabies works. “Girl’s night is evil.”

\---

"We're all evil, that's why. Especially you." Michael says from under him, and reaches up to boop his nose, grinning sharply. He pushes at Martin. "Up! I need to finish! What are you doing, pushing me to the floor! Ugh!"

\---

Martin clambers back up to his upright sit before the words click. “I didn’t push you! You made us fall!” Now he’s all worked up in a bad way. He wipes the spit left on his hands over Michael’s arm with an excessively aggressive motion.

\---

"Mm. Sure. Whatever." Michael rolls his eyes. "Sit still!" He gets back to the eyeliner pen, finishing up the first eye. "It looks good so far. pretty. You're pretty. Even if you're all pouty now."

\---

“Not pouty.” Said with a pout. “I was sitting still.” Martin looks up to find Oracle. “You know he’s causing it, right?”

\---

"Obviously," Oracle says, and rolls her eyes. "But you always give in to it, so it's not like it's just his fault. You know he's baiting you."

"I'm not baiting, I'm just--" Oh. Wait. Can't say that one. He told Martin he doesn't like just yesterday. "Maybe I just forget stuff. Huh? Think about that?" He leans back and looks pleased at Martin's eye, giving a small happy wiggle before leaning forward to start on the second.

\---

“I don’t always. Know. Or give in to it.” He can’t stay mad with Michael so excited, though. It’s literally impossible. “Sometimes he cheats and controls my mind.”

\---

"I don't control you, I just get you to stop thinking because otherwise you just don't do anything because you're too scared." Michael says, pulling the pen up around Martin's eyes.

\---

“I’m not scared. I’ll do anything.” Jesus, he sounds like a toddler.

\---

"Anything? So you'll stop getting embarrassed that I want you to fuck me?"

\---

Martin glances at Oracle again with another sad, pathetic look, then finally settles back to Michael. “...Maybe. Fine. It’s fine. I’m fine.”

\---

"Good. Glad you're fine. Ecstatic, even." He takes a q-tip and wets it with his mouth, then goes in on carving Martin's eye makeup to look a lot crisper, pulling up and flicking the eyeliner. "It's not even my fault that I miss her, anyways. Not my fault she's fun."

"Oh my god," Oracle says. "Are you really--?"

\---

Just clench your jaw and think happy thoughts until the pain goes away. Or assimilate it into your daily functioning, maybe. The perfect martyr. “Gerry calls it a ‘perfectly average workable penis’.”

\---

"A perfectly average... He needs to get better with words. I could write a poem about her if you want."

"I swear to God, if you're... Did we assign-- are we kidding? This is a joke? Hello?"

\---

“Please don’t write a poem about it.” Martin wheezes. “Stop. Gerry. It’s not. He’s joking. Can’t we talk about normal things instead? TV? Movies?”

\---

She barks out a truly obnoxious laugh, cackling as she falls to the floor. It's less of a fall and more an orchestrated gesture so Martin knows just how funny this one is. "I love it," She says, staring up at the ceiling. "And fine. Sure. No more cock talk. What's your favorite movie, miss Martin?"

\---

“That’s not my title.” He tries making his laugh a confident one, but it just comes off as the first sign of a hysteric breakdown. Doesn’t help he picked a hypothetical topic he actually knows very little about. “I don’t actually know... I liked Roger Rabbit. Um, old - old musicals? I don’t really have a favorite.”

\---

Oracle sits back up to scooch closer to the two of them, watching intently as Michael strokes mascara through Martin's eyelashes. "I think Beetlejuice is one of my favorites now," she purrs with enough intent that even Michael looks over at her for a moment with a curious look.

\---

Nope. Michael doesn’t get to know! Sorry, Michael! “There’s— There’s something wrong with you people. Actually wrong. It’s concerning. Did you plan this?” He gives Michael a plaintive frown. “You didn’t plan this, right?”

\---

"I don't plan anything ever," Michael says, and cocks his head slightly, looking between the both of them before returning to brushing out his mascara. "my plan was 'make Martin pretty'. Doing a banger of a job, by the by." He pauses. "There's nothing wrong with me."

\---

Martin hums, gently suspicious. There’s a lot wrong with all of them, but if he starts making a list they’ll be here all day and then eventually they’ll start talking about him and that’s not fun. “Fine. Thank you? For making me pretty?”

\---

"You are very welcome, Martin!" He says it with the gusto of a very well-behaved pet performing a trick. He leans back. "Nearly done. What color do you want your lips?"

\---

“You’re doing my lips, too? I, uh— I don’t know. Whatever looks good? I told you I don’t know makeup.”

\---

"Yeah, but even if you choose something gaudy, we already know you make gaudy sexy. Somehow. It's your superpower." He snorts and grabs a few tubes of differently colored ones. He holds them up. "Open your eyes. Choose?"

\---

Martin pulls a few loose strands of hair behind his ear so they won’t be in Michael’s way. He tries not to take too long deliberating, pointing hesitantly at one that’s not too far from his natural color. Just in case he’s wrong.

\---

Michael makes a humming noise and then nods, setting the others down. First, though, powder; he sets Martin's face and only then moves onto the lipstick, careful as he follows the natural curve of Martin's lips. When he finally leans back, he claps his hands together, utterly pleased. "Perfect."

\---

At least the way Michael doles out compliments feels genuine. The rest of it is odd, especially since he can’t see it and he’d been insistent on not having mirrors in the bedroom so the only option is likely an unflattering phone picture. But it’s not completely unpleasant. 

He can only sit in shy silence for so long. “Is this the kind of lipstick that, erm, that comes off on things?”

\---

"Yeah. A little? I imagine. Be careful!" Michael pulls himself to his feet and drifts to the closet to start looking for the dress he bought Martin.

\---

Welp. Michael didn’t notice, and that’s Martin’s fault for trying to grab hold of him too late, but he pulls his hands back the second he notices Michael getting up. It doesn’t even really look like a gesture meant to do anything. 

And that leaves him on the floor with Oracle. “Uh, so— How are you doing?”

\---

"Me? Peachy. Michael's right, you know. Pretty. He's fucking crazy, but he's good at... Whatever this is." She smiles at him, soft and quietly doting.

\---

What else can he do but giggle stupidly? What a bizarre reality to call his. Full of love. Full of weird. Full. Martin smiles back at her, and he has nothing poignant to say. “You’re pretty.”

\---

"Oh, am I?" She leans forward and wrinkles her nose at him. "Aren't you sweet. Michael said the lipstick gets on other people. See if you can get my cheek."

\---

No need to ask him twice. Martin tilts forward with both hands still ready to cup someone’s cheeks. He leaves a chaste peck off-center from the corner of her mouth, and it’s subtle, but there’s a slight smear left behind for him to be proud of. 

He keeps his hands there. He likes doing that with Gerry. Oracle. Either way, it tends to get the best faces. “Debauched.”

\---

Debauched, indeed. The look she levels Martin is soft, open, the kind of sappy she wouldn't have allowed herself to exhibit even just a week ago. "Ridiculously romantic, Miss Blackwood."

\---

“I’m not a miss. It’s— I’m not— The way you do it feels natural. Like, like instinct. Um, for me, it’s hard. I’m just second guessing, I can’t... can’t really turn it off.”

\---

Her smile grows. "I wasn't complaining, Marto. I'm fond of it."

\---

Martin tilts his head with a quizzical little smile. “You’re fond of me... Second guessing myself?”

\---

"I'm-- no, you being romantic. Christ. Duh, not the second guessing. You just say shit that's nice and sometimes, I'm receptive to it. Like right now."

\---

“Oh! I was— I was talking about the gender thing.” Now he has a proper chance to flip it around. Which he does happily, reaching her space again to mark the other side of her mouth and make it even. “The charms of Martin Blackwood strike again. I can even say I love you! See? No heart attack. You know I kiss the locket, like, like every day? At least once? I know you can’t feel it, but I like to think— I mean, maybe your soul can! Who knows.”

\---

Ah. A waver-blush runs through her all but immediately, and she doesn't even notice the way her hand automatically flies up to touch lightly where Martin kissed her. Curse him. She changed the subject to romance and now she's paying the price. "Oh. That's-- Martin." It comes out like a whine, something she so rarely does, because there's nothing she could say that conveys what she means. 

"We're going back to the gender thing now. Yep. Romantic sneak. If you think it's been easy for me, or anyone, then you're just seeing the parts you like and want to see. Not that that's a bad thing, but--" She smiles. "It's still kind of new, to be able to do--" she gestures down at herself, "--this."

\---

Can’t slip that one under the Eye radar, then. At least he got his moment of smug appreciation and a new image to keep tucked away in his brain for a bad day.  _ Oh, Martin.  _ Echoes and echoes and echoes down the caverns in his brain to nest and settle. 

“I do like all your parts.” There. Now he can do this. “So it feels easy. You just seem confident, and it— It really, really works. I like just being Martin? Erm. I mean. N-Not always, in the bigger picture sense, but, just the concept, more like a name than a... vague... set of...” He finishes off with a high ‘ehhh’ sound.

\---

"You can just play around with it. Like right now. With-- you just look feminine, in, in a good way? I'm excited to-- you know, see you in that dress. It's fun." She's having fun. And yes, it's harder than it looks, too. Just... Manifesting for frivolous afternoons than anything life-changing or important. Mundanity with the person she, well, loves.

Easier to be confident, too, when Martin manifests her in this mindset. Oracle. The name carries power, power in a way that Gerry never did, Gerard couldn't, in the way of its intention. She can throw some of the weight of Gerry to the wayside like this. Interesting. She wonders, sometimes, if Martin knows the power he truly has over her. He can't. But it's alright.

\---

Martin imagines the word Oracle and his heart does lots of little flips until the lever in his brain gives him happy chemicals. It’s a very complicated and powerful process. 

“I liked it in the Spiral, I-I wish I could figure it out, but it was— I was... more confident? I wish I could just—“ He flexes all his fingers out, then right back into fists in front of him. “No fear.”

\---

Michael pops his head out of the closet. "That's 'cause you were pretending.  _ Kelsie.  _ You were playing a character! I didn't know, but the Spiral did!" He steps further out, one arm holding the maroon dress up to drape over itself.

\---

“I wasn’t pretending. It was me. Not a character, I don’t do that.” Wait, Oracle knows about his old bar crawling days. Amendment. “Not in the Spiral. I wasn’t acting, it was just— Right place, right time?”

\---

"Oh yeah, super right place and time." Michael rolls his eyes and levels a look to Oracle. "Your man seduced me immediately after knowing I vomited about three different drugs out of my system. Super right place. Uh-huh." But he's got that wry smile on his face like he's joking.

\---

“Not immediately. I walked you to a nice bar, the Spiral let me find cash in my pocket, and then you took me home.” He’s sitting up straighter, now, like the usual stutter adds so much weight on his shoulders. “Then I posed for you and sat on the floor so you could paint my face. And about fifty other things!”

\---

"He did fuck me in the Spiral, but I don't know if that counts," Michael muses, and Oracle gives a choked laugh. Sure, she's confident here, but there is a candid crassness to Michael that even she isn't used to.

Michael gestures to Martin with his free hand. "Up and at 'em. Time to put this on for the moment of reconciling whether my makeup looks good with this or not."

\---

Martin moves to stand with a brand new can-do attitude. “We went over this. Of course it counts. Always counts. I’m still holding out hope I’ll find my way to the middle again.” His hands hesitate halfway through undoing his belt in surprise at his own casual tone, but he’s not stuck long. “It can’t look bad. Oracle can’t lie, and she said she liked it.”

\---

"Oh, the makeup is gorgeous. But we have to see if it matches," Michael titters, and grins, excitement clearly bubbling just under his skin. "You always sleep in the middle, anyways," He continues, holding the dress up by the shoulders so the skirt of it falls to its natural curves.

Oracle laughs. "That can be arranged. We just have to catch Jon in one of his moods, I guess."

\---

“Or we can get creative.” Martin drops his pants just after speaking. It takes him a second to find that completely hilarious. He snatches it from Michael and smooths out a few of his wrinkles while he tries to wrangle his smile. “Less work for you, more work for us. He only hates work if it’s not fun. I’m sure you could put him up to it.”

\---

"Careful," Michael says, and for once he's not even listening to the sex talk or thinking about it, preoccupied with the way Martin's going to put that dress on with a face of makeup. "Don't smudge yourself!" He takes a worried step closer.

Oracle snorts again, and shakes her head. "I'm sure I could. Wow! Who knew putting you in drag would make you a pervert!"

\---

“I always have vulgar thoughts in my head. You two can go on and on about my dick and all the sex we’ve had, but oh, no, Kelsie can’t share any thoughts.” 

He ignores Michael to pull it over his head. It actually goes very well, almost spitefully well, and he sets about fixing up the sleeves without a glance up.

\---

Oracle grins at his back as he's pulling the dress over his head. "Well, maybe we love talking about your dick."

Michael laughs. "Kelsie can share all the thoughts in the world if they're so inclined, I like hearing it! Careful with the dress! Christ above!"

\---

“Would you stop it? I’m being careful. There. Nothing torn up. Dick later. I like this one more already, I think.”

\---

Michael steps up to him the second the dress is one, hands all over him to press and pull on the fabric to make sure it's sitting right, hems all in the right place, and then he steps back and grins, his eyes lighting up. There's a softness to it, too, something quietly pleased beyond just the satisfaction of putting together a nice outfit. "Stunning. Now let's go down to the bathrooms to find a mirror so you can see yourself. You look beautiful, dear."

\---

”Not doing that. I don’t even know what day it is. We could just do a photoshoot in the office, maybe, or—“ He stretches his arms out wide. Much better with sleeves like this. “I kind of like it just for you! And we still need to do... her. And you.”

\---

Michael pouts. "Fine. I'll just take pictures, I guess. Not as good as seeing yourself in person. And I think it's gotta be like... Saturd-- Sun-- Tuesday?" He looks to Oracle for confirmation, who just shrugs helplessly. He huffs and plops down on the floor in front of their makeup mess, and pulls out his phone. No mirrors, not even a hand-held one. He'll have to make do. 

"Doesn't even matter," He mumbles, "'Cause anyone who sees you would think you're hothothot."

\---

“My favorite day. Sunsafriweduesday.” Oops. Might’ve missed one. “You three are the only ones I really care about seeing me. So it’s okay. Girl’s night number one is isolated to the bedroom-office.” 

She points at Oracle, other hand loosely clutching the locket. “Your turn.”

\---

Oracle rolls her eyes. "Sir yes sir. Better make me hot, too. If that's the mood for tonight." Her smile turns into a lazy grin and then she winks out of existence.

\---

Martin’s heart beats in his ears, loud and reckless. Call it a burst of inspiration in the face of a muse. He’ll do better than hot. 

Heliotropiums in bloom plucked for perfume, winking purple lights above the sky with all the stars for company, the one who gets to see both faces of the moon and every carving etched into the crust of nearby planets and all the signs that say ‘I love you’ made out of rocks on beaches, translator of ancient runes that tell a thousand people’s stories...

...But mostly someone happy, he just wants somebody happy in a way she’s almost glowing. In Martin’s world she’s something mythological, always has been, but he’s loved that she’s always been far more grounded for someone far above him in terms of perception. 

He hams it up a bit with a kiss to the locket and another impression that actually works. Shakespearean. Maybe it’s a point for Kelsie, spoken through a smile. “I summon thee, my favorite prophet-witch.”

\---

She arrives with glory. What an intention. The eyes are still green, but they blink with something purple, a little opaline flash as though they have irises of their own.

Makeup purple like he wanted; deep violet eyeshadow pulls into lilac, her eyes framed with eyeliner, but more striking, perhaps, is the deep purple, almost black hue to her hair, straight and shiny and trailing down her back, falling against the black fabric of her dress. It's subtle, but it's there, when it catches the light. 

Not exactly a summer, this one. Oracle grins at Kelsie around black lips, and then down at her own figure and spends a moment dissecting it. Well. Collaborative. She likes it.

\---

Seasons don’t matter when you’re playing with magic, you can do anything you set your mind to. Martin holds both arms out towards her for dramatic effect and beams at Michael. Well, he keeps looking back and forth between both of them, alternating between stupidly captivated by her and stupidly proud of the way this turned out, like he actually helped put any of that on. “See! You were right, purple works. Purple really works.”

\---

Michael looks up from putting on his foundation and grins at her. "Wow! Yeah. You look great! Sexy. Good job, both of you. Goth fucking princess!"

Oracle snorts, and makes a dramatic flourish. "It's not terrible."

\---

“Oh!” Martin’s smile grows. “You really are a princess. Wait— Wait, hold on. It came out.” 

He closes the gap between them and tries to pull her down a few inches with his hands up at her face. Fantastic, that he can’t smudge her makeup, all he can do is add on to whatever she’s put there. “Mind if I ruin it? Just a little?”

\---

"Go right ahead. You know I don't like perfection, anyways." She's pliant under his touches, letting him maneuver her where he wants her, her smile soft.

\---

He studies her face while he picks a good spot, and it also just coincidentally happens to be a great opportunity to look and look and look. He settles on one of her cheeks. That way it won’t mess up her own lipstick. It’s too nice for that. 

With his hands still hovering just short of touch, Martin looks to Michael. “Maybe we  _ should _ go out?”

\---

Michael brightens immediately, pausing in his eyeshadow application to beam at Martin. "Yes! Yes. We should. Hottest bitches who are owned by the Eye for sure. And then you can show off to Jon on the way out!"

\---

“Technically it’s a co-ownership, I think.” Martin scrunches up his nose. Not a very pleasant feeling with makeup on. “At least... for me? I should figure out how to make my own mark.” 

He pauses awkwardly. “Kidding. Just kidding.”

\---

"Are you, though!" Michael grins, cocking his head like Martin made the funniest joke in the entire world. Some of his hair falls into his face, and he pushes it roughly behind his ear, not wanting to get anything on it.

Oracle rolls her eyes. "Maybe you can escape it's clutches, but I'm pretty solidly within its fists, I think."

\---

“And mine.” Martin holds the locket in one palm for emphasis. “Maybe I’m not kidding. Maybe it looks like what I just left on her face.”

\---

Oracle rolls her eyes to shield how fucking sappy she looks right now; Michael mimes sticking a finger down his throat and vomiting.

"Don't flatter yourself, dear, your marks are invisible by design. I know this. And I know you're not kidding. Duh. You just don't like to admit it. It's quite funny, if it wasn't terrifying!" He's on his lips by this point, and punctuated his point by flourishing the tube of lipstick in the air.

\---

”Flatter myself? You sound confident for someone with a bite mark I made on your arm.” Martin breezes through it, but he isn’t sure how to address the rest and that makes him nervous. Terrifying? Invisible? Know, know, know.

\---

Michael's smile grows. "Why shouldn't I be? I like the mark." He adopts a very, very poorly done transatlantic accent, like he's a dame in an old black and white noir movie. "I'm yours, baby!"

\---

Martin forces his expression to turn unsettlingly neutral. “I know I just changed my mind about going out, but I’m changing it again. We can’t be let loose in public to torture people.”

\---

"I can behave for the sanctity of looking hot around others. Maybe Oracle's the one that can't control herself. Hm? You think about that?"

\---

“She’s the only one who can behave, Michael! Why do you think I’m not in jail for killing someone in an IHOP right now?”

\---

"Oh, I kept looking in on you then. You were--" Michael laughs. "Quite a lot even before you tried to kill me!"

\---

“Looking...?” Martin blanches. “You can do that? I thought you showed up coinci— The Spiral— What?”

\---

Michael blinks. "you think I--" He laughs, a surprised and quick little thing. "--Of course I, we, watched. We made-- it was transactional and you were mortal. Of course I watched you."

\---

“But you...” His mind roaming has him nervous again. Compulsively wringing his hands together behind his back kind of nervous. “How does that even work? And— And you were angry, like you didn’t know, so you...” Now he has to think about it. Hard to card through memories felt through a dark, hazy lens, though.

\---

"Don't try to make it make sense. Sometimes we not me saw, sometimes me, sometimes...." He shrugs. "Besides. There was a ritual afoot. Always makes emotions crazy."

\---

“Why would Michael Shelley be—“ Fine. Martin narrows his eyes. “Just that time of the month, I guess.”

\---

He squints. "Do you think the entities don't watch? Are you-- you don't think they see? Monitor? Survey?" He snorts. "Come on."

\---

“You said sometimes just you saw! You. Michael Shelley. You’re not an Entity.” Not by the definition he’s using, anyway. “Sigils really work, right? When— When we move in, and - and don’t want things to see us, is there even a symbol for that? Go away?”

\---

Michael rolls his eyes. "Shelley was and wasn't the distortion. I existed and didn't. They became me, which made them me, and made me not myself." He flips his hair over his shoulder again. "I could barely see into the Institute. Just a little. Sigils and protection work, yeah, to an extent."

\---

“What about a sign that says ‘Evil powers, go away unless you have an appointment’? Or— Maybe just ‘no soliciting’.”

\---

"Oh, yes, I'm sure that will keep evil clowns out. Fool-proof plan, Martin," Oracle says, and rolls her eyes.

Michael stands, satisfied with his makeup. "Maybe some can't, but some can just appear inside your home. Sigils are a good idea."

\---

“It might keep some evil clowns out. Just not, you know, cosmic ones. What do you even draw? More complicated than a symbol that looks like that and crossing it out?” 

His voice trailed off as he gets distracted by Michael. Just, as a whole. He’s very nice to look at. If the way he did his is half as good, maybe he’ll even enjoy seeing his own face. “It— You look nice, by the way.”

\---

Michael courtseys, his smile turning sweet and bright. "Thank you. I'll change. I don't know how sigils work, I just know the places I couldn't go."

Oracle hums. "I'll have to look into it. I remember doing some, at my mum's, but she did most of them, and she traded with these things, so it was different."

\---

“The Spiral, banned from the local grocery store for crimes we don’t dare repeat out loud,” Martin says with his own impression of some kind of spooky narrator voice. “Guess we can make our own. In the right place in my head I might— I might have good ideas? Maybe? They just sound so mystica—“ 

Martin jumps with how fast the thought hits him, smile turning confident and conspiratory as he flits between ideas. “Oracle, do you think— Do you think you could Know? What works and what doesn’t?”

\---

"I think I might actually be banned from a store or two. Huh." Michael says it from the dresser, pulling out his own dress. It's off white and yellow and blue and pink, the pattern intermingling to make it look longer than it is.

Oracle hums. "I don't.... Know? I think you'd have to... You know. Ask specifically. I'm thinking.... Maybe?"

\---

“I just have this picture in my head, like, like sitting down with you, and it’s sort of like a seance, dramatic, drawing it out.” Martin is potentially too excited about this hypothetical. Fixated on it enough he hardly registers the dress. “You know when you have both hands on the board and it makes letters, but— But for sigils? ‘Oh, Beholder, show us how to block off all the others and we’ll figure out the last’. But I guess the Eye wouldn’t like that, um, maybe.”

\---

She laughs a little. "It does seem to enjoy how much trauma we've been amassing in our bodies." She hums, though, thinking. "I don't think-- I don't think it can block me from Knowing, if I'm asked, though. The Eye doesn't like hidden things, even if it's....beneficial to it? Well, I mean, it hides stuff, but I bet it would prefer not to. And we really don't need it's precious darling Jon to be kidnapped again."

\---

“Cool.” Martin indulges in enjoying the mental image another second before he moves on. Temporary bliss. “No! No, we don’t. Thank you. No more kidnappings. Not a fan. We should— Should we show him? Sorry, off topic. Thinking about Jon now.”

\---

"Yes! Yes we should. Make Jon jealous of how hot we are." Michael grins. "That's so funny. Let's go."

Oracle blinks at Michael's back, and side eyes Martin. "Still not sure you made the right decision with this one."

\---

"I..." Martin bounces between the two of them, thinking he should correct Michael, that he just wants to show Jon for the novelty of it and maybe get him to smile, possibly, but that goes without saying. 

"Me neither! I think next time I bring someone home none of you should let me keep them." Very nice thing to say. Good work, Martin.

\---

"Oh, next time, huh? Counting on adding a fifth person to our little party?" She comes closer to knock her shoulder against his, lowering her lids to give him a Look. Her lids are painted, just like Martin wanted, but it's subtle, and blends with the rest of the eye makeup, hard to see unless she's close to him.

\---

Martin shrinks in a way that isn't entirely physical - he can only get so much shorter than her - but more about some bizarre, complicated deference to the way she looks at him. Not pushing back with his own weight. Not quite meeting her eyes with a hangdog smile. 

"It was hypothetical. Not-- I'm not counting, no." He shakes his head slightly, tone soft. "I-I mean I'm not counting on it. Hypothetical, as in I'm not planning that. I'm good. We're good. The 'next time' was 'if' but there's not really an 'if'."

\---

She bursts into laughter, and presses a hand to Martin's cheek, patting slightly. "Knew you were a horndog, but sheeeeeesh, Martin!"

Michael groans. "Oh my God can you guys stop flirting or whatever, I want to show Jon. I'm the only one he hasn't fucked, I need to impress him, you know!"

\---

Martin jerks away from her hand for the principle of it. Huffy, huffy, huffy. “I’m not— I’m not that, and if you think he does any of the fucking, you’re in for a shock, Michael.”

\---

"It was just-- like a saying! I don't know what position he takes in bed, that's the sad point!" He opens the door as he says it, and the sound one hundred percent carries down the short hall to the office.

\---

“He d—“ Martin locks up at the familiar creak of the door. Oh. He has to actually do what he said he would. Why does that freak him out? 

The only thing he can think to do with his jarringly sudden lack of mobility is grip Oracle’s dress.

\---

In the center of the office, Jon sits on the floor, sitting up straight as he can with his eyes closed. A couple files sit open before him, and an ashtray of cigarette butts are positioned behind him. His eyes flit open to narrowed slits when he hears the door open; he'd watched them enter the room, but hadn't exactly cared, in the middle of working, but now that he thinks about it, they've been in there a long time.

He can't see them yet, but he Knows Michael leads the pack and he Knows Martin is nervous and he Knows that Oracle is trying on this new name like the garment of her dresses and is surprised she likes it. And it surprises Jon how quickly all that information sorts itself in his brain and settles into a full picture.

"Ta-da!" Michael announces as loud as possible, at the same moment Jon says, "Michael, please don't yell at the top of your lungs." His sentence takes a lot longer to say, though, so Michael wins the volume battle.

And whoa, his thoughts dry up when Michael emerges fully made and dressed up, twirling so the skirt of his dress flies up. 

\---

Martin wants to tell Michael off, but his mouth is too dry for that. Confidence is easier to keep from unspooling the less variables there are to manage and Jon is a spectacular variable he cares deeply about. 

He wishes he could keep himself stable, is all. But he can't. He’s not. It’s not about the dress, not really, not the makeup either— Just, the novelty of it, having fun with this, wearing something that feels totally unique and odd against his skin. Open. Very open. Open to judgment and eyes and opinions. Inspected and analyzed and seen. His fingers quiver over Oracle’s dress, and the knowledge of how big this moment is or how normal this feels escapes him. Just because it’s him. Because it’s his own head, looping and looping and looping. 

A whine leaves his throat, quiet enough that Oracle is likely the only one close enough to hear.

\---

Oracle reaches out to take his hand, squeezing it once and murmuring, "It's just Jon, don't be nervous." She could make fun, of course, but she doesn't. As much as she'll tease about the presentation of gender, this is different. She knows this. Positive reinforcement.

"Did you--" Jon leans where he's sitting, trying to see into the small hallway. "--All? Get dressed?"

"Yep!" Michael twirls again. "Girl's night."

\---

Oh, right, just Jon. Sure,  _ sure.  _ Martin’s hand is limp in hers, barely conscious of how he’s somehow managed to step back in a way that had him peeking out from one of her shoulders and not entirely visible. 

Michael is still peacocking, which is nice, since all he can really muster is a tiny wave that might be pathetic if it was just him here.

\---

Michael may be peacocking, but the moment Jon eyes Martin, he has his full and utter attention. His eyes widen, and he sits up even more, somehow, his hands dropping to his lap and his mouth falling open a little.

Oracle is gorgeous, and Michael's looks are starting to grow on him in a way that isn't marred by fear and trauma, but Martin... Martin will always be his focus. Will always be his person in ways that still astound and surprise him.

"Martin," He says, and slowly gets to his feet. "Come here? Please?"

\---

When you’re expecting the earth to break violently apart from a rogue moon rock’s impact for no reason beyond irrational fear, it takes a few breaths to remember you get to take quite a few more of them as life goes on. 

Martin has no idea how he can listen to the way his name said across a room sounds from Jon’s mouth and still think the world is ending. He could have a hundred Archivists beneath his skin and Martin would still love him, and the reverse must also be true. Not that Martin is full of Archivists, but— Close enough. 

He slips from Oracle, making sure to brush past her shoulder so the brief contact spurs him on. His walk is punctuated by fingers wrapped around his opposite wrist to twist, to cover his front, not specifically to hide but to feel safe with hands in motion. 

And then he stops a few inches away, awkward and vulnerable with pupils massive spheres eclipsing his irises. Like he always forgets how much he loves to look at him until suddenly he’s there and overcome by it. What are you even supposed to say, here? “H— Hi?”

\---

"Hi," Jon says, and his open-mouthed gape closes into a quiet, private smile that's just for the two of them, and he reaches out, pulls back again and then reaches out once more, opening his hands for Martin's. He almost takes hold of his wrists softly, but refrains; he wants Martin to bridge the gap, and he wants this to be a moment of good for both of them. 

"This is a surprise," He says, and his smile grows. "I like it. I like-- You? Well. Love. But, u-uhm." Oh god, is he flustered? Around Martin? Again? "It looks good? It does. Gorgeous."

\---

Martin places his hands over Jon’s as an offering. Trust exists, if not confidence, and that takes him far enough to stand a bit straighter and soak up every word. 

“I love—“ He breathes out hot tension from the depths of his lungs, averting his eyes while he tries to process how he feels. Otherwise he’ll get too overwhelmed. Jon tends to do that to him. “I love you, too? I, um—“ He worries his thumbs over Jon’s fingers where they touch. “You— You really think that?”

\---

"Yes," He says, and shivers as Martin brushes against his hands. "Not just-- obviously not because of all of this, but-- I mean, it looks good! It does. You're always gorgeous, though. Always."

\---

That does the trick. Enough to embolden him into showing off a little, just once, slipping from Jon’s touch to give his own spin. It’s not nearly as loud as Michael’s, but it’s enough for him to find out he likes the way momentum has the dress flowing out around him. 

He’s never thought of his own laugh in terms of wind chimes, no positive descriptors to spare, but right now the imagery comes easily enough. “I like this one. Much better than pants. I— I like the arms, the— I like sleeves? Half the reason I wear nothing but sweaters. Safe. Not, not that I’m in danger if I don’t, but. You— You know.”

\---

Jon watches, and his smile grows, and he's certain he could stay in this moment forever. A lot of forever-moments, when it comes to Martin. When he finishes spinning, Jon steps forward again and drags his hands slowly, softly down the slope of Martin's arms, and he nods. "It flatters you? It-- I love it. You look confident."

Jon's heart is doing jumping jacks, a jackrabbit fever attempting to make his heart all the more visible to Martin.

\---

“God, me? If I’d known it was that simple I’d— I’d have done it a long time ago.” His knees won’t buckle like he’s in a cheesy romance novel, no, sir. 

He might throw up, actually. Love is a fatal disease. One that makes you stand between your partner’s arms and smooth out wrinkles in his shirt while you’re inches from his face. “Not huge on makeup, but I do like leaving lipstick on faces. There’s my review.”

\---

"Five star review." Jon says, and leans forward. "Want to leave some on mine?"

\---

_ ”Obviously.” _ Essential prissiness now out of the way, he pushes to meet their lips without any of his usual nervous courtesy. It’s romantic only in passion, not by aesthetics, clumsy and excited and just on the edge of too much pressure. Might leave more behind that way.

\---

Jon hums and melts against him. It's not like they don't kiss, or cuddle, or sleep together, but there's something always a little more intense, passionate, in these rare moments of utter romantic intention. Jon isn't a makeup man, by any means, but if it's makeup bestowed upon him by the lips of Martin... Well. Who is he to complain?

Ah. Martin's got him purple again. Making poetry in his head for the only man Jon deems worthy enough for poetry.

He sighs, tension leaving his shoulders, and when he pulls back, his eyes are wide, moon pupils orbiting the earth.

\---

“It looks awful. Perfect. Wait, wait—“ Martin brings his thumb up to smear it across the side of Jon’s mouth. He thinks it’s the funniest thing in the world, and it keeps him floating up instead of trapped in the deadly snare of Jon’s eyes. 

Not that he’d mind getting stuck there, but, well, they have things to do. “Now it’s perfect. And the wrong color for you.”

\---

Jon huffs out a laugh. "I'm going to look ridiculous all day." Because there's no way he's wiping this off. A temporary mark from Martin that shows him off to others as his? Duh.

"Are you three, uh, going somewhere?"

\---

“Three?” Oh, God, it takes him way too long to remember other people. “Oh! Oh. Right, um, I— We mentioned it, but I’m not sure, m-maybe? Depends. I don’t know where we’d even— Where we’d go out.”

\---

Michael rolls his eyes. "We just did it for fun! And... Whatever the fuck it is you're doing with Jon." He wrinkles his nose like this is the most disgusting display in the world. "And, by the by, I'm the only one without lipstick on his face from Martin and I'm feeling very left out! Just in case you wanted to check in with Michael!"

\---

Martin turns just enough to glare. Ruining the genre, Michael, thank you for that. “You’re the only one with makeup I can ruin.” 

He’s thoughtful that way. But he’s also in a mood now. “And maybe you didn’t earn it yet.”

\---

Michael raises an eyebrow. "Buying you a dress and doing your makeup and distracting you didn't earn it? What did Jon do? Creepy meditation? How did he earn it!"

\---

"By looking at me like-- Like that! It's a-- Just--" Martin huffs. "I don't know how you-- His voice goes all soft and it's--" 

His shoulders slump. No use trying to get this point across without making himself look like a fool. "I'll kiss you, too."

\---

"Only if you want to," Michael purrs, but he looks pleased as punch. "Then you can get back to psychically fucking Jon. He seems very good at it."

Jon scowls at Michael and says, "Thank you for getting Martin the dress, but you.... You don't have to talk about me-- psychically fucking?"

\---

“Gross. Don’t. That’s not what’s happening.” 

In a direct contradiction of his tone, Martin moves a few steps to grab Michael’s face, too. More rough than he’d been moving Oracle or Jon, meant to be a warning. Quick and vaguely mean-spirited.

\---

That's fine by Michael. The wrinkle of his nose is more akin to a snarl, his eyes bright and excited. Lucky he doesn't bite Martin, but he won't in front of Jon.

"It'd be okay if it was. You two, like, got married at a lake or whatever."

\---

Something about Michael is like kissing a firecracker. No blood necessary. Oh, speaking of. Martin speaks with the confidence of someone he isn’t. “That was our honeymoon. We got married in there.” 

He points to the bedroom.

\---

Jon blinks. "We got married in the bedroom? Was I--" He laughs, but it's with a note of curious amusement. "Was I not invited to the ceremony?"

\---

“Oh.” Martin swallows. “Bad worm joke.”

\---

Jon's mouth opens, closes, and then opens again, and he lets out an, "Ah," cocking his head slightly. "I didn't realize Jane Prentiss was a proper officiant."

\---

“Um. No, not likely.” Martin veers back in Jon’s direction, pacing a half-circle around him like he’s trying to suss out whether that’s a joke. He ends up indecisive, so... moving on! “I— I think I could dance in this.”

\---

Jon reaches out to him mindlessly, his head still cocked and a smile playing on his lips. "I know she wasn't. And-- oh. Oh, you could. Dance that is. I-- I'd like that. You dancing." Back to the romance genre.

\---

Martin takes both his hands and pulls him flush to his chest. “Can you lead?”

\---

Jon blinks, and his cheeks color. "I don't-- Martin, do I look like someone who learned how to dance?"

\---

"I don't know either! I-- She taught me! O-Oracle! Oh, did we, um, did we explain that? I don't..." He tilts his head in her direction. "I don't know how to, actually."

\---

"We could go to a club, or a bar, or a fucking art galley, but booo, Kelsie's gotta dance with his fucking husband," Michael grouses. It's not a real anger, performative at best, but it's still said with a nasty tenor.

Jon rolls his eyes, spurned on in confidence by Martin's... Everything. "Maybe if you didn't whine constantly, he'd dance with you, too, Michael."

\---

"And I didn't mean right now. At some point. It was on my mind!" Kelsie scoffs. "Why don't you sweep me off my feet and teach me to swing, Michael?"

\---

"Maybe I will! Ugh! You always want someone else to lead even though you're perfectly capable!" He growls. "Fine! I'll swing you! If Jon can't."

\---

"To learn how to lead I need a - a dance partner, I'm capable, I just-- It's not a crime to not want to lead! It's like rolling over without getting on the ground."

\---

"Puppy doesn't want to roll over? Such a pity," Michael purrs, and reaches out to lightly slap at Jon's hands, who in turn glares and tightens his hold on Martin.

\---

The joke is funny, up until it's not. Over time, different growl-sounds of varying depths have acclimated to the space in his throat, and some of them are playful. Some are fake. Some don't mean anything, and some are warnings. 

The one he makes right now is a severe one. The kinds that come without space to control them are the worst, the ones he only knows he's done when the moment has already passed. Compelling, a spiral, a protective reflex that is way, way too dramatic for the situation, it all turns out the same. A blip in consciousness. 

He just wants to be Kelsie. Or something. Just stay there. Martin swallows thickly. "Sorry."

\---

Michael pulls back immediately, and for a moment, his head is full of teeth, and death and death and death and he shouldn't be able to die, to be killed, he's something more, something endless, something twisting and shining and chaotic beneath reflective silver metal, but he knows these teeth kill and he knows these hands maim. He takes a staggering breath and then laughs nervously, trying to cover the flash of fear that fills the whites of his eyes.

His hands fly behind his back, and he laughs again, and says quietly, "It's okay." But it's not, probably. He'd like it to be.

\---

"Sorry," Martin says again, more desperate this time. "I'm not--" 

Scared of him. Michael is scared of him. Martin is someone that scares people. Something that kills people. Can kill people. Has. He pulls free from Jon, their contact a fire-hot brand of pain that exists only in his head as punishment. And he thinks he's allowed to play  _ dress-up. _ Be someone who doesn't hurt people. Make up some version of himself that gets to avoid all the pain of mental violence without any of the work, and oh, God he's spiraling. "I think I-- I should take this off."

\---

Oracle steps forward, and she doesn't touch Martin, but she comes closer, shaking her head slightly. "Martin--" She starts, but Michael finishes for her. 

"It's fine, it's fine, just-- just a memory. I'm fine. I promise? You look good, I wanted this to be fun for us, I wanted it to be good for us, and not bad, and--" He laughs, a wheezy thing. "I should stop thinking about memories as them anyways, it's okay, Martin?"

\---

“No, it’s— It’s not okay, I can’t do that to people.” Ah, and there goes the dam. “Or scare real estate agents. Or cab drivers. Or— It doesn’t matter if I look good, I’m— I don’t feel good. You all need help and I-I just ignore it, sometimes, so we can have fun, and it’s selfish, and I let us move on instead of— I don’t want anyone to look at me and get scared— And—“

Martin repeatedly wipes the back of his sleeve against his mouth to start rubbing the lipstick off.

\---

"We all scare people," Oracle says, and reaches out to take the sleeve of his elbow and tug, trying to get him to stop rubbing. Yet another shift in the air, and Oracle can smell the oncoming breakdown they'll all have, collectively, if this continues.

She eyes Jon from where he stands mute, and flashes a heated look at him, which spurns him, too, to step forward to Martin, but she shakes her head minutely and ticks her gaze to Michael, who's taken to holding himself around the shoulders by crossed and tense arms.

Jon, bless his heart, more often than not deepens the spiral of pain and trauma that swirl and flutter around them like butterflies. Martin's right; they do need help, and they need to be better with one another. But they can't hope to fix everything in one go when two of them are on the verge of freaking out and in need of calming down.

"You're just going to smear this and get it stained to your skin," She starts, "Not to mention just agitate your skin. We can wash it off in a sink. Or a shower. It's not selfish to want to have fun."

\---

“None of you scare me. I’ve gone after Jon. I’ve gone after Michael. I’ve gone after you. That’s not fair. It’s not— It’s stupid to pretend— Like— Like this look, there’s just this look you get.” Martin brings his hands up to his face to cover his eyes. He can feel all the textures and they make his skin crawl. “I don’t want to be looked at— I-I-I want to be someone else.”

\---

She sighs. She doesn't pay attention to how Jon is consoling Michael, because frankly, the answer is probably 'badly', and she's too focused on Martin right now, besides.

"The Hunt kills entities. Of course a growl here and there will spook us. Even if we're wary around warning signals, doesn't mean it's a permanent fear. Best to be spooked now, than have you snap from instincts."

\---

Martin inhales sharply, like he has something to argue back, but he doesn’t. She’s right. About the Hunt. “You know it’s not the only thing. I do— There’s other stuff.”

\---

"Stuff you never want to talk about." She raises an eyebrow. "Of course we're going to be scared of something we're not able to acknowledge."

\---

Martin pulls his fingers down so he can glare straight into Oracle’s eyes. Makeup comes with it. “How do you think I feel? I know the least of— Of any of you. About myself. About fear powers and gods and everything. Why is it— I don’t have words and I don’t see it! You all— You do!”

\---

"I can tell you," Michael says, and he straightens. He'd been holding onto Jon's wrist, but he pulls back now, taking a deep breath. "I tried to tell you yesterday. You didn't want to hear it."

\---

“Then do it. And tell Jon about the Crown, while you’re at it. Or— Or about all the things you know about the end of the world.” He sniffles. “Maybe everyone should stop saying it’s because of me they don’t say anything. Kind of— Kind of hard not to blame myself when everyone’s already doing it! I never want to hear it! It’s scary! But that doesn’t matter! It’s still there!”

\---

Michael blinks. "The Archivist certainly throws a wrench in my understanding, but- but so did you, you know. I couldn't-- I didn't..." He takes a deep breath, and Jon backs away from him to stare, and Oracle keeps her eyes on Martin. "I can't remember everything from when I was them was me was it, but now-- now I know that you cover people around you in cobwebs. I know now."

Michael looks ill, because he is. Nausea rumbles through him, as though he's remembering something he shouldn't and he's paying the price. Saying something that's meant to be hidden, breaking through thin gossamer strands of thread that cover his mouth and fill his tongue. It feels like that, but he knows part of it is just his own desires to forget, too. To pretend what's going to happen isn't right in front of him.

"A-As for Jon, he--"

Jon shakes his head, eyes wide, his gaze darting from Michael to Martin. "I know. I know; the Eye takes over."

"You become it. Swallowed by it. Exemplify it. No difference between you and the Eye. You take over."

\---

"So..." Martin starts, drawing out the 'o' longer than necessary. "We domesticate the Archivist and make sure Jon doesn't get eaten by a big eye,. Job done! Simple." He wipes his hands together like he's ridding his skin of dirt. It just gets makeup everywhere.

"That leaves... me. I guess."

\---

"To domesticate and control Jon, and his guest..." Michael says, and his voice is slow, deliberate. No slurring, no stumbling, no falling over himself. He is scared, but if Martin wants to hear this, his thoughts, then so be it. "The Mother of Puppets sent him you. It must be so." 

Jon blinks. "The-- Why are you so self-sure that Martin is-- Is of the Web? Martin?"

\---

Martin laughs. Bitter, short, frustrated. "I wasn't sent. And I'm not. I've never even met someone who-- Who is the Web, or whatever. Right, right, like-- I have secret evil meetings on the phone. 'Hi, Web, it's, erm, Martin. Plan's going swimmingly, mind telling me what it is?'"

\---

_ "Naive," _ Michael hisses, his eyes flaring. "You bound yourself to the Eye without knowing, and to the Hunt without knowing until Gerard told you, you bound yourself to me without knowing what it would do, and you think the Mother of Puppets couldn't... Trick you? Use you?"

\---

"I did know about the Eye! I was helping Jon! And-- And I said yes, I said-- The Hunt started, and I could've just-- But I didn't, on - on purpose! And I knew up on that roof, I knew by then, it wasn't-- The big stuff, it comes later-- It, it feels like a chance!" Martin bares his teeth, stepping into Michael's space. "I named  _ one _ spider. And I didn't get  _ worm _ powers, did I? No! I didn't! It's not all-- I'm not being used!"

\---

Michael steps closer, and jabs a pointer finger into Martin's chest, shaking his head. "We are all being used! That's the point. It's all we ever are! Pretending just their job easier, and faster for them!"

\---

"I don't use you! I'm trying and - and actually finding ways to make sure we're not used, I mean-- Gerry was used as a trivia book, but he's a person, and - and the only difference is he has people who treat him like a person and not a book! They can-- They can try and use us all they want, but if we're not using each other, it's--" His growl turns threateningly low. "--I don't put cobwebs anywhere! I don't even know what that means!"

\---

Michael growls right back and pulls away from Martin, just a little, and the red of his lips just dramatizes the way he drops his mouth open angrily. "What we have is good, it's the best we've got, but that doesn't mean-- Jon is quite literally possessed by a piece of the Eye come to spy and meddle? Gerard is literally tied to a book and owned by said piece of the Eye? I've died, and I'm still tied to this awful, horrible, place. That has nothing to do with us!"

\---

"So you think accusing me of being controlled by spiders adds up? How does it-- How does it even matter to you? You don't have to do anything for the Eye! You don't read statements, you don't--" Spurred on by Michael's retreat, Martin closes the same distance so nothing changes. "We proved with you that you can get out! It's not a tragedy! It's real life!"

\---

"Real life until Jon is ready to ascend to become the God of the new world, maybe!" His expression crumbles somewhat. "I still care about the world. Why do you think I'm here, yelling at you, instead of dead in some alley like part of me still wants to do!? Huh? I have a stake in this too!"

\---

"But we can keep it real life! That's the whole point of stopping rituals, and - and meddling, and sacrificing, and - and instead of killing myself, I'm throwing myself into this! And it might help! Has-- Has helped?" Martin starts to back off, pulling his arms around himself. Maybe it's just to prove he can. That he's not going to growl Michael to death over any confrontation. "You're still-- You're still not answering me. I can't change what I don't even know about - about myself."

\---

Michael smiles, and it's tired, but he doesn't think-- Maybe he shouldn't be so blatant about how he doesn't think they'll win. How he has no hope, for them, not in the way Martin does. Normally it's a balm, a salve to his soul to know that Martin believes, but right now? It just hurts. 

"I don't know everything. But I know what I've seen, and you-- You controlled that woman, and I didn't even want to move forward when you held out your hand, and I know-- I know, I know your Gamemaster dwells inside you."

\---

Martin narrows his eyes. That motion alone is more of a threat than any of his growls were. "You're the one who gave them names."

\---

"Maybe." Michael leans forward, and yes, he's not exactly comfortable, he's nearly frightened again, but he isn't shrinking away from this. "And I know the power of names, but it's not going to go away if it goes unsaid, it--" He laughs, and it's a mean laugh. "It just festers and builds, and that wasn't even wholly me who said that!"

\---

"So I'm a wheel. I'm a wheel with colors and names and every mark under the sun just waiting and waiting and incubating. You just-- You're just making me paranoid. First the Lonely, now - now this, saying it doesn't really help, either! It just makes me scared of things that haven't even happened yet! It doesn't-- It doesn't solve anything."

\---

"You yell at me for not telling you and now you yell at me for telling you?" Michael makes a frustrated noise, and he wants to spin, turn away, leave, but it's like he's caught by Martin, and he desperately wants him to see, to understand, to know what Michael is thinking, and he's too heated up to be worried about that impulse.

"I'm just telling you the things we always choose not to tell each other, and I've known different you's in the Spiral and I'm sick of not acknowledging them!"

\---

"Because I don't understand! You tell me things, but those things don't make sense, or - or aren't true, or things you don't explain, that haven’t happened, might not even happen," Martin grits out, just as frustrated. "Show-- Show me?"

\---

"I don't have it all, not anymore, not now that I'm not--" Michael growls and steps forward and shoves his wrist against Martin's mouth. "Fine. See what I know."

\---

A muffled sound hits Michael's skin as Martin half-steps away to keep balance. He has no clue what this is supposed to show him, and he's nervous to make a spectacle of himself with everyone just there, but-- Call it reflex. He sinks his teeth in and holds them there. Focus on Michael. Not all the anxiety. Not all the confusion. Not all the fear. Just Michael. 

He looks up at him and swallows, worry and expectation for some kind of answer this is supposedly meant to give blatant on his face.

\---

The thing is, Michael doesn't have much. What memories he has are half-formed and half-remembered, stitched and knitted together from the remnants of the Distortion that will always sit beneath his bones. But he isn't, as it is, the Distortion any longer, and he knows there's pieces missing. 

There's the memory of a spider, yes, but there's also the half-remembered snippets of a tea party, of the rooftop, of deeds and words that aren't exactly choked with spider's web, but rather the beginnings of some silky thread that wraps and wraps and wraps. Maybe it's wrapping around Martin, first, his own cocoon in his infancy. 

Blood dribbles from Michael's wrist, and it hurts, but the breath that leaves him is one of near-transcendence, pleasure, almost, like each droplet of blood is release, is the exhalation of another memory, another moment. It's easy to Show Martin what occurred on the stairs of that house when it's his memories leaking sullenly into Martin's waiting maw. He tries to quell the fear, but it is what it is; dull flashes of fear and hopelessness and the smallest glimmer of want, for in a world gone to fire, isn't it mercy to be controlled, to be told to enjoy, to be his, fully? But that part's small, and he knows better. Should know better. 

It isn't just the Web, because now Martin's got him thinking of names, and flashes of Kelsie, Kelsie, Kelsie ring through the disjointed memories, something distinct enough from Martin to feel different, worthy of a name, and really, it all collides together all at once into a thick red scab of a memory that is begging to be torn apart.

\---

Martin sinks deep into it. Down that patchwork rabbit hole he helped carve out, too. He knows, vaguely, what it feels like to slip between memories while the world changes around him piece by piece— the only difference here is perspective. 

Michael weaves him a cork board of events pinned together with silken lines cut from different colors. Pain and power and all the things that pull and pull and pull you into things you want you know will scrape. Cut. Shatter. Melt. Prod. 

What are they feeding? 

His brain pulses against his skull with each thump of his heart, or maybe Michael’s, bright red streaks of color across his vision until the streaks below his eyes are no longer dry. His eyes are wide, and his jaw won’t relax, that’s the fear, one he has to point inward at himself. There are other parts, too. Good and bad as discernible things that make him what he is. 

Finding where Kelsie starts and Martin begins sounds as complicated as separating Gerry from Oracle, the Spiral from Michael, the Eye from Jon, maybe even the Archivist.

Whoever he is, he’s overwhelmed, and he grabs at the front of Michael’s dress to hold onto something solid, a loose and unsteady gesture.

\---

Michael almost stumbles when Martin grabs him, and is utterly and completely thankful-- as much as he can be when his mind is clouded and his vision blurry and his existence an extension of the arm bleeding freely-- when Oracle comes behind him and keeps him upright, her movements slow and wide-eyed and confused, but helpful nonetheless. 

He doesn't try to pull back; Martin's jaws are tight around him, and the pressure almost feels good, feels grounding in a way he can't conceptualize entirely, but at least the painful flow of memory, memory, memory slowly begins to dry up to a trickle. 

"Sorry it's not everything," He mumbles, because he knows the Distortion has more, has solid memories where Michael's are loose like the wind, fragile. He lolls his head backwards, just enough that he can feel his hair cascading over Oracle's form, some of the more wild and unkempt curls just phasing through her as she doesn't see them. "But do you get it?"

\---

Martin finally lets go. He has Michael’s voice to thank for that, his anchor in the current of a storming sea. Now somewhat in control of his own body, his hand flies up to his mouth to catch the last rounds of blood his throat is trying to cough back up. Like it’s not pleasant enough. Maybe he hates the truth the same way the Eye hates lies. 

Some of it slips through the webbing of his fingers. He looks like a wreck. A horrid, messy wreck. “I... I don’t— I don’t know? I’m—“ He pauses, and there are too many strings. Too many ways to shape the room from all the corners and crevices, subtle and crawling and painful and selfish, to inflict a thousand different truths. His voice drops to a near-whisper. “I think I need to be alone.”

\---

"Are you-- Okay? Alright." Michael steps back and away from Oracle, the spell broken somewhat, and he pulls his wrist to his mouth to suck at the rest of the blood slowly trickling out from the puncture wounds. A scar that gets worse with every bite, with every misstep, with every venture into the spirals of their mind. Michael doesn't mind it. It connects him to Martin, which connects him to the earth. Grounded. Dirt. Mud. 

Oracle moves around Michael, and both she and Jon are mirror parrots of, "Are you sure?," though one has a calm, prodding voice and the other sounds near to panic.

\---

“Um.” He sniffles. Pathetic. “I— I think?” Too many eyes. There’s too many eyes and they’re all on him and he has a few things to think about with none of the knowledge of how to think about any of them. “I just... I, um, I want to wash this off, and— And maybe take a shower, and I don’t... really, um.” 

He doesn’t ask if it’s the end of the world if he is something. Something complicated. The little puppet versions of each of them taking up space in his mind have answers for all his questions pre-packaged, but only to the ones he’s already afraid of going wrong. Jon, specifically, needling and frightened of him, full of reprimands and judgments and warnings. 

Truths flash by, of unconditional love confessions and a thousand ‘it’s okay’s and acceptance and kindness and willingness to work with him, but he’s too busy painting his own backdrop. “I don’t really... know.”

\---

"Whatever you-- You need, Martin," Jon says, and he's quiet, low in his register, because he's afraid of sounding too high-pitched and frantic and scared, because all of this was too much, too much to add on top of everything else, but he can't-- he can think about all of that later, when Martin isn't close to falling apart. Maybe a month ago, two, he would have fallen apart with him. If Michael and Oracle weren't here, surely he would have, even now. 

But if everything that Michael says is true, and if Martin is what he's saying he is, and if Jon is going to be what Michael says he is, he has to stop-- He can't keep going about his relationship with Martin in such a haphazardly destructive way. Sitting on chests and boring out worms and losing one another in the chaos of their own minds, blind to the other and the other's needs. 

He feels frozen, and worse, he can feel something beneath his skin churning, wanting to feed on this pain, and it's all he can do to dig his nails into his wrists and mentally plead for him to stay at bay. He'll just make things worse. Now's not the time. Now's not the place. It should worry him, that he can feel his presence in his mind now, almost.

\---

“I, erm— Well, I think, uh, there’s being lonely...” Martin starts, almost visibly trying to roll in the ball of yarn that is his brain. Won’t ever fit snugly back in, though. “...and, and needing some time alone, a-and maybe needing one doesn’t make me, um,  _ that, _ I guess people have— Not always down to f-fear gods, and that, um, I think... yeah. Yeah. I think maybe... you all... might be good at taking care of each other while I’m, um, off! No spirals from me!” He laughs, and it quickly turns to mild, cornered panic. “Can I— Can I say that?”

\---

"Off?" Oracle asks, and she squints. "Martin, we all... spiral, or whatever. What are you-- You can say whatever, but what?"

\---

“I-I mean it might be easier to figure out what to do with... m... this... if I’m not causing— Breakdowns. If I’m not— I mean if I go down-downstairs, you’ll probably, you’ll all be able to— Talk... And I won’t make it... make it harder. And I can take this off, b-because, I, um, I think it’s—“ He looks down at the dress, the floor. “In big picture terms, I, um, e-exploring this doesn’t— It doesn’t really help. Anything. So I’m— I, yeah. Done with the...” 

He locks his jaw so he’ll stop talking.

\---

Oracle lets out a very deliberate breath and then thins her lips, debating what to say. Because he's saying a lot that needs untangling. Maybe not now. But eventually.

"I'm sorry you didn't like the dress," Michael mumbles, where he still holds himself, away from the others, and Oracle would throttle him if she could, but, well, she supposes he's breaking down, too, and probably hurt, and ugh. She just had to fall in love and find a family that was utterly wrapped up in the most insane, bullshit mess ever. Figures. 

"If you want to be alone, that's fine, but I can come with, if you want. You're-- You don't cause breakdowns, they just Happen. We're all a bit messed up, yeah? And a lot just happened." She can keep it together for now, but oh god is she going to have to process this all later.

\---

Martin stares into the blank spaces between them all so he won’t have to look. The fresh tears that start trickling bitter down his empty, mortified face at what Michael says aren’t paired with any noises at all. It’s not the dress. He loved it too much. It’s the thing under it that’s the problem. That Michael could even think that, that Martin could make him think that, is bad enough. 

If given the chance, Martin will spend the next several hours alone and trying to find out how to clean blood and makeup off of it. He’ll sit on the floor and work every sign of him using it to make up for something. That’s what he’ll do. And then he’ll never tell anyone about it. 

“No, um— Take— Help Michael.” He starts trying to will his body to move towards the door. “Please.”

\---

She clenches her jaw but slowly nods, and steps away from him, giving him the space to leave. Instead, she goes to Michael and takes him by the non-wounded wrist, and pulls him towards the bedroom, and she looks back at Martin to say, "We're here when you need us."

She looks to Jon and then back at Martin, and her voice is smaller, quieter, but she says, "I love you," And Jon's look in her direction is sharp and probing but he immediately echoes it, a soft "I love you" for Martin as well.

\---

Martin looks briefly between them, his own “I love you too” a wisp of a sentence that barely carries across the room. 

And then he’s out as fast as possible.

\---

Another breath leaves Oracle when the door closes behind him, and she stands still for a long few seconds, her mind trying to restart. 

Ah. Yes. 

She starts to pull Michael towards the bedroom, her other hand wrapping around one of Jon's wrists to pull him too, and Michael's docile enough to follow without a fuss. She'll bandage him up and remove his makeup and call it a fucking day.


	65. Into the Unknown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim and Gerry's new TV show where they solve mysteries but they already have a ghost on the team so it's just called "What the Fuck?"

Good morning, Timothy Stoker. Lovely, lovely day. Perfect weather for some snooping around in your upper-level absent (note: murderous) boss’ secret stash of books that no one should ever own with an angry ghost of a goth who once stalked these very halls! 

Forgive him, he’s excited. Been gnawing on the scraps out back in the yard too long and now his brain’s gone and turned to mush. Nothing some exercise and a pinch of thievery won’t fix, if they’re careful. Some  _ real  _ work. With a  _ real  _ person. Or, in the longform, with a volatile emotional state nudging up alongside his own that makes him very confident he can corral the situation into getting him some more knowledge that might come in handy down the line. 

Martin, however, he’s less sure about. Flighty as ever, but today he isn’t trying to hide well, so at least that adds a point to how well his day is going. Their conversation is astoundingly brief. For the way he keeps a hand on that locket at all times like a cross that keeps demons away, he gives it up rather easily. It just takes a few ‘what?’s and mentions of practical lessons of a chaste, archival variety before Martin is unhooking the chain from his neck. Tim gets the idea that they either talked about it beforehand, or… Oh, maybe they’re having a spat. Send him off to the wolves for ghost crimes. Martin did seem a bit sour.

Despite his mood, he still brushes it over with his thumb before holding it out. Sap. Tim will have to wring answers out of him eventually. But first! A date with destiny. A heist. He is in desperate need of some high stakes fun to take the edge off his hostile work environment.

_ “Yoink.  _ Thank you, Martin. I’ll have him home by nine. Cross my heart.” The wink does the trick. Mr. Blackwood’s lack of fulfilling conversation has nothing to do with any other complicated issues going on behind the scenes. At least, not any he knows about, so, yep, it’s the wink and a pat on the back that gets him right out of the quiet fretting zone and into his and Sasha’s office. 

It only occurs to him after a few failed attempts to ‘summon’ him -- A few ‘hey, goth ghost’s here, a sprinkle of ‘can you even hear me in there?’ that he gets a new idea. 

Martin didn’t think he’d be gone for very long. 

But, Timothy Stoker is nothing if not persistent. He is also not immune to humanizing the little ball like it doesn’t contain a grown man’s consciousness, and is actually a harmless puzzle that’s alive enough to be stubborn. He spends a few minutes visually dissecting the outside, inspecting and mulling over a few options he’s yet to try before lifting it up from its limp position on his desk to just shy of his face. The look he gives it is stoically harsh. 

“Psst. Hey, you.” He deepens his voice to something dangerously serious. “We have a book to steal, Mr. Keay.”

\---

He'd stayed around a lot longer than he'd wanted to, the day of the dress. Not that he wanted to leave, per say, but he'd wanted to ensure that everyone was going to be alright, wouldn't self-destruct the moment he left, and it was all the easier under the performance and summoning as Oracle. 

(He's starting to like her, whatever it means about him, and he can't quite untangle all that is him and her and both of them, and what it means, but he's not too pressed about it; Oracle Is and Gerry Is and they are one and the same and one name somehow allows him to be calmer. That's enough, he thinks.)

So he hadn't left until Michael was de-makeupped and passed out on the bed in shorts and nothing else, his hair carefully french braided to keep it out of his face as he slept. Hadn't slept until he was sure Jon wasn't going to implode in the office or else let the Archivist take over-- maybe interrupting him in the middle of meditation helped him keep zen or whatever the fuck, because while he was confused, scared, standoffish, he wasn't... well. Gerry knows how he can get. 

Which left Martin. He'd made sure he was fine, and cleaned, and not hurt, but that seemed to be about all Martin wanted from him, and to be left alone at that, and Gerry wasn't about to tell him no to being left alone. How many times had he disappeared while they were on the road in America, just because he didn't want to deal with another living face anymore? It'd be hypocritical to corner Martin with attention. 

All the stress, though, and he must have slept a while, because when he hears and comes to the call of Timothy Stoker through the ether, he feels well-rested in that way that tells him he's slept at least a day or two.

Gerry arrives thinking of books, his eyes lighting up in fond curiosity in the chair before Tim's desk. He manifests with his feet propped up on the solid wood, thumbs tucked into his belt loops, and he cocks his head at Tim as the eyes settle back into his form. "Good to know others can summon me for nefarious deeds as well," he greets.

\---

“Ah, there’s the man of honor. You didn’t age a day!” Tim shoots him a wide, bright smile and lowers the necklace back onto the desk. Quite proud of himself for this one. Yes, he is. “Nefarious deeds in-deed. Still up for it, then?”

\---

"If it means ruining Elias' day even a tiny bit, then yeah, I'm up for it." He lowers his feet and slowly brings himself to stand, stretching high above him and arching his back. It's grounding, sort of, in at least a psychological sense, if not a physical one. "Did you steal me, then? Or actually talk to Martin?"

\---

Tim sits back in his chair and watches the show. Cool ghost. “No, God, no stealing from him with where we’re at. I’m a gentleman, and I asked nicely, thank you.” 

He raises an eyebrow as he keeps his eyes steady over Gerard’s, an invitation to offer up new details without Tim needing to supply any of his own.

\---

"Ah," He says, and holds his hand out for his locket. "Where you're at?"

\---

Tim scrapes it up and tosses it his direction. “Mm. Not best friends yet. You don’t wear a ghost unless you really like it, and I care about not burning that bridge, so, there you go.”

\---

Gerry snorts. "I see. Well! Let's get book hunting." No need to ask about Martin and sound desperate. Or worried. Or even unsure.

\---

“Perfect.” Tim hums thoughtfully. “Still in Elias’ office, then?”

\---

"Yes," Gerry says. "Why today? Just too antsy, thinking about it all alone up there?"

\---

“Why not today, is the better question. I had some room in my busy schedule to—“ Tim chuckles, shaking his head at himself. “Honestly, yeah! Antsy is a good word. I’m itching to get to work on something that doesn’t involve scrolling mindlessly.”

\---

"Alright." He starts to walk towards the elevators. "A baby hunt. Can't imagine Elias keeps anything properly locked down.*

\---

Tim stands up to chase after him. He forgets to keep the motion controlled, and the sound of his chair scraping along the floor makes him grind his teeth. No matter, they’ll be out shortly. “Right. But, uh, if you’ll indulge me, imagine it’s a wild one? Trip into the unknown. General supplies for the paranormal beyond your everyday breaking-and-entering?”

\---

"Guess it just depends, you know? Each hunt for a book is different, and--" Gerry blinks, and then let's out a short laugh. "Tends to be a lot of breaking and entering, now that I think of it. They're usually in someone's possession."

\---

“Right. Like an Archive, for one. Handy place to store evil books. Especially if they look old and gross to touch. Hiding in plain sight, or— Well, if this one’s in Elias’ office, mm, not so much.” 

Tim presses a button on the elevator with his elbow and ushers Gerard inside.

\---

"Only a madman would break into his office, Yada Yada. Least I'm a ghost." He snorts. "Hey! Think he'll show up for once? 'I can just taste the stink of some goth in here, blegh'."

\---

“Pfft. I’d be surprised. All the nonsense we’ve been up to? For a guy who used to ‘drop in’ by complete coincidence while I shared private notes with Sasha?” 

Tim crosses his arms in the elevator. The gesture is nothing like the closed off, nervous tic so many of his fellow coworkers tend to display. “Something’s up there. Finding out what is part of my side quest.”

\---

"Your... Side quest." If nothing else, so far, Tim has shown Gerry how very, very little he knows in the ways of normal society. And while Tim isn't normal, he's clearly been gifted the opportunity to actually plug into culture in a way he hasn't. "The book is there, for sure. Don't know what else is. Kinda got... Uh, reprimanded hard, for snooping around here. When I was still alive."

\---

Tim bites back a nasty comment about book thieves and snooping. “Looks like you get to teach me this, and I get to clue you in on all sorts of new vocabulary. Exciting. Side quests are optional. You’re focused on the main goal, yeah, but if there’s a side quest that happens to be on your way, might as well.”

\---

Gerard raises his brow as he thinks about it. "I see. Funny how the stakes raise, then, since book stealing used to be my-- main? Quest." He snorts. "No wonder I never made it in regular society. Insular terminology."

\---

“Ha! Catching on quick. Soon we’ll have you DMing our very own office 5e campaign.” Tim shoots him a grin that manages to be both cheeky and encouraging. “We’ll get you acquainted with modern culture. All in due time, Mr. Keay. All in due time.”

\---

His laugh is quiet, even as he crosses his arms. "Modern... Mr. Stoker, I think you mean pop culture. I'm not that old. I'm, what, like five years older than you? Come on."

\---

“Five years older and more than a few behind. I know modern culture and pop culture. I can even call it ‘contemporary’ culture for you.” 

He turns to face Gerard and holds out a hand. “Quiz. You just stumbled across an old casual friend. How do you shake hands?”

\---

"... By... Shaking their hand?" He cocks his head and then takes Tim's hand, his face crumpling a little at the ridiculousness of this entire exchange. "I don't have old casual friends."

\---

Tim slides his palm back along Gerard’s before they can fully clasp together, and then balls his hand up into a fist. He keeps it there in the air expectantly without a word.

\---

Gerry blinks and gives Tim a very, very flat look. "I'm not doing that." He pulls his hand back. "It's stupid. Fail me, I don't care."

\---

“Oh, come on, grumpy. Take a guess.” He holds his fist out higher. “Not a test. I’m giving you examples! Learn by doing, eh?” A little higher. “Eh?”

\---

"I know what you want me to do, I just don't want to do it. Asshole. 'Grumpy'. Ugh." He wrinkles his nose. Is that how Martin feels? No wonder.

\---

“Are you  _ sure? _ I thought I was the expert— Maybe you have no clue!” His eyes are practically sparkling with an unspoken ‘do iiit’. “Don’t leave me hanging.”

\---

The glare Gerry levels Tim is almost with enough hateful intent to make them glow like his tattoos. They don't, but it's almost there. He fist bumps Tim the fastest anyone has ever done a fist bump in possibly the history of the world, and thank God, the elevator opens and Gerry slips out as quiet as a ghost.

\---

Tim keeps his proud grin to himself, but not the quiet  _ ”Boom.”  _ Force of habit. It’s not hard to get the impression that acknowledging it too much won’t do him any favors. To business, then. 

“Hey. Ever tried walking through doors? Locked ones. Might come in handy in about...” He motions with his arms to check an invisible watch. “...Five minutes.”

\---

"Yeah. Just feels weird. Takes a second to pull myself back to something solid again." Well. At least Tim isn't dwelling on it. He's happy he can't blush, but that pesky waver of visual interference is just about as obvious of a cue, so it doesn't help much. "I'll unlock it from the inside for you."

\---

“Fun. Ooh, what about going invisible? Floating? Possibilities. Endless.” Tim’s mind chugs on like a coal-powered train. “We’ll make a situational comedian out of you yet.”

\---

Gerry raises his eyebrows. "It's not that simple. Non-human powers," He holds out one hand like a scale, and then the other, "Dissociation so complete I might just disappear entirely." He tilts his hands up and down like he's not sure which has more weight.

\---

“Mm. Mixed bag.” Tim shoves his hands in his pockets, steps in line with a confident swagger that draws attention from his eyes roaming the halls for anything unusual. “Just watch for, uh, your necklace. Unless that goes through doors, too. But— Hey, I’m banking on it being locked, but who knows. Maybe he left it unlocked.”

\---

Gerry blinks. "Oh. The necklace. Right." He pulls it from his neck and hands it behind him, the ball of the locket swinging slightly. "Too corporeal. Don't know if I can make other things incorporeal yet, but I'm not experimenting with that today. I'll bank on it being locked, too."

\---

“What you need is a training montage.” Tim opts for shoving it into his pocket, this time. Safer that way. Secure. He keeps himself mercifully quiet and devoid of questions the closer they get, his own little journey through the hallways of the Overlook Hotel. No spooky murder twins at the end of this, just long, creepy hallways.

\---

"Probably," Gerard says. "Though don't expect me to do any of that-- what was it? Running up and down the steps in like, Philly? Fuck Philly. Pittsburgh was bad enough." He eyes the placement of the locket and gives a nice solid nod, and continues down the hallway, satisfied. 

This shouldn't be too hard; by all recollection, everyone's said Elias is gone. And really, what would Elias even do? Reprimand a ghost? Please.

Well. Honestly. Who knows what tricks he has up his sleeves. Regardless, he's not worried. They can burn it in the courtyard, Gertrude's warnings be damned, and call it a day.

\---

Tim makes sure to pull forward a step ahead, a combination of protective flanking and a plan for a copout he forgets to share with his companion all in one. 

This place has always skeeved him out. For such a normal place, it has doom practically written right into the wood. That thick layer of fear he always thought was etched into every boss’ office, but now— Now, while he scratches idly at the back of his neck to clear the prickling sensation of being watched by nothing, he’s not so sure. 

Either way, Tim leans up against the doorframe to their distant overlord’s lair and flushes those thoughts away with a confident set of knocks. One, two, three seconds, then a few more, a couple for measure. He addresses Gerard, next, not the door. “No one home?”

\---

"Guess not." He pulls in a deep breath, and addresses the door with a piercing look. He's gone through things, but it's not often that he's done it on purpose, and it takes its own kind of focus to unfocus himself from this world. "I'll unlock it from the inside. Give me a second."

He's never actually been in Elias' office. Not allowed to work here, not technically, not legally, not wanted. Normal situation in his life, really. Unwanted, unless he's useful. Not useful enough. Needs to be better, in the usefulness department. Yada yada. Maybe Elias Bouchard just didn't like how he looked. 

Gerard steps through the door, and the numbness in his skin is intense as he does so, a cold, icicle nothingness that his mind, whenever it feels this, almost craves to be permanent. He gets through the grain of the wood and immediately tries to re-materialize, lest the thoughts become too much, and after a good minute of reconfiguring himself, he reaches forward and tries to unlock the door. Misses, the first two times, his hand swiping right through the lock, but he lands it on the third with a solid click and says, "You can open it now."

\---

Tim is patient. Not always, but he likes to think he can manage when it really counts. Like now. Not hard to stoke up a little sympathy in his heart for a goth ghost who has to suffer in the astral plane to do incredible things. 

Not patient enough that his hand isn’t hovering over the knob with hair-trigger readiness, though. He swings it open before Gerard finishes the full sentence, beaming at him in the doorway. 

“Huh. I love what you’ve done with your hair, Elias! Fancy giving me a raise?”

\---

Gerry raises his eyebrows, and gives an open-palmed shrug. "Whatever you can take with your grubby hands from my office is yours. There's your raise." 

He turns and takes stock of the office for the first time; it's modern with an antiquated flair, artifacts and trinkets from a life in the occult and in service to the entities, while still somehow feeling cold. It's all so very Elias.

\---

“Fair enough, bossman. You know, I’ve wanted my hands on a book. I know, I know, we work in a big library. But there’s only one copy of this one.” He walks into the space of the office, spinning around to soak up the surface details with a singular focus in mind. “Seen anything like that?”

\---

Gerry presses a finger to his lips and hums. "Not sure, really. Might have to tear the whole place apart to find that one. What a shame." He steps closer to the desk to start sorting through everything. No dust, so who knows where Elias really is. Scary, almost, that he could just be ghosting about without any of their knowledge.

\---

Tim hums thoughtfully as he watches Gerard peruse. Easy enough to hop up on the thing to get a better angle. Maybe pick out something he misses, should he miss it. “Should I be worried about fingerprints, Keay? Mine. Not yours. Not like he can fire me, but— Eh. Hoping for low profile. Can’t start a career and end it in the same heist, can you?”

\---

"What's he gonna do? Turn you in to the cops?" He rolls his eyes and starts pulling out some of the drawers to rifle through the papers there. "'Oh yes, constable? My dearest employee who has no choice but to work for me stole an evil book that is from an evil man that oh, by the way, I killed?' C'mon. Clearly he wants you working, if he shackled you here."

\---

Tim rolls his eyes right back to show him how stupid it looks when he does it. “Shackled to the Eye. Nice band name.”

He pops back off to the ground and scoops up an ornate magnifying glass left on the desk. Gold trim, obnoxiously heavy, fun for closing one eye and scanning the room with. “We could use your search engine powers. But, unless my eyes deceive me, you look like you’re having fun being nosy, Keay.”

\---

Gerard absolutely does not look up, continuing instead to rifle through and read through Elias' personal notes and files. "Maybe so," He mumbles, and scans a few pages that he knows aren't the book, but are interesting nonetheless. "Like you said. Shackled to the Eye. I rather like to read things, you know."

He finally glances up, just fast enough to get a peak of Tim's big fucking eye in the magnifying glass, and it surprises him enough that he laughs without a filter, one of his hands flying up to press against his mouth, like he's embarrassed at having done so. Fuck, he's not used to the juvenile energy of one Timothy Stoker.

\---

Tim’s smile softens. He needed this. Whatever the hell this all is, he needed it. For a long time, actually. 

Drop that one right into the accept-and-notice-but-say-nothing pile. “Now this place, Keay, is Scooby Doo. Perfect example of an evil monster’s hideout. Clues, clues.” 

He ditches the glass on one of the tables at the wall to swap it out for a skull. He aims it to stare sightlessly at Gerard. “Seriously. It’s a whole Party City in here! Who keeps their office like this?!”

\---

"Elias Bouchard, evidently." He places the files back as they came, and raises an eyebrow at the skull. "Most of his shit is way more boring than that. Which is real, by the way." Gerard stares at him for a moment, and then says, "Alas, poor Stoker, we hardly knew ye."

\---

Tim tilts the skull to face him, narrowing his eyes at it in a mock staring contest. Then back to Gerry. Then back again. “He’s offended. Not very original, Mr. Keay.”

\---

"My pool of references you'll get is far smaller than yours, so you'll work with what you're given," He says, opening up the next drawer to shuffle through. More files and a small, thin stack of letters from Peter Lukas, hullo, but it's still no book, just interesting.

\---

Tim places the skull back down and picks up the magnifying glass. He just wants to put it back where he found it. He might be asking for trouble, but he’s not completely self-sabotaging in his efforts. 

The next place he ends up is seated in Elias’ chair. He raises an eyebrow to Gerard as he paws around the underside of Elias’ desk, like he’s trying to find a secret switch or some other evil contraption. “Anything fun?”

\---

"Letters. Nothing really interesting, but," Gerard shrugs. "I like knowing who our evil overlord is talking to." He closes the drawer and opens the next and-- ah.

Quite a few books, though he's certain most are normal. He starts pulling them out one by one, setting them lightly on the desk. The Leitner though, the Leitner glows, almost, something sharp and dizzying bright, like it's just in better focus to his eyes than the rest of the world.

He tries not to scramble for it, but he is excited, and shoves the rest of the books hastily on the desk in pursuit of the small, almost brochure-like book.

\---

“Whoa, easy.” Tim pulls the seat forward to card through the books Gerard leaves behind, since it seems he’s got the main quest handled. 

“‘The Last Cradle’. ‘Death of the Laughing Beast’.  _ ’Lure the Night’.” _ The last one is said with particularly spooky intonation. “Wow. Well, we all learned something today. I know what to get him next holiday party. Pulpy mystery novels.”

\---

"Not very academic. Bet he has these hidden 'cause they're trashy," Gerry murmurs. The book in his hand buzzes, and where it touches, his fingers jump and jitter with interrupted frequencies. Curious.

He steps back enough to straighten and read the title. "'Seven Lamps of Architecture'. Well. I reckon this one is safe to burn."

\---

“Architecture.” Tim pauses, something brewing at the back of his brain. “That’s the one?”

\---

"I imagine," Gerry says, and puts it on the desk for Tim to look at. "Even if it's not the one, it's a Leitner, and I'd love to destroy it." His hands stabilize the second he's not holding it, and he shakes them out.

\---

Remember rule number one, Stoker. He picks it up and thumbs the spine, flips it over, notes the flecks of dried blood along the surface. But he doesn’t open it. Instead, he lays a palm flat over where he drops it back onto the wood surface. “Let’s get out of here.”

\---

"Can you pocket it? Or is it too big?" Gerard slowly closes the drawer where the book laid, and tries to scan around the office to make sure everything's been put back where it's supposed to be. Not that it matters, obviously he'll know a thief's been running amok once he realizes the book is gone, but... Anything that buys them some time is always a good thing.

\---

“Hm.” Tim takes the book, and this time he doesn’t spare another glance at it before shoving it into his back pocket. It sticks out, he can tell that much as he half-turns to check, but he can handle that. 

He pulls his shirt out from where it’s tucked into his pants, exposing his midriff for just over a second like the motion has become muscle memory. Once he pulls it back down, he’s pretty sure the shirt is long enough to cover him up. “Eh?”

\---

Gerard regards him for a long moment, and yes, that means look at his ass for a second to verify the book is hidden, and then he straightens all the way and nods. "Serviceable. Let's go. You leave first; I'll lock it from the inside and meet you out there."

\---

“Roger that.” Tim heads to the door, turning on his heel to face back into the office. Two finger guns and a wink. “See you on the other side.” Exeunt.

\---

"Dangerous words to say to a ghost," Gerry replies, but it's with humor in his voice, not malice. He's thinking, as he stands in the office alone for a moment, that he needed this. What with everything else in his life seemingly imploding through miscommunication and unaware entities taking control, at least Tim's easy-going nature-- when not otherwise fuming angrily just the same as Gerry often does-- is something of a balm. 

And it feels nice to teach, to be in a position where his knowledge and his life is actually bloody useful for once. 

He clicks the lock to the office door, and steps through it, dematerializing again and rematerializing in the same moment. Shaking out the tremors through his form as he reconstitutes himself, he glances down the hall and-- 

"Oh. Fuck." His voice has more interference in it than normal, because he's not quite at 100% yet, but it's still spoken low and dangerous and worried, because, well, of course it wouldn't be this easy. Jon told him once the ease at which it took to get him retrieved from the police station storage, and maybe this is his fucking karma coming back to reap what he sowed then; Elias is here.

\---

Tim is geared and ready for a party to celebrate Gerard’s return, up until the very second that static intonation crackles along the back of his neck and into both ears. 

He has a tiny, tiny second to think up how to handle this. He knows before he turns around that it’s Elias, has to be, that’s how their narrative is. Throw Keay under the bus and save his own ass is an option he doesn’t consider. It’s too late to have him vanish. Mmmm. Hmm. Ha. Uh. 

Well, shit.

“Hi, Elias! Funny timing— I was just about to knock. Saved my arm the trouble!”

\---

Elias is all smiles as he approaches the two of them, his hands behind his back and a very dangerous glint in his eyes, indeed. Gerard immediately feels a wave of revulsion run through him, being stared at by him; he's gotten far too accustomed to being seen, and these eyes are toxic eyes to behold. 

"Mr. Stoker! What a pleasure; it's been quite some time, hasn't it?" His voice is smooth, not suspicious yet, and then his gaze slides from Tim to Gerard and his eyebrows immediately jump into a mock point of surprise. 

Gerard's only met the guy in person once or twice, and it wasn't exactly... Hm. Pleasant. Elias clearly didn't like him. And now? That dark look returns, but there's a game to it, something bright and sharp that never was there before, something excited in a way that would make the hair on his neck stand up if it reacted to stimuli like this anymore. As it is, he holds onto his wrist and wills himself to stay solid and not waver even once. 

"And Mr. Keay. I heard rumors of your... reemergence, but I didn't want to believe until I Saw it myself. Back from the dead, are we? Quite a talent you've got there."

\---

Tim’s confidence builds, builds, builds until he’s sure that playing dumb is the way to go, and then— 

He knows Keay’s a ghost. Okay. What does that leave him with? “Uh.” Tim laughs, good-natured and in on a different joke. “Right? You know the world’s gone mad when the goths come out at noon. I was just giving him a tour of the place. Thought I’d stop by and show him where your office was, and— Well, guess I gave him one better!”

\---

If possible, Elias' brows raise further, and he redirects his attention on Tim. Scrutinizing. He's been keeping an eye on his archival staff, even the ones that haven't gone off to accelerate his plans, and my, the work he and Sasha James have done. Quite proud, he is. If he weren't playing everything as hands off as possible at this point-- seems to be working, so far-- he could have helped them accelerate things even further. 

But there is a certain pleasure he's gotten, watching both parties scramble about to figure out this and that and who's and what's and meet in the middle in such deliciously volatile ways.

Though he wasn't a fan of the damned goth-- for good reason, him being Mary Keay's bastard of a son-- he has to admit, he's done good work keeping them all on track. Not to mention the invaluable research into ghosts that his very presence provides. Notebooks and notebooks and notebooks of notes, at this point. 

Not to mention how very useful those ill-designed tattoos have come in handy, over the past few weeks. 

"Certainly he's told you he used to haunt these halls even before being made of... ectoplasm!" He says, and his grin is sharp, probing, cocking his head just so to make it apparent he doesn't quite believe Tim. "Gertrude used to bring the mongrel in for... God knows what. Whatever that woman thought was prudent at the time. Surely he told you he's been here before!"

\---

Tim shapes his discomfort into a look of— Let’s call it discomforted confusion. Discomfort of being caught turned to discomfort at having his new, completely alive goth friend referred to that way.

“I’ll be honest, boss. I... kind of offered! Just can’t help myself. A guy like this walks in, I want to be the first one on details so I can go, ‘hey, guys, you’ll never guess who I saw’!” 

Tim’s smile is half-formed and awkward, for him. “I didn’t give him much of a chance to say so. You know me. Chatty.”

\---

Gerard gives a solid nod, and says nothing to the effect of agreeing with Tim's point of view, or disagreeing. Quite frankly, he's not sure he could do anything but disagree. How to get away with this when he can't even lie? Ugh. 

"Nice to see you again, too, Bouchard." He says, instead of backing Tim up. He raises his hands up. "Don't worry. Still not on your payroll. No harm no foul."

"Hm. Quite." Elias looks between the two of them, and his smile slips a moment, before growing once more. "Well! Be that as it may, I do have work to do. Mind your snooping in the future." 

"Sure," Gerard says. 

Elias gives him a slow look and then filters his look back to Tim. "Mind the dress-code in the future, Mr. Stoker. Ta!" He sidesteps both of them, giving them ample room to leave.

\---

Tim squints at both of them throughout their sandpaper dialogue. The smile slapped onto his face does wonders for making the suspicion seem pleasant. He waits his turn, he absorbs, he keeps the paranoid beast at bay. 

Then the spotlight falls on him. He activates. “Ah. Will do, boss! As we speak.” He lifts both hands to fix the top button of his shirt, facing Elias at an angle while he passes by. Flying false flags. Don’t look at my ass, Elias Bouchard. I know, I know, difficult to manage, but it’s for your own good.

\---

Gerard says nothing until they're down the hall, instead working on escaping the situation in as normal a way as possible. He keeps a vice grip on his arm; nothing there, of course, but it keeps him focused, grounded. Fuck, he can deal with creatures and monsters and entities of all kind without getting a fear response, and all it takes is the strange energy and aura and marks wafting off of Elias Bouchard to turn him in. His face falls the moment they're behind him, lips a thin line and his jaw tight. 

"Alright. Amazing. Boss is back in town, it seems. I thought you said he was  _ gone?" _ His voice is a hissed whisper; no way Elias should be able to listen in, but, well. He's pretty sure Elias can see whatever the fuck he wants, quite frankly.

\---

“The boss is back in town,” Tim half-sings to a tune, wobbly and unnerved. “Hey, well, uh, now we know! Yep. Putting that one down— You don’t see him, but he’s there! Awesome. Really adds weight to the evil villain theory.”

\---

"If by 'theory', we're working on the scientific definition of it being near fact, then yeah, suppose it does add weight." He takes a deep breath, and once they round the corner, he unclasps his wrist and lets a staticky tremor run through him. He holds out his hand to Tim once he stabilizes himself. "Locket. Need it back."

\---

Tim makes a soft ‘oh’ of recognition before he fishes it out of his front pocket. He likes how it chimes metallic against a few of his rings. “Yeah, so. You know when two cats stand off in an alleyway? That’s what that was. Mongrel? Jesus Christ, Keay. We’re doing this on the roof. No evidence, no crime. Right now.”

\---

He pulls the locket close and wraps his hand tight around it, letting the chain swing below as they walk. He nods. "...I'd normally say to use more discretion, right, but it's obvious he already knows. He may not have lied to me, didn't tip me off that way, but--" He clicks his tongue. 

Well. At least he knows why Elias has never cared for him. Mary Keay's kid. Oh how his mother will always haunt him. Who knew Elias had such a stick up his ass over her, though. Must not have been a pleasant presence. Surprise upon surprises. 

Gerard waves a hand at the elevator. No need to do the work of pressing buttons if he's got a nice, angry, fleshy human to do it for him, especially when he can stand there a moment and nurse his corporeality with the locket pressed tight against him.

\---

Tim obliges, of course. The guy clearly isn’t doing well with whatever he’s gleaned from that encounter, but the nice, angry, fleshy human is ready and willing to get their hands clean in record time. 

“Discretion, he says. I know every good smoking corner in this place, inside or out.” He also figures his penchant for high quality rambling suits his company well. “And I won’t say who, but some concerningly handsome stranger fixed the detector up in that stairwell, too. For future reference.”

\---

"Can't smoke anymore," Gerard says, and looks up to scowl at Tim. "Do you know how badly I want to? Probably the worst part of being dead. No smoking. No alcohol. No food. So thanks to the handsome stranger; I'll relay it to the rest of the people here."

\---

“Pfft. General burning. Don’t go advertising, otherwise the spot loses it’s romantic charm. Exclusive getaway.” Tim hums, brainstorming images. He can’t solve this, but he can think about it. And avoid his own sense of being completely, totally freaked the hell out with some upbeat humor. “Bet we could still shotgun.”

\---

Gerry rolls his eyes. "Be a waste. I'm not actually that physical. Don't need to breathe. Don't really even have a brain anymore, except for whatever my-- soul?-- is." He's quiet for a second. "But thanks. Would that I could, Stoker. Nothing worse than phantom nicotine cravings in a body that isn't even real."

\---

"You function pretty well for a walking soul." Tim says it, and then immediately sticks out his tongue in disgust to recoil at how clunky that sounded. He makes up for it by holding the door to the stairwell open. "Life finds a way, though. You're still a pretty new ghost."

\---

He shrugs. "Guess so. Been at least a few months. Hard to tell, considering I don't exactly exist when I'm asleep. Which is more than I'm awake." He steps through the stairwell, giving a deep bow to his head in thanks. "Couldn't even hold shit when I first got summoned."

\---

"And now... You can snap your fingers, and the book goes up in flames, yeah?" Tim grins at the back of his skull as he climbs the steps.

\---

"Oh, yeah, I just have a host of magical powers now. It's amazing. And wonderful. Awesome, you could even say." He says it flatly. "Being alive is so cliche. Anyways, you brought a lighter, right?"

\---

"Hm. Let me see." Tim makes a show of patting down his pockets. "Ah. Pack of matches... wallet... keys, phone, oh, there we are." 

As they round the next set of stairs, Tim uses the railing to swing around partway into Gerard's view. He waves a long stem lighter like a hand just out of his reach. Three guesses where he pulled that from.

\---

"Could have just used the matches. Why is that-- Nevermind. I don't want to know." Gerry takes it by the long stem, his expression flat. "No, actually, I do. Why is that the lighter you brought to your workplace which does not allow smoking? Bit obnoxious, isn't it?"

\---

Tim grips the other end tightly. Now they just look ridiculous. He says nothing about that. “I brought it for this.”

\---

"... Right." He pulls slightly. "That's crazy, you know that, right? Like-- insane?"

\---

Tim comes with it instead of instigating a game of tug, until they’re very close. “It’s distance. I don’t light a fireplace with Zippos, either. Easier to manage. Less chances for it to go south.”

\---

Gerry doesn't pull back, instead keeping in close proximity to Tim, baring his teeth slightly as he says, "Just because you have reasoning for it, doesn't mean it's not still insane. Fine. I'll use your-- your weird fruity lighter."

\---

“Oh, you’re using it?” He doesn’t reciprocate the flash of teeth, far less animalistic in his put-on smile. His finger pushes down on the button. It lights up both their faces from below. 

_ Click.  _

“No ‘he who brings the light does the deed’? Not even a freebie for a first timer? We could both do it, if you’re set on it.”

\---

Gerry looks down the slope of his face at Tim, features severe in the glow of the flame, and his bared teeth turn into a closed-lipped smile, something lighting up within his eyes. "Ah. No, by all means." He keeps his hand on the shaft of the lighter for a moment longer and then pulls back, his hands out and open. 

Old habits die hard. Forgive the possessiveness, Tim, he's never had a partner in crime that wasn't his mother, before. 

"It's all yours."

\---

There we are. Tim brandishes the lighter like a wand after he shuts it off, carrying on up the stairs with a giddy look in his eyes. “In the name of transparency, I just held back ten different jokes, and all of them were really good. For your sake and sanity.”

\---

"Well past my sanity, but thanks for preserving my sake," Gerry says after a moment, following behind a step or two lower. "I can probably use my imagination."

\---

Tim laughs, and the sound echoes through the old stairwell. “You’re a funny guy, Keay.” 

He pauses. The weight of his own body creaking along the stairs makes him feel real. “Thanks for this, by the way. Can’t say an opportunity like this comes by often.”

\---

"What? Ethically sound book burning? Hm, no, history doesn't often allow for that to be favored." He says it lightly, but he feels it too. He needed this. Whatever this is. Old memories of old jobs, and something light hearted and uncomplicated in as uncomplicated as his life will ever be now. 

Funny how these things play out. "Honestly, glad you nabbed me, today."

\---

“Yeah?” Tim lifts an eyebrow from the top of the stairs. He knows before he opens the door that it’s about to be hellishly cold. He can feel the air from the cracks in the door, where from old age and use it sits on its hinges at an uneven angle. 

Still, he pushes against it, and out into the cruel, frigid world he goes. His voice carries down the hall even as he passes the threshold. “I’ve always had pretty good timing. Phone calls, stop-bys, help-outs. It’s like I’m always in the right place at the right time!”

\---

"Maybe it's your magic power," Gerry says from the doorway, and braces himself there for a moment, looking out onto the roof, blinking at the bright slate-grey sky above. Always seems to end up on roofs, these days, doesn't he? One way or another. 

He steps out, and almost envies Tim for the way his skin is clearly bracing itself against the cold. Hard to believe he could miss the winter, but here he is, feeling nothing, the vision of his soul relaxed against the onslaught of a temperature drop in wholly unnatural ways.

\---

“Nah.” Tim shakes his head. His next exhale comes with a puff of mist. “I’m just always looking for it.” 

He reaches into his pocket for the book. Once it’s in his hand, and both it and Gerard share his eyesight, his eyes brighten with a brand new idea. “Oh, I think I just found our compromise, Keay. You hold it, I light it. No more burns for you. What do you think?”

\---

Gerry huffs around a smile, and holds his hand out for the book immediately. "Even when I was alive, not sure I could burn up any more than I already have." He steps closer to Tim, and knows it feels like a pact. "Deal."

\---

Tim gives up the book. Easier, now that it’s not his to watch over. Not his to read. He pried himself away. Something, he’s realizing very quickly, he’ll have to do over again. “There's one banker, one button, and one question.” 

The lighter comes to life with another sharp click. Right place, right time, the wind has held its breath long enough for this to work. Nothing but cold, dead space all around them. He starts at one corner, then the closest one adjacent, and holds it there to make absolutely sure it catches enough to turn ash.

\---

The book's smoke is a thick, clogging gray the color of brick, concrete, tunnel. As it burns, the air smells of being buried alive, locked away, left to haphazardly rot in the cold, damp, mildewy tunnels of its own creation. To think someone like Leitner assumed he would always be able to control something like this; hubris. It does not scream, but it's plaintive requiem is a song akin to a howl, and the wind whips around them. The flame does not waver.

Gerard's eyes are transfixed as the pages curl and turn to black ashen nothingness, planting him so firmly on the rooftop that the flames flicker in the reflection of his eyes. Though he cannot see it, if he knew it, he would know he normally does not reflect anything. 

He holds the small book out and above them, and as the flame picks up, grows brighter, it is as a beacon to him. He only wishes he could feel the heat.

\---

A few things take shape in the flame’s reflection within one Timothy Stoker’s eyes. First comes a revitalized understanding of a vision so deeply woven into his own soul, of his place within it. Second comes an idea, shiny and new, a powerful idea that tells him... Yes, if he crossed paths with the things that set him on the one he now walks, it won’t be so keen to let him leave, but. But. There is a chance, somewhere, some way, that his own will can be inflicted, too. 

Third. He is no longer a bystander. Not a member of the audience pleading for the story to go on, wishing he could be written in, allowed to meddle in what he already has a stake in. Fourth, well, he’s lost track of it in the whips of white and blue and red at the frayed edges of a tainted vessel no one has to agonize over opening again. 

It feels good to be alive. 

He sighs, a breath he feels was held up until the very last page ceased to exist. “Oh, they have no idea what’s coming.”

\---

Gerard holds the book until the very edges of it within his hand crumble to the roof below them, and perhaps a normal book wouldn't burn so completely, so quickly, with such finality, but this isn't a normal book, and, really, that wasn't a normal flame. Grill lighter or not, that flame was charged in ways he'd be remiss to ignore. 

He opens his palm and watches the last remaining echoes of ash brush away with the breeze, and then he looks up to see Tim's face, Tim's expression, Tim's aura, almost white with how hot it is, yellow and candlelit, and blue, blue, blue, and his smile does not fall, per say, as much as his expression just grows severe. 

"They don't." And he doesn't either. Neither of them, really, but he lets Tim have this moment. It's more than he's felt in a while; hope, maybe.

\---

Tim knows he’s being observed. Knows something about him is catalogued, interfiled, stored, examined. Judged, though, not exactly, and that makes quite the difference. 

So he hides nothing. Not the calm satisfaction, enjoyment felt deep down into the marrow of his bones. His desire to see something come out of this. Wishing on a star to let that first ball of snow roll onward down that hill. 

But there’s only so much to soak up, right now. The next time he speaks, he’s come back into himself enough to bring his natural smile back. “So. How close are we to nickname level? Be honest.”

\---

Tim's voice jolts him out of some level of reverie that had possessed him, this innate need to see, and know, and... Ah. There's that word again. Witness. Gerard Keay is to stand Witness to the mortal. Is it some passive conglomeration of the Eye and the End, mixing within him to create such a name? He's not sure. 

He cocks his head, and wipes the palms of his hands together, giving a half-shouldered shrug in the process. "The others call me Gerry. If that's what you mean."

\---

Tim takes no notice of that particular thought process. Not that he could, given what he knows, but that’s likely a blessing. One perk to joining up in the second act: his baggage comes from the outside. 

“Oho, no. Stoker-brand nicknames. I can call you that, sure, but that’s just the start.”

\---

He grimaces slightly and says flat as can be, "I'm terrified. Scariest thing I heard all day. Take your fill of the cold? Let's go."

\---

“It’s not that bad. Don’t tell me you can get chills.” But, of course, he heads back to the open door without any excess fanfare. “Ah. Before I forget. Where to next? Am I dropping you off, back to the little mastermind? Orrrr.”

\---

"Were I alive, you could have smoothly asked me out for a drink right about now," Gerry says, and it's not a purr, but well, it's damn near one. 

He holds up his wrist, where he's wrapped the locket around it several times, and it makes a slightly jangling sound when the chain clunks against itself. "I don't need you dropping me off, boy wonder."

\---

“I did tell him I’d have you back by nine.” Too bad for both of them he’s dead, but he’ll go ahead and reframe that as a new set of challenges. 

“Compromise. I don’t take you out for a drink, but I invite you to work on our next heist. One that needs plans. Then I happen to make sure you get home safe?”

\---

"Oh?" He raises an eyebrow and smiles. "You already have plans for the next one? Another book?" He can't help it; his eyes light up and he looks excited.

\---

“That’s where you come in. But we have a few options. Back when Jon and Martin went on their trip, we took a few ‘statements’. Heavy on the quotes.” Tim sighs. “All bad, really. But there’s a few leads. Alternatively— I ask you where the next nearest one is, but that’s not as fun, is it?”

\---

"Oh, it’s all supposed to be fun, then, is it? Here I thought we were saving people from excruciating torture." Gerry snorts. "We can look at your leads. Probably a good idea to get those sorted and filed anyways, huh?"

\---

“Most are dead ends. But, some guy blames a book? That’s a lead, for sure.” He elbows Gerard. “You can save people from torture and have loads of fun.”

\---

"Starting to see that. What a revelation. Decades of this shit, and I'm having fun. Hallelujah." But he's smiling; childish, maybe, but it feels good to have a specific directive that isn't just waiting around for Jon or Helen or the fucking Unknowing to tell them their next move.

\---

“Never too late. Not even when you die.” Tim reaches the bottom of the staircase and keeps the door propped open with one shoe. “That’s the thing, right? You start having fun, you don’t play into stuff that makes you crazy so much. Bad guys don’t like when you’re armed with jokes.”

\---

Gerard cocks his head as he steps through the door, thinking about that. Really, actually giving it a few moments to turn around in his head. "Jokes come easy to you, it seems. Not to everyone, right? What about them?"

\---

Tim gives him a puzzled look. “I started joking because it was hard, Gerry. It only comes easy from the years of practice my mouth has.”

His smile twitches up, threatening to take over. He controls himself. He wants to know if he has an answer to that. “But— I mean, they’re worthless until you get someone to really laugh. Or just smile, I guess. People to cheer up. No shortage of those, and I’m nothing without ‘em. Chicken-egg, all important. Plenty of friends with great laughs who suck at stand-up.”

\---

The look he shoots Tim is curious, his own smile floating on his lips as he listens to him. Huh. He's absolutely filing all of this away to think about and ponder. "Not the jock, after all, I guess." He opens his mouth and then shuts it. Whoops. He should have vetted this before he spoke. How uncharacteristic of him. More characteristic of him to just barrel through it anyways. "Class clown."

\---

“Hey, hey. I said it last time, I’ll say it again. Jack of all trades. There’s a million class clowns, but there’s only one Tim Stoker.” 

With his hands stuffed back into his pockets and no more doors to open that can’t be pushed with a shoulder or his back, Tim realizes he’s... proud of that. Huh. Actually, genuinely, seriously proud. Something he hasn’t felt in a while. Not like he used to. It’s good. 

They pass one of his least favorite room configurations on their walk, a hallway that opens up into a massive reading room, with another smaller exhibit room in the middle. The three walls jutting out into the main room are made of glass. You can see into it, you can see out of it, through it. Sometimes he sees meetings there. Different departments carrying on with their silent conversations while people sit in the room around them. 

Usually he doesn’t look too long. This time, though, he stops walking completely. No one is in the room, just empty chairs and antique displays, but through it. Someone sitting primly in one of the reading chairs on the other side, far enough away that he thinks he recognizes them as they hold a book with one hand. 

“Is that Elias?”

\---

Gerry nearly passes through Tim on accident, his stop is so sudden. He has to focus on staying solid enough that he instead presses his hands against Tim's back to back himself up. Focusing on staying takes less time than having to focus on coming back after passing through something. 

He turns to where Tim is looking, and tilts his head, looking through the glass to the figure sitting. It's-- Odd. Something pings in the back of his mind, like all of the eyes on him are fluttering a cautious blink in their sleep. It's just a moment. Just a flash of... What? Recognition? He doesn't know. 

"I... Think?" He says haltingly, surprised by his own unawareness. Not a lie, to not know. "Must be."

\---

Tim barely registers Gerard’s efforts, honed in and squinting. It’s his fault for not being subtle, really, but standing still across a few sheets of glass must be some kind of eye sore, because—

Elias looks up from the book. There’s this odd, disturbing moment where he seems to be looking for whatever is looking at him. And then his eyes land on Tim. Gerard, by extension. 

And then he waves at them. It’s hard to tell from so far, but Tim knows that serene smugness too well for comfort, can see his smile with no emotion behind the eyes - just this calm, analytical process - plain as day. The distance makes it awkward, but all Tim can really think to do is return a half-aborted wave and/or salute that kind of blows his cover completely. Totally didn’t just steal your book and burn it up on the roof. Shit. 

Farewell completed, and with Elias making no move to get up, the best thing to do is get the fuck away from this floor as quickly as manageable. “Christ, Keay. There is no way he— He knows, obviously. Wow! I’m really being stalked by my boss. Fantastic.”

\---

Gerard says nothing until they're out of sight of Elias. It's as though he's transfixed, and he stares, and he stares, and he stares as they walk past him, like it's a need to see him. The Eye wants to see this, behold it. What it is Gerard isn't sure, but he shakes his head roughly once he crosses the threshold of a wall, and blinks rapidly, trying to get rid of the spell. Odd.

"It-- Well, duh. Didn't Jon tell you he can see everything, or whatever?" He blinks, coming back into himself. He gives a half-shouldered shrug. "I kind of assumed he wanted us to take the book. For whatever nefarious plots he has planned."

\---

“Right. Of course. I’d like it more if, uh, if I didn’t see him seeing me, though? You know?” Tim shakes his head to clear the air. “I hate this job. Uh— Where were we, we were— Books. Books.”

\---

Gerry glances behind him, and a waver runs through him, like a delayed shiver. He digs his hand into the locket harder, hard enough that he can almost feel the cool metal. Last a second, before it becomes too much, and he eases up on the focus. 

"Right. Ah-- Books. Shit, he's creepy. Yeah."

\---

Tim smacks him on the shoulder. “No more Elias. Don’t look. Horror trope top ten, Keay. You’re just asking him to pop up right there.” 

Fuck, they’re getting nothing else done, are they?

\---

He jumps, and then turns to glare at Tim. "When the fuck did you get all this time to watch all these movies? Fuck."

\---

“Growing up with two things: television, and a younger brother to keep occupied. Later? Slacking off where it counted. Knowing which papers to fly through so fast you land on your couch for a Grey’s Anatomy marathon. Simple stuff.”

\---

"Uh...huh. You say this like it's a universal experience. Fucking wild." He shakes his head. "I think I just. Read, mostly."

\---

Tim smiles. One of his more fox-like. “I also read. Still do. I’m good at multitasking. I’ll be sure to throw in a literary reference or two for you.”

\---

"Think up some good ones." He shrugs. "If you want, give me some of those files, or tapes, or whatever, and I can listen to them and see what I think?" He glances behind them again. "I think one book's enough for today. One less evil particle to the world."

\---

Tim smacks him lightly when he looks back again, this time with feeling. “They’re notes we took real-time, no recordings. I’ll sort them out for you.”

\---

Gerard takes a very, very deep breath as he nods, and then closes his eyes, cocks his head slightly, and regrets with every fiber of his being what he does next. He says, "Alright. Well. Thanks, Tim," and holds out his closed fist to Tim, his eyes still closed.

\---

For a second, Tim is worried. Worried enough to start thinking they might have to keep talking about Elias. That this is snowballing dangerously into a  _ thing.  _

And then he looks down. 

He gets to grin as big and stupid as his heart delights to indulge, since Gerard’s been kind enough to cut out the need for control. He tries to stuff a real, chemical energy into his positive reinforcement with a reciprocal fist bump. “Thank  _ you. _ ‘Till next time.”


	66. Chapter 66

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190263386@N04/50356612927/in/dateposted-public/)

Jonathan does the most surprising thing; he seems to call to the Archivist. It might be in his dreams, but that is still more than his usual attitude of ignoring the Archivist when he deigns to stride beside him during visions the Eye bestows upon him. Such a sullen Beholder, but in the end, the Archivist supposes it won’t matter. 

He can go without company for a while longer; one day Jonathan will be swallowed up entirely and it will be just him that reaps the Crown,  _ him  _ that ushers in the rest of his being into this world to be whole once more. 

As it is, when Jonathan calls to him, the Archivist comes the moment he hears it, and he walks beside him in a hellfire vision that is a balm to his soul, the remnants of trauma and fear that Jonathan himself brings into his nightmares nourishing him, the trauma and fear that Jonathan himself carries like that of honeycomb, fresh from the hive. 

The Archivist takes Jonathan by the cheeks, his thumbs beneath his jaw and his fingers pressed to cheekbones, and his smile is so very soft and gentle as he Beholds the exhaustion pooling in his face and sallow cheeks. Jonathan might not always remember his dreams, but that is alright; they are when he’s closest to the Eye. This is the realm he said yes in, and this is the realm in which he says yes to the Archivist, when the Archivist whispers promises of dreamless sleep, as he always does when he attempts to wrest control for a short time. 

He wakes in the middle of the night. The bedroom his men have designed has no windows, no natural light, and so he should not know, but there is a clock on the table beside him, and it flashes 3:37 AM as he squints in the dark, getting used to his surroundings.

Michael Shelley slumbers with several pillows in a vice grip of his limbs, and does not stir when the Archivist sits up, his fingers exploratory over his own face as he remembers the feel and shape of this body. It hurts, again, stiff in a very specific way that makes him think Jonathan has not been sleeping well the past two nights. Something missing. 

Ah. 

He stands, and catches his balance when he nearly trips, his feet cold against the wood floor. Goosebumps break out along his arms and he does not like that feeling, but he ignores it in favor of opening and closing the door to the bedroom quietly, stepping out on the balls of his feet to be silent. 

Indeed, Martin is in the main office. How cold the bed is, without him. There is a small stained glass window that sits high above them. It pulls in moonlight, which dances like lapping waves where it creates a small circle of light on the desk table. It’s light is cold, compared to the warm honeyed echo coming from the desk lamp, casting its own shadows as Martin moves to and fro from its light.

Martin is faced away from him, hunched over himself, and the only sound the Archivist can hear is a soft humming, interspersed with the metallic sheen of blade upon blade, strands of hair punctuating the sound by falling feather-like to dark floors below him. It must not be a comfortable position; the Archivist is learning these things, now. 

He watches, for a moment, standing at the threshold of the short hallway of the bedroom and the main office, and for once, is struck with the single fact that he is awake in Jonathan’s body with nothing specific to do, other than to watch, and… Interfere. This body shivers at the thought.

The Archivist speaks in the stillness of the room. “You generally sleep many hours earlier than this.”

\---

Scissors slice through another chunk of fading magenta, this time with a much wider cut than intended. The bulk of it dissolves into the new pile forming at the wood beneath him, and Martin sighs unevenly. He’ll have to fix that. His surprise at the voice is what guided his hand to bear down so hard with its sharp teeth to begin with, but, luckily, that’s his only reaction. No jump, no startled noise of fear, no frozen worry. At least he has that. 

Martin keeps to his position, tilting his head just barely enough to make out the Archivist’s shape. He’s not afraid. Not right now. Not of him. He’s quick to get back to his task, one he’s already proving to be remarkably bad at. His voice is just loud enough to carry across the room. “Are you here to keep me to a schedule?”

\---

"No," The Archivist says, and he steps into the belly of the room, keeping his eyes on Martin's back. "It was merely an observation. I'm certain the lighting would be better in the day, for this. Moonlight is not so bright."

Whatever this is. Martin confuses him, sometimes. It isn't necessarily a bad thing. Just a thing.

\---

“Right where everyone can see, too. Is that why?” Martin glares down at the floor. He hates the way his voice sounds. Empty, tired, deep, low, grating. He should be nicer. If he had all his faculties, he might even be accommodating. He keeps cutting. “What woke you up?”

\---

The Archivist pulls in a long, deep breath, and steps closer. He's shirtless, which explains just why he was so cold upon waking up. "Jonathan gave me his permission. He's quite tired, it seems."

No goal to being awake, this time. He just... Exists. "Why are you doing that?"

\---

Martin scoffs. The guilt that sits heavy in his gut at the idea that he caused that ‘yes’ gets lighter with every cut. “Do you want the short truth, or the long one? Am I— Am I supposed to feed you?” 

His voice cracks. The tiniest hairline fracture. “I can’t.”

\---

"I will not make you," He says, and steps around the desk, around the mess of hair clippings, and finally looks at Martin, hunched over and miserable and oozing a melancholy air that is delectable.

His hair looks atrocious. The Archivist does not know styles, and perhaps he does not know beauty, but evidently, neither does Martin. "I'm full. Jonathan keeps the body better fed than he once did." He watches more hair fall. "Can I do that?"

\---

Martin pauses mid-cut. He almost considers it. “You want me to give you a sharp object?”

The way he barely glances up at him past his choppy mess of a haircut is pointed. So is the fake, polite ghost of a smile. “Sure. That can’t go wrong, can it?” 

He concentrates on the next segment. It could look much worse.

\---

The Archivist stands there and feels... Hm. He's not sure what the word is, and it takes him a moment of searching through the great miasma of knowledge to find something that fits, that accurately fits this restlessness and uncertainty that fills his body in droves.  _ Awkward. _

"I told you I do not want to hurt you. I want to help you."

\---

_ Help _ him. That’s what he wants to do. Martin knows well enough that the Archivist will lament the act of causing pain while seeing it as a necessity.

But he’s too tired, and at his core too curious, too lonesome in his self-inflicted isolation, to say no. He slides the scissors along his palm until the handle faces the person-thing in Jon’s body. “I’m... I’m taking the color out.”

\---

The Archivist grasps the scissors and pulls them close, cocking his head as he regards first Martin's badly shorn head, and then the dark pink tufts of hair dotting the floor.

"Why? I enjoyed the color." He opens the scissors and watches the blades slam shut, then repeats the motion a couple times to get used to the way his fingers flex and shift with the motion.

\---

The gesture is far from comforting, but even in the fugue state he’s landed himself, Martin finds something about the way he learns endearing. 

“I don’t— I don’t know how to explain it. It feels... bad.” He sits up straighter and hisses at the way tension wakes up across his spine. “Like I shouldn’t waste my time on— On... On...” 

He rubs at his eyes with both hands. Feels the exhaustion holding his skin taut. The context gets muddy. Cop Out it is. “It’s complicated?”

\---

"Most truths are." He steps around the desk, and, hesitantly, reaches out to take a handful of Martin's hair. It's soft, and his grip loosens as he realizes this. Pleasing.

"It is quite bodily hedonistic," He continues, and pushes his fingers through Martin's scalp, liking the feeling that produces very much. "But I suppose if it feels bad, the hedonism has run its course."

\---

Martin is an idiot. 

How long has it been since someone touched his hair? For all the love he’s surrounded himself with, intimacy seems so far away. Likely, it was as recent as several nights ago. He has a wonderful knack for destroying his sense of emotional permanence. 

How much of an idiot he is, he only realizes when he belatedly registers that it’s him pressing weight up into the Archivist’s hand. That the soft hum is from his throat. 

He swallows the next noise down, depriving himself of enjoying it. The fact that he’s sharing this with the Archivist is only secondary in his thought process compared to that. “It’s kind of like... being professional. Not the office way, just... I can’t take it seriously. I can’t take... me, seriously. Like I-I spent time on this, but not on... not on the important things.”

\---

The Archivist's eyes go wide when Martin presses up into the touches he bestows upon him, drinking in every last detail. He does not know why it gives him such sheer pleasure, being this close to his Messenger, but it does. It is fact. And the great Eye beyond him is not answering his questions  _ why.  _

"How you categorize the important things makes me curious. Why would your vanity not be important? You still complete your jobs; you are spreading my gospel and world slowly, wonderfully."

\---

Martin refuses to look up out of fear for what he might find there. At the moment, detached analysis is just as bad as being appreciated. Every time he thinks he’s handled an aspect of himself, it just comes back tenfold. 

“It’s a... a waste, I think? I-I mean it’s not, we need— People need good things, otherwise they won’t want to save the world, but—“ Gospel. No matter how down he is, he has to remember that he’s still the only bond the Archivist has to humanity. “I’m just a bunch of contradictions. Like I’m special but only when it’s— Only when it’s bad. Like there’s me, and then there’s other people. But only in the way where... where I’m supposed to be outside my body. And liking it is—“ 

He stammers, partly to hold his tongue like a crumbling dam. “—wrong.”

\---

The Archivist picks up a tuft of pink hair and slowly, slowly watches the blades slide together and snip it from the rest of his hair, and he watches the way it falls to the floor. Action. Consequence. What a strange thrill to participate. 

"We like as our nature commands." He cuts another strand of hair. "To ignore it is to ignore the order of things."

\---

Martin does his best, but he still draws up a blank. When the Archivist finishes the next cut he chances an upward tilt. Just enough to watch his mouth, not his eyes. “What does that say about me?”

\---

".... I'm unsure. You seem to have many natures." Another cut. "But if it is you... I suppose that says all it needs. It will be easier, in the new world. No lies."

\---

Ah. He must be in a bad place if  _ that _ quells some of his anxieties. “I know what might even fix it. All— All my worries, I just— I don’t. I don’t ask, I don’t... It’s ripping off the band-aid, that’s the hard part. Or— I know it’s easy. I just keep it in.”

\---

The Archivist pauses for a moment, thinking about that. What strange anxieties. "Then let it out. Gnashing idle teeth become dangerous when they're not given anything to quell them."

\---

Now comes the problem. How to phrase this, to the one it might cause the most trouble with? Martin shuts his eyes. “Am I easy to manipulate?”

\---

Another clip, and then he pauses again, cocking his head as he thinks. "... All of humanity is. You are all under some impression of grandiose hope that the world does not feed on pain. Self-manipulation, self-blindness. You are part of humanity. You are easy to manipulate."

\---

Martin scowls. Sure. Ask a sliver of fear-god what his view on things is. Doing great, Martin. “Okay.” He doesn’t fight against it this time, but he’s sure, somewhere in his heart, that hope still matters. “Am I manipulative?”

\---

"Yes." Snip. "Once more, though, I believe everyone is. To purport a reality, to purport fact in a way that is digestible in the grand scheme of endless truth, manipulation is needed. Unfortunate. It is why I am greater than humans; I can see it all."

He looks down and tries to find Martin's face, though it's hard from the angle he towers over his head. "Is it so bad, if you are?"

\---

Martin lets him find it. His chin lifts just enough to track up the Archivist’s face, eyebrows pulled together in a natural pout. 

“I don’t know.” His fingers dig into his lap, leaving individual indents over his thighs. Intuition compels him to keep his eyes centered between the Archivist’s even as that opaline sheen coaxes him to either side. “I’m afraid of someone like me in... control? Of how things end up? But I’m afraid of— Just ending up a victim. But can I— Can I even pick the wrong thing? Or will it... will it always choose me?”

\---

The Archivist pulls the scissors back, just enough that he can spread his fingers through his hair once more, relishing in the touch of it, relishing in the way he can pull Martin's face closer, more readily available. His expression is soft, as he looks at Martin down the slope of his nose. "You do not need to fret about  _ control.  _ You have already given yourself to me. You will not need to ever  _ worry  _ about being in control." 

His grip tightens, just a little. "Even with your pesky newfound alignments."

\---

“But what if I give a piece of me to everything? Does that make me— Does that make me nothing?” Martin leans his head further back into the Archivist’s hand to avoid being pulled. “Or does that make me everything?”

\---

"It makes you my perfect Messenger." He says it like a declaration, and he leans down, allowing himself to give into his creature comforts, to press his cheek upon Martin's hair, to feel the softness of it against his face. It's hard, in this body, in this limited brain to parse everything out, but this... This he can find an answer to. Something that suits him. Something that will suit Martin, once he gives in and accepts his role. 

"To walk among all, but come back to me. Willing to mingle, and see, and know, and be what I cannot-- I thought, originally, you were to be nothing but mine, but I know now. Like Jonathan, you are destined for the touch of everything. Unlike Jon, you will stay with me, and you will walk among the flock, and you will speak my truth to them, as them, among them." Such as it is. It must be so, for why else would Martin want to stray? Want to push himself down into webs; not even starting on the rest.

\---

So that’s what he is. A violent, controlled predator with sharp teeth who worships the moon and covers itself with woolen cloaks to convince the other people, the real people, that it’s all okay. One with a bit of a talent for wandering. One who does his job because he likes it. Or maybe he really thinks it’s the right thing to do. Maybe he’s worn those robes so long he forgot what sits beneath them. 

Martin presses his forehead against the Archivist’s skin. Warm in a way that makes him think of home, because that’s what Jon is. He catches up slowly, combing through verbiage to glean what he can. He wants to like it. This image of a world that isn’t planted there, one that’s vague enough for him to imagine rolling fields and sunlight that never scorches. He should know better. 

One part keeps him just outside the fence. “Unlike Jon?”

\---

The Archivist brushes against the walls of Martin's mind, and he likes what he feels. It's just a soft caress, nothing probing, but enough to glean the pattern of his thoughts. Perfect. So perfect. He does not think to censor himself, so lost, for just a moment, in the harmony that is almost ready to bloom within Martin's mind. 

"Jonathan must become the Eye. I suppose he will stay, in a sense, but-- Not in the same way I am gifting you. He will have his role, and he too, will be perfect when the time comes."

\---

Martin holds still, but no matter how well he tries to hide his reaction his muscles tense just the same. He’s certain he’s been told this before. Unless he hasn’t. Has he? He has. He must have been. Why else would it feel like common knowledge?

“Why does it have to be that way? Can’t it— Can’t there be both? Jon and...” He doesn’t want to indulge that world, not really. Not when this one is still here. When everyone he loves is alive and... 

...And suffering, right now. But there won’t be any less suffering, in the Eye’s world. Martin is sure of that. So why is he still nowhere closer to figuring all of this out? Why is he still tearing up, making a fool of himself? “I don’t even know what I’m fighting. Or— Or what for.”

\---

"For me, My Messenger." He pulls back and begins to cut once more. Each word punctuated with pink lockets of hair falling to the ground. "For my world. Which will be your world. You will be happy; you just have to give in to your instincts. You must, unless you want the Spiral to do its job and drive you mad. They will all have a hand in marking you; but so too, will you mark them, and for me."

Poor Martin. He's going to just have to shave his head after this. The Archivist simply has no idea what he's doing with these scissors. 

"I want you to be perfect, Messenger."

\---

Martin says nothing. He thinks that wanting this all to be true is exactly why he needs to come out with it and have a talk with the people he loves. But if he didn’t. If he didn’t, if he didn’t. What world would they be left with? 

Martin indulges his sight. It’s better than coughing up memories choked with blood, or tears, or caked with dirt. He interrupts the Archivist’s work to look up at him properly. 

At this point, he’s beyond questioning which mark gave him this gift. It seems obvious, which one, given how the darks of his eyes grow wide enough to eclipse the multicolored earth of his irises and let him see the individual craters of color in the Archivist’s own. The truth is, the Eye is not separate from the Hunt, the Spiral’s kaleidoscope visions are just that— visions. The Eye nudged him along. The Eye kept him safe so he could grow. 

And he’d invited it right back in. Always has. Always gave it a chance to peek through whatever curtain the others put up. Always set up the cameras himself. 

He smells sand. 

Abort mission. Stop staring, you idiot. 

He gropes blindly for the scissors without tearing his eyes away. It’s not desperate, or frantic, but not overwhelmingly slow, either.

\---

The Archivist watches back, and wishes, and hopes for Martin to see it, see what he's saying, feel the zenith of a purpose within him. Like he said before; hoping is so very mortal, and he should not be surprised when Martin seems to jerk into motion, vying for the scissors. 

He almost pulls back, but decides to offer trust. Martin has spoken so candidly to him, the most he can do is give him what he asks for. He hands the scissors to him, his hand grasping the twin blades hard enough to make a mark in his palm from where they wanted to press deep, deeper. 

"Martin?" He asks.

\---

Martin takes them. Once free from the Archivist’s hand, he lets the blades part between them, two piercing daggers pointed at an angle below his eyes. He’s not aware of the picture he’s painting. 

“I want to finish this, and—“ He blinks. The spell isn’t quite broken, but something hiccuped. “Would you stay up with me? I have— I have something else to ask, but it kind of depends on... on that.”

\---

The Archivist's eyes widen as he beholds Martin, and he squeezes them shut for just a moment, banishing the visions that play behind his eyelids. He is not immune to Jonathan's nightmares. He is not immune to the fear that strikes him as he sees Martin's eyes, so fragile, so close to the blades.

He opens them again and nods. "Yes. I do not want to leave yet."

\---

There. Whatever just happened, it set him free long enough to pivot away. Back to the mirror. Clean up what he started, what the Archivist continued, and finish it himself. Two of his titles share three syllables, and both of them like to talk. 

“Have you ever played 20 Questions?”

\---

The Archivist blinks. Something has shifted, though he is unaware of what. Still. Martin indulged him. Perhaps he should indulge Martin. "No. I have not played." In general.

\---

“It’s a game where you get twenty questions to guess a thing. Items, animals, places, foods. But it’s a catch-all for question games. My idea is, I ask you a question, you ask me a question, one at a time until one of us can’t answer. They lose, I think.”

\---

Squinting, he leans forward, still standing above Martin, and a look of sheer excitement passes across his face. "Hm...and the winner?"

\---

Martin pauses to hum. “I’m not sure. What’s something you want, besides the obvious? Small-time stuff? Things that might be nice while you’re here?”

\---

He supposes small is fair. But... "I... Am unsure." His voice is stilted. "I do not know what I like. Maybe you know better."

\---

The clock ticks on, second after empty second, until Martin thinks he has a start. “If you win, I’ll write the Eye a story and live up to my name. If I win, you pretend to be human for a day. With me. Outside?”

\---

"... Deal. Yes. That... Is acceptable." Perhaps more than he should entertain, really. More than acceptable. A small smile pulls at his lips. The more he stays in this body, the more natural his reactions seem to be, instinctual chemical neurons firing to meet him and his emotional state. Not quite as cold as he should be.

\---

Martin smiles back. It’s a little devious, he’ll admit. “Okay. Let me finish this, and...” He starts making a hurried effort on his hair. He’s coming back to himself. Whatever that self is, well. “For rules, I guess— Nothing’s off the table, unless you think there is, and— When we start, should they be Questions, or questions?”

\---

"If they are Questions, you will have no choice but to answer. So-- that defeats the purpose of your game, no?" He smiles, and steps away from Martin to round the desk, sitting in the open chair as prim as he can.

\---

“Oh. I guess so.” Martin tilts his head. “Neither of us can lie, so.” 

He takes one last sweep of metal to his hair and calls it a night. It only takes an obnoxious shake of his head to get rid of most of the separated strands masquerading as part of the collective. It’ll do. Next step: lifting his legs so he can curl up in the guest chair with his knees to his chest. “I’ll start when you’re ready.”

\---

The Archivist pulls his hands to his lap, and he smiles. "I am ready."

\---

“Okay.” One inhale, one exhale. “The Eye plays favorites. Which one do you like most? Entities-wise.”

\---

The Archivist blinks, sitting back in the chair. "Oh! Oh. Hm. That is... I think perhaps I am biased, now." He leans forward, a smile on his face. "I am rather partial to the Hunt, and it's devotion. As well as the Lonely, for its focus on its subjects. Such pain."

\---

Martin almost asks, 'is the Hunt really that loyal? Are they like him? They care about the moon and know why it's there?' But that can't possibly be true, considering the only others he's seen even engage in the Hunt, and that's at least three more questions right off the bat. It's not his turn. 

It does make him feel a little woozy, though. The good kind. Good enough to have him breeze right past the Lonely. "Your turn."

\---

The Archivist hums, and thinks for a moment. "For someone who plays and meddles amongst all of my brethren, then, I suppose I can ask the same question. Other than me, what are your favored houses?"

\---

“They all feel... distant? Right now? I guess the Hunt. Um. Spiral, but now that feels... bad. Usually. The others I haven’t seen much.” 

He drums his fingers on his knees. He sounds almost shy asking such a basic question. But it’s one that crops up often enough to justify. “What’s your favorite color?”

\---

"I... Like them all? I enjoy them all. The world is full of such beautiful hues. I... I suppose... Ah. The color of lush, mossy undergrowth in forests. I enjoy that color quite a lot."

He smiles. This game is rather... fun. "Why do you love Jon? Love is such a strong emotion."

\---

Gamemaster, Gamemaster, the contestant is enjoying himself. Good show. 

“He... He sees me. Not just how the Eye does. The worst and - and the best, and he still chooses me.” Martin squints down at his hands. This is giving him a lot to re-evaluate about his current dedication to avoidance. “I... I keep forgetting.” 

The sand is at his back. Soft and pliant bedding as he faces the sky and hears the only entity he ever really cared about worshipping tell him there’s nothing he could do that would make him stop loving him. Martin shivers. He has quite a few things to amend. 

“He sees me like no one else can. And I’m okay with that. Except when I’m being a massive jerk, apparently. I’d walk anywhere with him. For him. I want to wake up in bed with him every day of my life.”

He sighs. “Do you ever worry you might lose?”

\---

"Yes," He says immediately, and then his lips thin. Perhaps he would have lost, there, if he'd thought about his answer first.

Something seems to happen to his thoughts, whenever Martin speaks of Jon. Something bright and heavy in the chest of a body slowly becoming his. It terrifies him as much as it makes him want to smile.

He's not smiling right now. It's precisely these feelings that give him doubts. "To be so sure in the future would be folly, even if I am certain my purpose will reach its completion."

\---

Martin also refrains from smiling, but something inside him is humming with excitement. Call it a soul, maybe. If the shoe fits. Hope, joy, love, humanity. Humanity? Humanity. “We could chat about that for ages, I think. But it’s— I don’t want to waste questions. You’re up.”

\---

"Do you think we will win?" How loyal  _ are  _ you, Messenger?

\---

“I think so. We just— We have lots, and lots of planning to do. Room for improvement on that one.” His ‘we’ might very well be different from the Archivist’s ‘we’. He answers for his own version. 

“I’ve compelled people. I’ve— Taken statements? Do I show up in their dreams?”

\---

The Archivist cocks his head, and frowns slightly. He tries to Know, to See, to Behold it, but...

"I... I have no answer. I do not know. That... I cannot See it."

\---

“Oh. That’s okay! Um, new question. Since that’s not a— That’s not you declining. What about Jon? I’ve— I’ve taken statements from him.” Martin fidgets with the edge of the desk. “Am I in his?”

\---

"Yes," He says. "But not-- I think his are mere memory. Not visions. Are you afraid to be in people's dreams?"

\---

“Yes.” He looks across the desk to catch a glimpse of his opposite, then falls quickly back down. “Especially after— Recently. But it always made me nervous, that idea of, um, haunting people. If I’m in someone’s dreams I want them to be... I want them to be nice? It just made me worried, like that time in America, with the— Planes, he hated planes. I didn’t know I was...” 

A nervous ‘mm’ slips past his throat. “What’s the best part of having a body, for you? So far?”

\---

"Jonathan dwells in the dreams of everyone he's touched. Powerful. Quite pleased with his progress." He cocks his head. "I... Enjoy the feelings. Of this body, close to the earth. To be physical is to be earthen. I quite like the heaviness. And... I enjoy when I can touch you. Your hair is soft."

\---

A split second, and Martin forgets it’s not Jon he’s talking to. That’s why he smiles, a shy, pleasant thing. But it isn’t Jon. Not quite. “So I— So I’ve heard. I like the feelings, too. Um, not touching my hair, I don’t really— I don’t think about that, much, but it’s nice when people... do. Yeah. Physicality is an excellent perk of being human, all-around.”

\---

"It is... Strange. It responds more to me, this time. How instinctual many reactions are!" His smile grows. "Why were you so upset, when I walked in tonight?"

\---

“Michael gave me... visions? Visions, I think.” Martin stumbles internally. Part of him tries to cover his mouth. “I’m scared of me. Scared of— Being used, without knowing, or - or even knowing, and hurting people anyway, I don’t want people to look at me and see... I don’t want to hurt people who don’t deserve it. But I can. I don’t like being the one who knows the least about me. Used. Using. And there’s— I still don’t even understand the names. So I made myself alone.”

He itches one of his arms. Too hard. Too much pressure. He needs to try a big one, now. “What happens if I fill out the requirements for the Crown, too?”

\---

The Archivist regards Martin for a long, long moment, and then shrugs. "You win." Pause. "The game. Your questions game." He's not answering that, partially because even he's unsure, yet. But he knows some.

\---

Silence empties the room for a fraction of a second, and then the first laugh tumbles out. It’s a surprised, tiny giggle that’s almost happy, and then— Then he’s lost to a fit of it. Martin has to bite down on the side of his pointer finger to stop it, and even after he lets go, he’s still smiling. 

He won. He’s crazy for caring so much. Crazy for thinking all the answers are right there in front of him. That he’s the only one with flaws big enough to ruin plans and muck up people’s lives. Take your own advice, Martin. Have  _ fun. _ No one else knows how this ends up. Not even the all-Seeing Eye. 

His eyes are lit up bright, tiny torches keeping a candle alive in the wind. “Let’s come up with a human name for you, then.”

\---

The Archivist watches him laugh and allows him to have this. Maybe he needed to laugh. He's pretty sure humans need that.

"What? Why? Useless. I will cease to be the individual piece before you once the rest of myself comes through the ether, what good is a name?"

\---

“You’re pretending to be human with me for a day. I’m getting us prepared.” One last giggle. Laughter helps. Even when things aren’t that funny. “People need names.”

\---

"Then name me, if you're so certain." He will, privately, admit that his cruel joke of making himself the Archivist has worn thin, even to his own ears. "You have an affinity for names, it seems."

\---

“O...Okay. Um, well, it’s not permanent, so—“ Martin thinks out loud for this. Helps him move his brain along. “Something old. Latin, maybe? Constantine is— Well, it’s long, but that’s my first thought. Um, Felix? Those are the only ones I think I know the meaning of. Unless you want to go really on the nose? God names. I used to read these storybooks about titans and Greek stuff. There’s one— I know it’s spelled differently, but there’s the word ‘sight’ and it’s close, um, Thea? But we could make it— We could make it Theo.”

He pauses, frowns. “This is a lot of pressure.”

\---

"It was your idea," The Archivist chides, and he leans forward to think. "I do not mind... Theo. I want to hear more. The Greek Pantheon is..." He laughs quietly. "a humorous place to get a name from."

\---

“Yeah, but I thought you might have names you liked.” Keep the seething to yourself, Martin. You love naming things. “I really don’t know that much. I’d have to...” He squints, then takes his phone gingerly from where he last left it on the desk. “Google it?”

\---

"I like your name. I can't have that. Too confusing." the Archivist taps his chin. "I don't have opinions on names. Your... Google? Will name me?"

\---

“Uh, I mean, it could. We could generate one. I use word generators to get prompts all the...” Oh, Christ, he doesn’t know about the internet? “...time. But I was just going to use it to, erm— Remember all the names of gods and - and get a few ideas.”

\---

The Archivist stands so he can lean all the way over the desk and look at Martin's phone, his eyes reflecting the screen back as he stares intensely. "I cannot just use the title I have been using?"

\---

Martin scoots closer so they can both peer down at his phone. He turns it sideways for good measure, since he’s not sure whether the Archivist can read upside down. “No, you need a legal name. Or just— Just a full name to work with. If we’re making reservations, or buying anything in advance, or just— It’s how you differentiate. Names are important to people. Cultures all over have rituals for names, and - and about names.”

He looks up ‘Greek names’ and finds a list on some site that doesn’t seem too shady. Easy enough to scroll down.

\---

"It will not matter, in the new world," He says, but he reads as Martin scrolls, frowning. "And none of these are me, they are other gods."

\---

“It matters for now, and you lost.” Martin tries to find a more broad list, and leaves it up to the Archivist from there. “Not all gods. Words. You seem like— Latin or Greek. If there’s nothing here we can keep looking, I just— Names are supposed to be special. That’s why it’s hard for me to just choose. Plus, I’m a bad poet. I’ll always make up bad names.”

\---

"I enjoy your poetry, Martin Blackwood," The Archivist says, and he leans closer to start scrolling, his fingers gentle and light like any pressure will break the device.

But fine. He will play this game. He scrolls and begins to deliberate each name he moves past, giving each name at least a few seconds to worm around his mind before he moves on.

\---

“Then I’ll write you a story anyway,” He mumbles as he watches the Archivist think. Can’t look into his head, but from the outside there’s enough to take in that he doesn’t get bored of watching. Weird. Weird, weird.

\---

"I do enjoy stories," He mumbles, and continues to search. Occasionally he'll mouth out one of the names to himself, feeling it in his mouth, before continuing to scroll. It takes his undivided attention. 

He sifts through names for almost fifteen minutes, and pauses on one. There's a couple fingers he has raised already, a few different names on his tongue to work through later, and he adds this one to the list. Good. He shoves the phone into Martin's face and points. "I enjoy this one. There are others. But I enjoy this one. The Dog Star."

\---

Martin takes the phone and raises an eyebrow. “You want to be named after—“

The brightest star in our sky. So unique from where it sits in the dark of night, flickering smug and special at the heart of Canis Major. While it’s true colors are known, it is sometimes fondly called a rainbow star for all the vibrant multitudes of color that warp our camera lenses and eyes when we attempt to observe it. At the high peak of summer in our hemisphere the star is nowhere to be found, hidden behind our very own Sun. Centuries ago, in ancient Egypt, the sight of Sirius heralded the annual flooding of the Nile river— a cataclysmic event to fear and to worship, signaling destruction and rebirth. For something so far away, it’s light can sometimes outshine reflections of our Sun against the planets we call neighbors. Sirius is a frequent subject of poetry. Dante, Milton, Whitman. That star which comes on in the autumn and who’s conspicuous brightness far outshines the stars that are numbered in the night's darkening, the star they give the name of Orion's Dog, which is brightest among the stars, and yet is wrought as a sign of evil and brings on the great fever for unfortunate mortals. That violent heat of summer bringing rabies to the frothing mouths of dogs to make men sick and vicious. Sirius is not alone. It is also a double star with a faint companion, Sirius B, that is described as quite a challenge to observe and even more difficult to photograph. This second star is often aptly referred to as the “Pup”. The stars orbit each other. Sirius does not mean Serious, it means glowing - light cascading out from cold corpses on our beaches - but the resemblance is funny enough to note. 

Martin did not read this. There is no reason for Martin to know this already. He has no idea how much time has passed when he finishes the question. His phone fell to the desk at some point, but he never heard it drop. “—A Dog?”

\---

"Yes." Oh, Martin went away for a moment. The Archivist can almost taste something on the air, but he's not sure what, and he waits in silence before Martin comes back to himself, and the Archivist smiles. "The star is no dog, not truly. It is just what humans think of it as. It is a beacon, the brightest star in the night sky. Apt. I think I can be considered to have been born beneath the night sky."

\---

“I— I know it’s not a dog. And you were.” He pauses, intending not to ask. He does anyway. Something about the way he’s behaving strikes him as very Jon, and he isn’t certain that’s a good thing. “Did you do that?”

\---

He tilts his head, and levies Martin a look of genuine confusion. "No. Do what? I would know if I had done something." He turns to the phone, which has gone black, now, and the smile falls. "Did I break your device?"

\---

“The— No, no, you didn’t, it’s fine. Just—“ God, what does this remind him of? 

Oh. There it is. Martin jolts. “You didn’t see into the Spiral, when I went in. But I gave you a memory. It’s the same one, the hill. I could pretend, and - and I did, about eclipses, but then I knew things about... I knew things about them that weren’t lies. Things I didn’t read before. I just thought them. And then said them. That. That’s what.”

\---

The Archivist blinks, and after a moment, his smile grows again, and he looks  _ pleased.  _ "You are Knowing. You are tapping into the Eye and Knowing what you need.  _ Fantastic!" _

\---

Martin squints down at him from where they’re both bent over the table. Score for his complex about being used. Score for Michael’s hissing voice in his head.  _ Naive. _ “I didn’t need it. I just got— You just harassed me with Wikipedia!”

\---

"Me?" He stands up properly, and something in his eyes ignites. "I told you once, I did not  _ do _ this. If you are able to tap into the Great Watcher on your own, it is not my doing that allowed you so, and I resent your accusation! Even if I had, it would be a gift that you, My Messenger, should thank me for, not shudder and cry aloud at!"

\---

“Wh— You’re the one preaching all the time about being the Eye! And knowing things but not saying it! Of course I’d— I’d be suspicious you’re the one dumping star knowledge in my head!” Martin speaks with a strained hush. It’s still the middle of the night. “Sirius it is, then?”

\---

"I could give information to you if I wanted. I am saying I didn't. I am a droplet to the Eye, one limb, I have been squeezed into this earth on a narrow canal; I am limited with the capacities of Jonathan's body right now." His expression twitches, each word punctuated with his finger jabbing through the air.

He takes a solid breath. "Sirius shall suffice for your game, yes."

\---

Martin refrains from an unhelpful  _ ’Dramatic’. _ Better to move along. “Now you need a last name. Sims would work to match your ID, but it sounds awful. The S’s blend together. And you’re not doing Blackwood. Sirius Blackwood would get you laughed at. Woolf would also get you laughed at. Plath, maybe?” 

He makes a dejected sound. “...Crowley?” 

Then another, less dejected sound as he makes the connection. _ “Moonchild?” _

\---

"... Sirius Moonchild. That too, is... What did you say? On the nose." He brushes idly against the walls of Martin's mind and hums. "You like that one. Alright. It suffices, as well."

\---

Blood rushes up to his ears. Of course he _ likes _ it. “It’s on the nose, but it’s— Thematically, um, appropriate, at least? So, there you go. Fake— Fake person name. Ready to go out into the world.”

\---

"Fake person name." He nods. "When you wish to do this... Ruse... I will come when I am called. A debt is a debt."

\---

_ “Ruse.  _ It’s not a ruse. You’re in a human body. Jon’s...” 

Martin sighs. “Very human. Um, I should— I should talk to him.”

\---

"It is a ruse. A lie, even." The Archivist shivers. "But I will follow through on our wager, I promise. Jonathan... He let me here, tonight. Why do you need to talk to him?"

\---

“I need to say sorry. And... catch up, I think.” He gives him a pitiful look, hugging his knees tighter to his chest. “And it doesn’t have to be that. A lie. Not if you end up liking that name.”

\---

He wrinkles his nose. "You keep trying to humanize me. I am not stupid. I will let you, but it is a lie." He shakes his head, and finally sits back in the Archivist chair. "Did you hurt him?"

\---

Martin hesitates. “...Not physically?”

\---

"Psychologically. Ah." His voice grows amused. "Is it because of your webs, Martin?"

\---

“I think.” His voice is nonexistent. A breath from an empty pen used to puncture a collapsed lung. “That’s the start of it.”

\---

The Archivist's eyes hurt because his muscles pull at him to roll them, and he points at Martin, his elbow planted firmly on the desk. "He is so frightened of the Web. As though the Web is not our closest sister."

\---

“...Why are you pointing at me?”

\---

".... I don't know." He pulls back, and crosses his arms, but feels strange doing that, so he plants his arms in his lap, pulling his legs up to sit criss-crossed in the chair. "Muscle memory, perhaps. This body has more than thirty years of ritual and bodily routine. I... Am unaccustomed to gestures."

\---

Martin cards through several folders in the theoretical space of his brain. Easy enough to move on when he sets his mind to it. He holds out a hand for the Archivist to take. “I know a few.”

\---

He cocks his head, regarding Martin for a few moments, before Leaning forward and offering Martin one of his hands. He has held his hand before; he quite likes it. Martin's hands are larger than Jonathan's; where his own fingers are thin and long, graceful, Martin is solid and firm, and the Archivist did not know he catalogued that information until this exact moment.

How strange the human brain dredges up memory!

"Teach me. Your issue with my sister is not as drastic as you think. This is far more important."

\---

His  _ issue. _ God. Refrain from eye-rolling, Martin, it isn’t worth it. Your traumatic existence will chug along regardless. 

He squeezes the Archivist’s hand three times. This hand is Jon’s, or the Eye’s, or both, maybe, marked by a brand deeper than skin the same day the Archivist was born. He always forgets that one. It isn’t physical the way the Spiral is, though they’re both functionally invisible regardless. He still can’t feel it, but it seems worth noting.

\---

There is meaning here, but the Archivist does not know it. Not entirely. There is something, but it's... Faint. Quiet. Not hidden, but... Foreign.

He squeezes Martin's hand back three times as well. Maybe that is the game. "I know how to squeeze my hand, Martin." But it does feel nice.

\---

“Just testing muscle memory.” Some part of him feels outside his own body. He eases out of his grasp to place the Archivist’s hand on the desk. So he can run his fingers over familiar knuckles. Barely-there touching. It might not be Jon, not wholly, but it’s a part of him. Loving Jon and engaging the Eye seem to go hand-in-hand. “Maybe someday you’ll get that one. I know more, but you’re too far.”

\---

"Too far?" His body shivers, when Martin touches him. What a peculiar feeling. How nice.

\---

“The desk?” Being able to confuse and surprise a god is the last thing he should let go to his head. This conversation has made him lax. So has the sleep deprivation, all the wallowing in his own silent misery. Beyond the exhausting question of whether he deserves to lure comforts in however they appear within sight. Control is nice. Mutual control is nicer.

\---

"... Oh." Well. Then he can mitigate that. What a strange thing to allow becoming an obstacle! He climbs onto the desk, criss-crossed and in denial of the paperwork all over it, sitting up straight. He smiles. "The desk has been conquered."

\---

This corner puzzle piece of the Eye is almost sweet, sometimes. More often now. Hitting all the buttons that remind him of Jon, but other things, too. New things. Something he can’t explain with words, only intuition. “Vanquished. No more dragons in your castle.” 

He realizes... something as he says it. As he takes the Archivist’s hand and brings it up to his hair. He likes playing house. “This is one. You found that on your own.”

\---

"Yes. Because you were ruining your hair and I wanted to touch it before it was gone." The Archivist nods. "Gestures are different. That was touch. A gesture... Ah. When your ghost was angry with me and he put a culturally significant finger up alone to reprimand me." He smile becomes excited bared teeth. "Humorous, how angry he was at me."

\---

“Rituals are gestures. So is muscle memory. Or— Can be. I used to never let people touch my hair. Letting you is a gesture. Of trust. It’s also a ritual, because— Because it changes the mood for both of us. And it’s muscle memory, when Jon’s hands are used to doing it. You know it’s not an objective thing— To like it?”

He thinks. Then he flicks the Archivist’s knee. “Gesture. ‘Stop that’, but light-hearted. Muscle memory.” He pulls a hand back to tug on the locket around his neck. “Gesture. ‘Nervous’. Ritual. Muscle memory. There’s overlap. All the time.”

\---

The Archivist's hands fly to his knee, but he's so enraptured in the explanation that he doesn't even glare, wide-eyed and attentive to a T.

"The body always betrays our goals. The ultimate truth in its muscle. I see." He raises his hands in front of his face. "It is so... Counterproductive. How archaic and savage."

\---

“I think it’s like a story.” Martin smiles up at him through the gap in his hands. He likes this space where whatever falls from his mouth might be wisdom. The poet in him gleams with joy. Or maybe that’s the Messenger. “You can read a lot from people just by watching how they move. Connect pieces and figure them out. I guess... I spent a lot of time doing that, most of my life. But you still don’t get the whole story, there’s always gaps unless there’s trust. Like— If you’re on the outside, you don’t know why I flinch at something. I have to tell you. You can guess, but— You might be wrong.”

\---

"... Or I can merely look in your mind and Know it. Even if your mind is always so closed, I can still see some of it." He smiles. "Nothing more needed. Truth."

\---

“Even if you look in there and see a memory where I-I love something, it doesn’t make you know what love is. It makes you know what I think that is. Subjective.” Martin keeps a hand on the Archivist’s knee. No motion, pressure. 

He misses being warm. “The memory I gave you. If you took the same one from Michael, it would feel different, right? Even ignoring that it was in the Spiral. We see different things. And both of us are telling the truth.”

\---

"... There is still an objective truth. Between both of you, stripped from your human deficiencies in memory and perception. There must always be an objective truth." He leans forward.

\---

“If it was that simple, we wouldn’t be afraid of you.” Ah. Martin, you’re just saying words. You’re not qualified to start getting into intensely complicated debate. “And you _ like _ my human deficiencies. Some— Some of them. My writing only exists in my world. Otherwise I’d just be going ‘Tree. Bush. Sky. Dark. Eye.’ Boring.”

\---

"Well-- well, yes, of course language is reductive, Martin, that is a given, and part of the problem. You creatures are so dependent upon frail noises to tell your truth." He rolls his eyes, and a small laugh falls from his lips. "So imperfect!"

\---

Martin scoffs, huffy. “I’ll keep my  _ frail noises _ to myself, then!”

\---

"Be my guest! I can comb your mind, instead!" Martin is offended and it's humorous, and the Archivist is not sure why. But he is enjoying this evening, and is glad Jonathan left without a fuss.

\---

“I don’t think in fully-formed poems. You’ll never get it. You’ll just get the millions of times I think ‘you’re pretty’ and leave it at that. Not good reading material.”

\---

He sits up straight again, and finally glares down at Martin. "You underestimate me. It's rather rude. Ungrateful. I will 'get it.' I can 'get it.'"

\---

“I’m not underestimating you,” Martin says through an airy laugh. “And I don’t mean it like that. I mean you’ll never get them physically. In your hands. To read. Not that you won’t understand whatever you find there. It’ll just be lame.”

\---

"... Lame." He wrinkles his nose. "Fine. You must write me poetry, then. So I can see the difference. Next time I arrive, you will have some ready."

\---

At the top of the to-do list: teach him more vocabulary that sounds hilarious out of his mouth. “Okay.” Martin gives him the best tired smile he can manage. “Any requests?”

\---

"Hm. Happiness. That is my request. Poems of happiness. Something so prioritized by humans."

\---

Great. Now he has to be  _ happy.  _ And not  _ miserable. _ Which means he can’t isolate himself in a panicked haze. 

Martin looks down at the wreckage of his hair strewn across the floor. He wishes he could take that back. He’s still looking down when he answers. “I can try.”

\---

"Good." He smiles. "You've done good to me." He reaches forward to touch his hair once more, when Martin looks to the ground. Still soft, even if there's less of it.

\---

Martin jumps the way an animal might, a full-body twitch that eases away before taking him anywhere. He only likes to say domesticated when it’s funny, and it’s not funny now, but that’s the gist, isn’t it? 

He presses against the hand and doesn’t bother trying to pretend it’s anything less than a grand gesture of trust he shouldn’t be giving. Unless he should. If it’s up to Martin and Martin alone, the reward is worth the pain. Uh, maybe. Rain check on that. He keeps quiet long enough to loosen his tongue. “Can you keep bad dreams away?”

\---

The Archivist thinks for a while, keeping his hand firm in Martin's hair, and something giddy works its way up his spine when Martin presses back. He brushes lightly against his mind, and twitches, just slightly, as he tests his limitation. Hm. "Yes, I think I can. You'll need to let me in further, though."

\---

Martin nods slowly, careful not to move too much. A subtle, cottony sensation curls around the back of his skull, or maybe inside, but he’s too tired to question it. A break from his seemingly limitless capacity to torture himself into uselessness is too attractive of an idea. “For Jon, too?”

\---

"He sleeps dreamless when I am awake. I have no control of his dreamscape when I am not." He gives Martin a soft smile. "He will learn to enjoy the dreams. He's stubborn."

\---

“I’ll make sure he has good ones, then.” He shuts one eye in some kind of wink. “One of my powers.”

\---

"You still don't know if you have that ability! I enjoy your confidence." He presses his hand deeper against Martin's hair and scalp, extending his fingers. He looks pleased as a sunbathing cat.

\---

“I didn’t get it from... fear god.” Martin mutters eloquently, and what was that the Archivist said about instincts? He lets his throat relax with the rest of his body until a low hum vibrates up to the space the Archivist’s palm meets the top of his head. Stupid Hunt, make up your mind. “Fear gods.”

\---

The Archivist's eyes light up, and he leans even further down, to truly muss up Martin's hair, his nails lightly raking across his scalp. It seems that it feels good, and the Archivist quite likes the noises he produces. These sounds, wordless little representations of the soul, are far easier to translate into truth than fragile words of context. "You just have this ability then?"

\---

A steadily deepening inhuman sound that vibrates through his teeth and hits the exact frequency needed to ward off conscious thought is a representation of his soul, yes. He would worry about waking Michael with the decibel equivalent of a small tiger chuffing, but he’s reduced to a creature beyond panic. He wanted that. He invited that. Is inviting that, insistently shoving into the Archivist’s space. 

The sound dips to let him speak. Simple words. Truth. “It’s love.”

\---

"Love." He scoffs. "That word means too much. Love gives you the ability to grant dreams?"

\---

“Not... Not always. But it’s, um, comfort. You dream better when you’re happy. And...” He pauses to fall back into the growl. “About things you like. Not always. Some...times. It helps.”

\---

"I see." He continues to pet him, quite enjoying this. "Are you happy?"

\---

“Rrrrright now?” Martin sighs deeply around a full-body shudder that almost perfectly mimics the feverish just-beneath-skin sensitivity before a cold sets in. “Better than earlier.”

\---

"Yes, because you haven't been dreaming at all. Not sleeping." He gives a displeased sound. "You must." He pauses. "I meant in... general, however. For your happiness."

\---

“Erm. I think, most of the time? When I can be. Unknowing and relationship issues aside.” Martin shrugs awkwardly at the angle he’s leaning. “It’s just been hard lately. Really— Rough. Fighting. I don’t like fights. Or feeling like - like we are. That’s why I just... go away.”

He slumps. “I’m not happy, no. Or I am and - and then suddenly I’m not.”

\---

"It is a rather foreign concept to me," the Archivist hums, and oh, he is thinking out loud. So strange, the human comforts and tics Martin brings out in him. "Satisfaction less so, but-- fear, disdain, terror, misery. Happiness... How odd."

\---

Martin tilts his head. It has the side of his face resting against the Archivist’s knee, eyes up towards him. “Are  _ you _ happy?”

\---

"I... Don't know." He squints down at Martin for a long moment, thinking, his brows drawn low. "I think... Yes. As much as I am limited in this world, and will be happier. There are certain creature comforts that I enjoy."

Maybe he shouldn't. He knows he didn't think of such paltry comforts when he was part of the Eye. Not was. Is. He is. But the line between the Watcher and himself is becoming wider; the Watcher would not care to scratch Martin Blackwood's head and hum in satisfaction.

Discomforting.

"I shouldn't be happy."

\---

Martin could take the time to dissect that. To even make a cheeky comparison to Jon that would most likely just fall through. But he’s in a simple world of simple thoughts where there’s only one natural response to that. “Yes you should.”

\---

"I am a God of fear. I... I'm unsure." He cocks his head. "Happiness is foreign, like I said."

\---

“Can’t know much about fear unless you know all the other feelings, too.” Martin squints, a smug sneer without a smile to complete it. “You can see if you like it?”

\---

The Archivist leans back just a little. "I suppose I must. You want me to... Pretend humanity for a day." He wrinkles his nose. "I don't think I'll pass as one of you."

\---

“You just need sunglasses and an outfit, really.” He isn’t trying to bring his voice down to a whisper, but it gives his side of the conversation a conspiratory quality. “I already have ideas.”

\---

"Are... Jonathan's clothes not serviceable enough? He may no longer be human, but surely..." He plucks at the fabric of the sweatpants Jon went to bed in. "Outfit?"

\---

“Oh, no— No, they’re fine. I mean ones you like. And feel... comfortable... in? We’ll figure that out when—“ Martin yawns abruptly, sharp teeth and no will to use them. “—we go outside.”

\---

"I see." He tilts his head as he thinks, and comes up blank. He has not thought of clothing before. Regardless; Martin has a plan. An itinerary and the known. Good. "Then you must sleep. I will sleep with you. I have slept, in the cosmic sense, but I have not yet experienced human sleep."

\---

Martin frowns. Beyond there being something wrong with him for how willing he is to do exactly that, he has a few more things to reconcile. Waking up with hands around his throat is less bad than the comments from Michael Shelley still echoing around in his head. “Does Michael want me there?”

\---

"He chooses to sleep in your bed nightly, does he not? Your bed. I would imagine he would leave, if he did not want you there."

The Archivist stands, tall on the desk, and bare feet moving so many of Jon's papers around, and he gestures for Martin to stand just the same, a flourish of the hand.

\---

“I-I mean right now, after—“ Call that thought obliterated, suddenly he’s standing up and confused out of his mind. “Do you... need help getting down?”

\---

The Archivist holds out his hand to Martin, palm open and loose. "Yes. Assist me."

\---

Martin takes the hand without a second thought, putting enough pressure into it to be a steady support as he comes down. It makes him feel like a knight or something. It only hits him right then that this all might actually be a dream. Maybe it is. Maybe it should be.

\---

He sucks in a breath and looks forward as he lets Martin bring him down. He goes first to the chair, and then the floor, his grip tight on Martin's hand as he does so. The ease at which he trusts Martin to assist him! It should worry him; worry is the furthest thing to this mind, though, and by the time he reaches the floor, there's a firm smile planted on his face. 

Keeping their hands connected, the Archivist walks them firmly to the bedroom, pulling Martin behind him.

\---

There is no expression on Martin’s face until the Archivist gifts him a smile he can mirror. 

_ Gifts?  _

They’re already so close by the time he regains control from his uselessly outraged internal processes, and he’s not about to wake Michael, so he worries his bottom lip instead of voicing those processes. Completely unsure of whether he’s gripping his hand to wrangle the Archivist, or to keep his own body from floating away.

\---

The Archivist raises Martin's hand in his when they reach the bedroom, and he maneuvers himself to climb onto the bed standing up, turning in place to look down at Martin. His gaze is severe. "You have to assist me in falling asleep, as well, so I don't force Jonathan to wake up before he wishes." 

This motion jostles Michael Shelley, who rolls over half asleep and sprawls out. When his hand brushes against the Archivist's ankle, he blinks awake and then slowly wakes up entirely, squinting in the darkness as he sits up slightly, looking to where Martin is standing. 

The Archivist is unsure what he thinks about this one. The Distortion was one thing; this human shell is quite another. 

"You two having, like, make-up sex? Around me? Rude not to invite me," Michael Shelley babbles and it's near incoherent around his sleep-filled voice.

\---

Now Michael’s up, and he could maybe deal with all this if he’d been allowed to carefully crawl into bed on one end and stick to it until morning came and fixed his thoughts, but— 

“M— No,” Martin finally says, sounding pathetically dejected. “There’s not...” He squeezes the Archivist’s hand with his eyes glued to the floor. Tries to keep his voice down even though they’re all awake. “I don’t know— I don’t know what helps you sleep.”

\---

The Archivist kicks out slightly to get Michael Shelley to cease touching him, and then he lets himself fall to the bed, sitting up straight and blinking at Martin. "I don't either. I have never slept before. Not while staying... here." He presses a hand to his heart. 

Michael blinks and then his eyes widen. _ "Oh.  _ Oh. Not Jon. Okay."

\---

Martin confirms that with a short, exhausted huff. “Not Jon.” And then he uses one knee to climb up, the other to move over the Archivist, and then he rolls somewhere between them. He avoids touching them both, and just barely resists shutting his eyes and falling unconscious in the soft trap of pillows. 

“You lie down. And you... close your eyes. And try not to be tense? I— I sleep better when I’m holding someone. You’ll have to find out what you like.”

\---

The Archivist slowly lays down beside Martin. In the darkness, the bed emanates its own heat, and he presses his hands to his stomach and looks up to the ceiling and blinks. "Alright. Strange." 

Michael stays leaning up, balancing on his elbow. "Oh, is this happening? Really? What did you do to your hair? Oh my God?"

\---

Martin sinks into the mattress, equally awkward. He would love to be a corpse. “I had a fit. I’m sorry.”

\---

Michael reaches out to press into Martin's scalp, and he pouts for a second before letting out a soft-winded sigh. "Still soft. Missed you."

\---

That secondary process still running in his subconscious mind makes him nuzzle immediately into the touch, even as his breath hitches on something that’s almost the start of a sob.  _ Crybaby.  _

“Missed you,” He tries quietly, so dramatic. “Is it okay that I’m in here?”

\---

"It  _ wasn't  _ okay that you slept out in the office last night, so, um, yeah, it's more than okay that you're back," Michael chides, and hooks a leg over Martin so he can scoot himself closer, pressing his nose to Martin's.

\---

Martin manages to slip an arm around Michael’s side to keep him as close as he can, smiling despite all his turbulently whiny mood swings. 

He gets about as far as that before he remembers the Archivist is there, and he can’t just leave him to that on his own. He tries to put him back into his vision. “Do you want me to leave you alone, or— Or do you— Do you want me to touch you?” 

Amazing. Brilliant questions.

\---

The Archivist turns to look at Martin, and the smile on his face has the smallest inkling of humor on it, as he says, "It seems you are rather busy with Michael Shelley." 

"Is that allowed? Touching the Archivist? Scandalous," Michael says, and leans in to attack Martin's cheek with a long lick. Just to make him jump, really.

\---

“It’s not—“ Martin grimaces, like he’s just had the most revolting experience in his life. His grip over Michael’s side is a warning vice. “I’m not busy, I just— I’m trying to teach you about sleep, like you asked! Going off what I know about you. Can’t imagine you’re big on spooning.”

\---

"I don't own silverware." The smile slips. He believes he made a joke, but Martin, it seems, must not like comedy. Strange, considering his other bedfellow, who is currently snickering into Martin's neck like a filthy pigeon.

\---

Okay. That gets one snort. Just one. “Spooning is— It’s a term for a... a kind of cuddling? Um, on your side? It helps Jon sleep, helps— Helps me sleep.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose with his free hand. It doesn’t help at all.

\---

The Archivist hums. "Show me. I want to Know."

\---

Christ almighty. Martin squirms out from under Michael so he can turn and grab the Archivist by the waist. He yanks him from there, little thought given to how polite that is, until he’s on his side. Always startles him, how easy it is to move Jon’s body and corral him into one spot. Might work out in everyone’s favor, though, since he never had to leave Michael’s space to bring him in. He can touch both of them. 

He loops his arm around the Archivist’s waist with his hand brushing his chest and one leg between both of his, nuzzling up against the back of his neck for good measure. Settled in. Still warm. “There.”

\---

He goes absolutely still the entire time Martin maneuvers him, almost stiff from how frozen he is. How  _ dare  _ he-- How-- 

Oh. He's quite warm, nestled in the pockets of Martin's body. That's... nice. He blinks a few times, and then closes his eyes entirely, focusing on the aura of Martin all around him. What a multi-faceted blanket.

The Archivist hums, deep in his throat. "I enjoy this."

\---

Martin returns the hum, serious and insistent. Just on the edge of cranky. “Good. Sleep.”

\---

"Do not order me about," The Archivist says, but his eyes are still closed and his voice is not so crushingly stiff, but lazier, under the soft comfortable presses of Martin beside him. How weak the body is, to just... Fall unconscious! It makes sleep easier, though; the body has memory of this, and it does not take very long at all to find himself drifting off.

\---

Martin ignores that; his orders without all the threats of intensely acute flashbacks are sort of endearing. Not too difficult a challenge with his forehead flush to the back of his neck, keeping track of the steadily easing breaths he hears from the other side. Matching them. 

Before he drops fully into sleep, Martin tilts his head back to find Michael.

\---

Michael hums when he feels Martin move, a very feline  _ mrrr _ that's met with him hooking his leg back over to Martin so he can scooch in closer to him. "He's something."

\---

Him and his cats. Martin keeps his voice down, head at an uncomfortably twisted angle so he can speak to Michael and not straight into the Archivist’s ear. “I can’t believe he actually made me feel better.”

\---

"He did?" Michael scrunches up his face. "How?"

\---

"Talking. Wagers. Human feelings." He checks whether it's possible to somehow speak from a volume lower than before. "Petting."

\---

Michael laughs quietly beside him. "The petting is what really did it, isn't it. I know you."

\---

"Surprised me. He has a fake human name now." There's a smile creeping back into his tone. "Since he lost our game."

\---

"You and your names. And your games, frankly." Michael huffs. "What is it? Is it at least a good name?"

\---

"Sirius... Moonchild."

\---

Michael sits up a little, propping himself back up on his elbow and he blinks down at Martin. "Uh-huh. Well! I kind of love it! It's really bad!"

\---

Martin's eyes widen considerably. "I know! Shh!"

\---

Michael beds back down and presses into Martin, giggling. he tries to make it quiet, a whisper, but it keeps rising up to a normal volume, which makes the Archivist shift and reach out to slap one firm hand over both of their bodies.

\---

The last noise Martin makes is a sharp 'yip', fit with a startled jump that makes him tighten around the Archivist. No more slumber party whispering from him.

\---

Michael's laugh deepens for a second, and he mimes a whip cracking sound and motion, then presses against Martin once more and slowly lets himself relax, an easy task when Martin is his body pillow. Nothing's even been resolved, except that Michael knows now that he doesn't like Martin not sleeping with them. Curious.


	67. Chapter 67

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Helen and Jon have a little (NORMAL) chat with some cats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOPS, Jack forgot to post an extremely fucking important chapter so now it's going up between 66 and 67 so pretend it was here the whole time thank you.

Jon awakens feeling refreshed, in such a deep and satisfying way that it immediately causes him to tense up, terrified, deep to his bones, that such dreamless sleep inflicted by the Archivist could be considered relaxing.

It's as discomforting as every other thought that has been swirling around his head for the past couple of days, and he deliberates in bed for just a scant moment before deciding to get up and do something about it. 

(But, notably, not before allowing himself a couple minutes to stay within the shell of Martin's warmth, relief flooding through him that Martin decided to actually come to bed last night.) 

He can stay here, and end up wallowing or falling down a spiral, or he can-- well. Guess it's a different sort of spiral, huh. At the very least he might be able to sort his head out, and it's insane, he's aware, but... Well. If she doesn't want to come, she doesn't need to. 

Jon dresses quickly, bundling himself up in a thick scarf and coat, and leaves with no fanfare, letting Michael and Martin sleep in to their heart's contents.

He finds himself at a cafe. Much like choosing statements, he just kept walking, and walking, for what must have been hours, turning when it felt right, into the building that his soul said yes to. Something kitschy and modern, with wood panelling and a ceiling full of twinkling blue lights meant to mimic the night sky, and--

Jon's going to shoot the Eye with a gun. It's a  _ cat cafe.  _ There are  _ cats _ here. 

He orders two of whatever the daily special is and is led to a small table, where he organizes her space to look as anxiously waiting as possible, and he ignores the urge to pet the cat currently winding between his legs (difficult task, indeed), and he takes a sip of his coffee.

It's not particularly good, but it's not atrocious, either, and at the very least it functions as liquid luck enough to give him the courage to say to the empty chair across from him, “Helen? If you can hear me, I wouldn’t mind if you wanted to join me for coffee.”

\---

A tiny golden dinner bell chimes out along the halls, a single resonating echo felt down to the very center. This is only possible through a menagerie of well-placed mirrors dotting corner-pieces of this snake-path house built to nudge each sound along - from laughter to cheap plastic heels on tile - and, of course, the very peculiar nature woven deep into the paint, the wood, the rugs, the bricks that don’t exist. Helen hears the bell. It is not a literal bell, but one of endless ways to manifest a request for attention. This one is simply pleasant, and so the comfort, yellow, bright, and tactile, leaves her all the more invested.

What a pity, that their dear Archivist will never get to see the inner workings of this false realm. There is something vile and degrading to exist shaped by the whims of human moods, and yet the knowledge of a mind-that-is-no-longer combines with fervent zest for the absurd. 

The walls, today, exist in creamy yellows, white crown molding the stark division to the uneven, gorgeous planks of wood below, with precious few adornments that craft a striking sense of calm simplicity. Beyond the urgent bell-sounds, a plush fur rug occasionally breaks up the flooring, and a record player on a table - present at random intervals, often with a cup of coffee that is either boiling or frozen - spins ever onward, having long finished the final song. This is the part that is degrading. It is one thing, to share an existence so unique, and odd, and special, and wrong, yet another to be beckoned forth by those they marked in ways that one cannot possibly resist.

Helen finds herself along the way. Dress comfortable and light, confident and positive. The season matters little in a body that is fabricated, each thread of clothing another lie upon endless little lie. High-waisted jeans with cuffs rolled high and tiny dots for stars sewn in by hand (not hers, or anyone’s, for that matter), a vibrant multi-colored shirt, her usual bracelets, and a never-worn pair of bright yellow sneakers.

Is that her, thinking of Martin? Or is it the one who calls? The mark upon this place that is not a place but more a collection that shifts and writhes? Not knowing is irritating, but her job is not to Know. Not everything, at least. Certainly not right now, and not with this company. So simple a task, to step out of one door and enter another, to break the threshold of a place she has never once been. 

This is a wonderful place, actually. But she is committed to this game - the one where she is competent and helpful, organized and capable without the burden of uprooting her true nature - and she crosses the room with a bright smile and a feigned ignorance for the potential in this space, to get to business first. She animates herself, all sunshine smiles as she takes the opposite seat. Tilts forward, elbows on the table and hands framing her face. “Good morning, Archivist! My, what an invitation-- What could possibly be the occasion?”

\---

Jon jumps slightly when she comes; he can feel and Know her presence before she sits down across from him, and he leans back somewhat in his chair to take a drink from the cooling coffee and smiles. "Just to chat, I think, Helen. If that's-- Okay. I mean. You... You came, so I'm assuming it is okay, but-- Not really an occasion!"

He glances around the room, at the cats, and thins his lips a little. "I just-- Walked into wherever felt right. Hope you like-- cats."

\---

“The occasion isn’t the talk, Archivist, it’s the content. Would you really call me if everything was going well in that ever-chaotic life of yours?” 

A bright orange tabby hops up onto the table between them with a demanding ‘mrrp’. Helen extends a hand out over its back, where it rubs against her from head to tail. Her smile is serene, aware. “I’m allergic.”

\---

"O-oh. I, um, we can go somewhere else? Does that even still affect you? I-- Surely the Spiral helped a little? I don't even need my glasses anymore."

\---

She laughs, static and cut wires at the seams. A purr blends into the sound along the way, but it’s not coming from her. “I’m kidding, Archivist.”

Not lying, no, never lying. Such a dreadfully charged word.

\---

"...Oh." Right. That would be stupid, anyways. Almighty Distortion, brought down by a lack of benadryl and some cats. He peers at the cat on the table, and watches its slow dance around Helen, seeming to be pleased as goddamn punch that she's here. He supposes now that he thinks of it, it was a funny joke; he'll just have to pay attention to the way her voice lilts when she's kidding from now on. 

"Well. Alright. Um-- You know, how much are you controlled by the greater... Spiral?" No need to dilly-dally if she's making jokes.

\---

“Ah. There we are! Well—“ The cat curls its tail around her wrist. Good choice, much better than “I  _ am _ the greater Spiral, Jon. Controlled by my own control over my own control. Unless you found another astonishingly perplexing Distortion in your travels from one end of your Institute to the other.”

\---

"Yes, but-- You're the Distortion. A-- You're a piece of the Spiral, not--" He makes a motion to the sky, miming something akin to a cloud. "Right? That's-- That's different. I'm-- I'm a part of the... Eye, now, and part of it lives in me."

\---

“I was a tiny, tiny piece, once. Just a one-room flat and not a single hallway! I  _ grew, _ Archivist. I grew, expanded, constructed. That is what happens when you feed things.” Another cat jumps from the floor to the table in one flowing, singular motion. Checkpoints at ground and lap and destination. Much smaller than the first, a tiny tuxedo. It paws at her untouched mug. 

“Sound familiar?”

\---

That stutters some of Jon's semi-linear plan for this conversation. He picks up his mug, and then puts it down, some unknown truth in his gut turning and roiling into nausea. "So he will just grow more... Powerful, is what you're saying."

\---

Helen picks up her own mug, just short of being tipped over, and meets eyes with the Archivist as she sets it back down in a different spot. “He? I was referring to you.”

\---

Jon sucks in a breath, and nods. Guess he should have realized. "Right. I-- I mean, I kind of guessed that." He pauses. "I didn't start out as a tiny piece of the Eye, though. Not like you with the Spiral."

\---

“Oh? Unless I’m mistaken, you’ve been a tiny piece of the Eye since you first pressed play!” Her friendly smile is real. “Unless that came later.”

\---

"Right, right, I agree, but it's-- I've become p-part of the Eye. Right?" It still feels so awful to say that out loud, like he's betraying something inside him for just... accepting the truth as it is. One of the only truths he has a hard time just processing as reality. 

"You-- You've always been part of the Spiral, and-- And shoving a human in you just... Stilted your growth."

\---

She can’t resist. “I’m always stilted, Archivist. Just as I’m much more than a human shoved into me. I’ve grown regardless! A different diet. I have...” She drums her fingers on the back of the orange cat. “...Different priorities, now. For you, though, maybe it has always been a part of  _ you.” _

\---

Jon watches her fingers move, his eyes flicking to and fro as he processes that. He'd come with sunglasses on, but has since pulled them to the top of his head to avoid strands of hair falling down over his face. He hadn't exactly done the most thorough job of pulling his hair up this morning, so overcome with the need to talk to someone that he'd neglected some of the classier modes of getting ready for a coffee date. 

"We had... A couple talks like this, in-- in the other version. The first time it all happened. I've... At least, far more than then, I've accepted my...diet. And I'm starting to understand my role in this. And--" 

He blinks, and shakes his head, and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, watching stars bloom beneath his eyelids. "No, no, I'll just get to the point, it-- Did you know Martin was using the Web?"

\---

Shame. She would have loved to strike conversation over roles and purposes and diets. Instead, Helen brings the mug to her lips with both hands and speaks around the rim. “Did you?”

\---

"Well-- Obviously not, since I'm asking." He frowns at her.

\---

“Would it matter if I did?” She hums thoughtfully. “Does that ghost of yours not tell you? Can you not Know that, just yet? Besides—“ She adopts the excited cadence of a conspiracy theorist. ”Is he?”

\---

"I-- I think? It-- Him and Michael did,  _ something i _ nvolving Martin biting him and it was this whole thing, and--" He leans forward across the table, finding her cadence to be extremely addicting. Call it muscle memory. "And I've been blind to it."

\---

“The Eye, blind?  _ No.” _ She draws out the O, auditory stimulus somehow turned visual. Tiny, tiny rings in lights, in eyes of attentive cats. 

She rests her hand on the table for Jon’s viewing pleasure. Deep cuts healed over down into substance thicker than flesh at her wrist. “He was so new. Precious. Now, here’s a game for you. Can you always tell? Can you pick out every mark he’s used, exactly when, where, even how?”

\---

He stares down at her palm and wrist, as though the lines of her hand and the scarring of her wrists will tell his fortune. Oh, line going horizontal bring me love, scar from Martin's teeth bring me fortune.

"I suppose... Not? I suppose I've just... Known his marks. Known where he got them. I guess that skews how much I Know them, as they happen."

\---

“Have you Known? Or did you assume? There is quite a difference, you know. You think all the fun happens to him when you’re around to see it— My dear, you’ve only been present for two.”

She squints around her smile. “And why would a beast that hides evolve with a scent?”

\---

"I know the Web  _ hides,  _ Helen, I'm not-- I know that. I just--" Hoped it wouldn't cause him to be a paranoid freak again. Last time, he was scared of the Web and got blindsided by the Lonely. Now it seems the Web is making itself far more known; did it have Martin in the original timeline, too? Was Jon just blind to that, too? It would be easy; it's not as though he and Martin were talking, much, after he woke from his coma. Or, really, much before it, either. He'd isolated so much; it feels like a different person, now, even if those impulses still sometimes jump up from his skin. 

Easier to ignore them, now. 

"I don't know what the Web wants, and I don't want it-- hurting him."

\---

“Have you tried asking?” Nothing a little Devil’s Advocate won’t fix. He is so remarkably easy to get off track.

\---

"Why would it tell me? I don't think it likes me very much." He shakes his head. "Most of the entities, for that matter."

\---

“But  _ he _ does.” Another cat weaves between her legs, deciding his are also appropriate to repeat the gesture to only after. “You must know that. And a mediator would be quite handy for you, being so hard to like.”

\---

Jon jumps slightly when the cat touches him, having forgotten they aren't just a part of Helen's outfit today and that they are, in fact, still at a very public cafe. He laughs nervously. "A mediator. That sounds like--" He snorts. "Like the name he has for Martin, kind of."

\---

“So many names. So many roles. Maybe it would have been better to stagger them out.” She rests her chin in her palm, gleeful, like she’s about to make a very good point. “You seem like you slept well, Archivist. That’s not usual.”

\---

"Yes, well-- He was around last night. I suppose that helped me sleep." He says it primly, a little stiff, already nervous now that the conversation is going there.

\---

“Assuming again. You’ll have to learn eventually, Jon! You can’t make all these conclusions you jump to and expect them to be true. Why on earth would you want to? The reality is so much more fun. More interesting.”

\---

"The-- How was that an assumption? It's at the very least a damn good hypothesis; He had the body, I didn't dream. Good sleep. Reasonable data. Reasonable conclusion." He wrinkles his nose. "What reality?"

\---

“Our reality. The one where your Archivist also decided to... willingly go to bed with your better half?” She covers her mouth, a comically obvious mock ‘oops’. “It begs a few more questions, too.”

\---

"He-- huh." That leaves Jon flabbergasted for a moment, squinting at her. "He-- I see. Is that why Martin was in bed this morning? Because of--? Huh. What questions?"

\---

Helen hums. “What did they talk about? Why did he stay? Who asked who? How did they end up  _ there? _ Why does that help you sleep? Did they make any deals? What does Shelley think about that arrangement? Why is a creature so set on his goal indulging in that?” 

She leans forward across the table. The cats squish beneath her. They love it. “Much more fun. So many directions to take it.”

\---

Jon blinks. "Oh, that's-- Wow. Okay. If you knew I woke up with Martin today, why didn't you just watch that, too? All your ques-- Well, what do you think? You've clearly got thoughts, and he's clearly asleep."

\---

“It’s not as fun if it’s just one of you. Unless you turn up at a cat café!” She shrugs. “You’ll have to be more specific about my thoughts, Jon. Otherwise I’ll send us delightfully off topic. You do have powers for that, you know. Why not use them? It would save you a lot of time. And a lot of loops.”

\---

"If that's you giving consent to me Compelling you..." He'll take it. And he'll feed, he's not as ashamed of that, but he still wants it to be... allowed.

\---

“Remember the right time to break your rules, Jon. And remember when to adjust. I know you! Is my accepting your invitation not also an acceptance of who you are?”

\---

He purses his lips. "Yeah, probably. I'm accepting myself, Helen, I- I just. They're my rules. Meaning I wanted them. So they're important."

\---

She waves him off. “I mean that I accept it’s a risk I take coming here. Go on. How strong are you? Let’s see it.”

\---

There's no hesitation after that. It feels good to compel; he hasn't done it in a while, and while statements and recording feed him, there's something so fresh in the way he can pull, and pull, and pull, something that creates fear even as it nets him Knowledge in as direct a way as possible. It is, simply put, intoxicating. 

"Why do you find the Archivist going to bed so interesting?"

\---

The two cats on the table bristle as something stormy pricks through the air. They dart off by the time that static builds into a force that sways the very core of the Spiral. 

Cute. 

“Is that what you find the most important to answer?” She laughs, half-snort, half-giggle. “He’s repulsed by his own humanity! At the concept of experiencing it all so close up. And now, oh, now he’s discovered something sweet. The kind that makes him question, and question, and question. You never stop asking, once you’ve started. What a predicament he’s found himself in. To not know the answers. To grow  _ fond.” _

\---

Jon blinks. "No, I suppose you don't ever stop asking. Who can, really?" Well. That's interesting. Maybe he'll have to chat with the Archivist when they next meet, in his dreams. He doesn't want to indulge him there, though. Guess he did, though, last night, to make the dreams go away. 

"And you? Have you grown fond?"

\---

“Yes.” There is no hesitation. “I’m starting to get so caught up in this... life, that I’m forgetting what I was before. If I ever was. Since what I am now is something new. Something I’ve never been before. Brand new. Ageless and young.”

\---

Oh, this is better. He likes this. Jon leans forward, smiling. "Do you like this new?"

\---

“With perspective, I believe... Perhaps failing my attempt at a perfect world created something unique.  _ Someone _ unique. Not perfect, not at all, the skin doesn’t fit right, the emotions are painful, ones I feel. Inside and out. But having preferences, now, this second time? To be stitched again from that same old cloth of my ‘me’ with something new and vibrant, the kind I like to touch?” Helen smiles back. “Should I ever be that? Perfect? Living in this world, living so close to it, to meddle like this? To always be just a little bit wrong? A purpose as simple and complex as ‘just have fun’ here? I think I do. My, you do have me rambling.”

\---

She leaves Jon breathless, for a moment, soaking in the feelings of her words, the truth of them. It's been a long while since something he compelled came with an answer that felt good, not in the voyeuristic dread fear, but genuinely warm, genuinely excited. He smiles. "I'm-- Really, I'm glad you found it. Your purpose, I mean. And you like it. That's-- There's something commendable in that." 

Jon's not sure he'll ever really feel comfortable. He wonders if that's part of the game; self-voyeurism, self-trauma, self-infliction of pain and fear to sustain himself under and in the Eye. Destined for something bigger than Helen's meddling, but something that will equally probably destroy him. Could he even enjoy his existence, unless he gave in to sheer madness? He's not sure. 

"What would yours have been like, if you'd won?"

\---

“Oh, Archivist, that can’t be put into words. Certainly not your words, compelling those rigid truths and certainties to speak of something unexplainable to a perspective of facts. I would have to show you, but you wouldn’t like it. Not part of your diet.”

\---

"Hm." Jon hums, and has to squash the momentary disappointment at being... Oh! "Nice sidestepping the compelling. Certainly one smooth way of doing it."

\---

“Sidestepping? I would never. Liquefy my being to pass through, yes. Answer adjacently? Yes. But it’s the truth, isn’t it?”

\---

"Oh, yes, it is. I don't think you can lie to a Question without hurting yourself." He cocks his head. "But it's still sidestepping. Adjacent. Whatever. It's clever."

\---

“Clever I am.” The cats return, immediate crisis averted. “Feeling better? On-track? We’ve traveled quite a ways from the start. Of this conversation, at least.”

\---

Jon gives a slow shrug. "I wanted to talk to you about a lot of things. No worries that we're jumping around." Anyone else, maybe, and he'd be upset at himself for wandering, but this is the Spiral. He does have to give himself some leeway.

He does feel better, though. Hadn't even realized how empty he felt, until something lined the bottom of his proverbial stomach.

\---

“Ah. Where are we jumping next, then, Archivist?” She winks. “Somewhere fun, I hope.”

\---

"Well-- Hm. Maybe you did sidetrack me." Jon rolls his eyes and sits back in his chair, bringing the mug up to rake a drink from it. "Web was the big one, and I-I suppose you already knew. So I guess that's been happening for a while at least."

\---

“I never said I knew, Jon. Or that I didn’t. Why does that matter to you?”

\---

"Because I want to know how long it's been happening under my nose! I should-- I need to notice these things. I should-- especially with Martin, I should know!"

\---

“Our darling Gamemaster masquerades as many things. You might want to start paying attention, Archivist. You’re already playing!”

\---

"Gamemaster." Jon groans and drags a hand down his head. "Everyone's got a million different names for him, what, whenever I was gone? It's hard to keep up!"

\---

“And yet you never asked, did you? He’s quite the collector. Maybe he’d even give you a show! A tour.” Her eyes light up as she says the word, multicolored spirals in her eyes. “Then you might finally be included.”

\---

"... Guess I'll have to ask. Seems I have to, anyways, considering... Considering the other day." Two hands on his face this time, and he lets out a weary sigh. "I'm... Really bad at this."

\---

“Oh, no, what happened?” Her bottom lip tilts into a worried pout. “I’d love to hear it in your words. Highlights, lowlights, all the rest.”

She addresses one of the cats on the table. “Now, will he blame himself this episode? We’re about to find out.”

\---

Jon glares at her, and slowly drops his hands back to the table. He, too, addresses the cat. "Don't listen to her. She's stirring up trouble."

... Okay. He's talking to the cat. That's fine.

"It just... Exploded? Everything? They were... All done up, and in dresses, and it was sweet and then-- I don't know. I really don't. Martin just-- they all just. Started freaking out? And-- the Web, and the Hunt, and I don't even have it sorted yet."

\---

The cat meows at him. Somehow, it sounds like it’s on her side. “‘And the Web, and the Hunt’? Sort it out, Archivist. That is your job, after all!”

\---

Jon lets out a heavy breath and-- well. She's right, isn't she? Even if it's family what's finding itself caught in the grasps of entities, it's still entities, and it's his job to sort that out. "Yeah. Probably says something that I had to have the  _ Spiral _ tell me that. Ugh."

\---

“Mm.” Her nails tap against her mug. “Might it be better to think of me as Helen, your friend, instead of just another bad, nasty Entity?”

\---

"Easier, certainly. I don't know if better is the right word." But that question distracts him enough to look up at her and smile a little. "Says something that you're the person I thought to call. I guess-- yes, friends is a- alright."

\---

“Who else would you call? You’ve kept yourself at arm’s reach from all the people you knew once, before. Except the ones who find you. Where are they all now, I wonder? What are they up to?”

\---

"The-- I don't know. I suppose living their lives. Without me or the Archives to ruin them."

\---

“Ah, but are they? Are you the only thread that can be plucked, or sent back? With a use? Are you sure the Archives has no stake in anyone else?” She sighs. “So self-absorbed without any of the fun.”

\---

"No,  _ you  _ get to have fun. Doesn't seem up my patron fear entity's repertoire." He scowls. "I'm sure they're doing better without being bound to the Institute. No blinding necessary."

\---

“I’ll refrain from slapping you on the wrist for assuming again. Just so you know I can. Oh, yes, I’m sure every person you’ve ever met is better off without you.”

\---

"I mean." Jon cocks his head slightly. "I'm incapable of lying at this point, I think. So I won't refute that."

\---

Helen dips several of her fingers into her mug, flicking them out at him to spray errant droplets over his face. “It’s not all about you, Archivist. I was  _ kidding.  _ Martin may be scattered, but that  _ was _ his own choice. I think we’d both agree it’s better than the Lonely’s soul-sucking emptiness. And, my, to be surrounded by those who fancy you? You ought to start embracing it before it gets sick of that self-made torment and leaves you behind!”

\---

Jon flinches as the droplets hit his face, and he takes in the expression of a drowned cat, his frown lines deepening. "I don't know how to do that, Helen. It's not... It's not like I  _ want _ to constantly drown in self misery."

\---

Helen tilts her head. Too far to be human. “Are you sure?”

\---

"I- I guess not. I just. I don't know why I'd want to be miserable. Always. It--" He shakes his head and makes a low groaning noise. "Nevermind. You're not my therapist."

\---

“I believe there’s a clinical term for that. One you might qualify for.” Her smile grows wider. “But knowing that is only half the journey.”

\---

Jon raises his brow. "I mean. Probably. But-- extenuating circumstances make it all a biiiiiit harder to... You know. T-treat? No matter."

\---

“Hm. You know, it’s not every waking moment of your day that’s swallowed up by the Eye. Cat cafés. Friendship. Playing with your Gamemaster. All makes the days much brighter.”

\---

Jon sighs. "Guess you're right." Even if, increasingly, it seems his attention is always, always, always pulled to the Archives. All day, every day. Obsessive Sims, drawn in by yet another thing to spiral over forever. And this one's got him addicted.

"Well. There's my problems. Awesome. And all I've given you is a cup of coffee you didn't seem to drink. Great."

\---

“Who, me?” Helen lifts the mug and flips it upside down. Nothing comes out, liquid or otherwise. “I loved it. Almost as much as the company.” 

She gestures to the several cats who’ve made themselves at home around her. If only she could always walk around with a loudly purring entourage.

\---

"Could a cat survive in your hallways? Could always adopt one. Make an avatar out of it."

\---

“Oh!” She claps her hands together with delight. “A true Schrödinger’s cat! What a lovely idea.” A brief pause for thought. “I doubt it!”

\---

Jon raises a very prim and academic finger. "Now, Helen, isn't that an assumption on your part?" He smiles at her.

\---

“Doubt doesn’t mean I won’t try, Archivist! I absolutely will. You’re inviting me to release more of me into this world. How things have changed.” 

A wistful sigh. “I really do hope you solve that...” She takes a sip out of her empty mug with raised eyebrows. “...wolf spider problem, of yours.”

\---

"Wolf Spider, right, because-- The Hunt, and--" Jon blinks. "Oh my God. Charlotte? Fuck-- God, I hate spiders." He wraps his arms around himself and sits back in his chair, pushing it out slightly. One of the cats waiting below for Helen's attention jumps out of the way of the chair's feet, making an affronted little mrrp and flicking its tail harshly against Jon's shin. 

"Ugh. I'm not inviting you to do anything except sometimes come to coffee or, or tea? meetings with me. What you do with cats is your own-- business? I mean, what are you going to do? End the world?"

\---

“Nope! That’s your job.” She reaches forward and taps a pointed finger to his nose for emphasis. She doesn’t move back to her side of the table, instead leaning over it. “I’d love another chat some time. Oh, and some advice. Maybe don’t use that name on him. Who knows how that one will get tangled up in there!”

\---

Jon blinks. "I-- I'm not the one calling him names all the time! Unlike-- Evidently unlike everyone else in my life!" Seriously. What has gotten into everyone? Unending fucking strife. 

He ignores the comment about the end of the world. Would have even laughed, bitterly, at it if she hadn't made the comment about Martin.

\---

“It was just a suggestion, Jon. So worked up over nothing. Maybe you should pet more cats. Might make you feel better.”

\---

He gives her a look and almost snaps something else, but lets out a sigh and starts to wind his scarf around his neck again. "Yes, well-- Maybe. Maybe I'll get a cat when we move. Which-- heard you're helping with that. I don't exactly trust Michael's sole judgement on these things."

\---

“Oh, I tried.” What a choice she has laid out in front of her. The truth is far more absurd than any false creation in either of their minds. “Dearest Michael was enamored with me! Too bad for him; I won’t be eating that again any time soon. And  _ Martin. _ I heard Martin got rid of a real estate agent! Michael Shelley was petrified. They were clearly not ready to go hunting houses.”

\---

"... Right. Maybe we're better suited for e-tours," Jon mumbles, and drums his fingers on the table once. "I should get back to work, Helen. Thank you for the company. Surprisingly pleasant."

\---

Helen makes no move to get up. Seems she has plans to stay. “Do call me again soon, Jon? And— Make sure you eat once in a while. You’re practically starved.”

\---

He stands, pressing his nails into one of his wrists. "I take statements." He knows that's not what she means. But he's not doing that again.


	68. Chapter 68

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Name-dropping and foreshadowing, my favorite!

“Morning, Tim,” Sasha announces with an openly frustrated sigh, one she rarely ever lets slip. A cup of hot coffee lands on his desk as she steps around it. “One for you.”

It’s decaf, but he never asks. One of their enable-better-habits agreements; they switch off who gets the coffee, on her days he assumes it’s caffeinated, they both know better, it still tricks his brain. She sets her satchel down against the back of her chair and settles in for a few precious minutes. Her cup is absolutely caffeinated. 

Her hair is frizzy today, usually hand-in-hand with stress, too busy to do it up or keep it back. Tim always has a few more compliments in his mouth for days like this, something she appreciates but never says. Because she’s grumpy. Good opportunity for her to get it out of her system early enough that she can fix her mood by lunch. Another agreement. Better to let it out on him than the rest of the office - something he’s happily offered himself up to do - and she can usually turn a Monday around pretty quickly with that nudging her along. 

Enough stage mutterings of  _ ‘wow, Sash, that’s a look for you, and that’s saying something’  _ and it all works itself out. 

For all their subtle gestures, the trust is never made in the realm of subtext. It’s not a matter of him reading her or her reading him well, though they’re good at that, too, but instead it’s spoken outright. Usually outside of office hours. Sometimes on one or the other’s couch. Boundaries they both take seriously. It never feels hard to do that with him. An oasis of relief in a place like this.

That’s why he’s allowed to know so much. Why she knows what he looks like - pacing, frantic, scared - in his worst of moods that never end up aimed at her no matter how low they can get. Why he knows what she looks like - unkempt, stressed out, professional restraint left at the door - when it all becomes too much. 

The comfort eases into her, knowing she can sit at her own desk and start her morning shitty, that she can drop the pretense of initiating that grating, polite small talk she often becomes shackled to with other coworkers. Just pop in, check her emails, and get her shit together. None of that boring, pointless, ‘Mondays, right?’.

Tim picks up the mug and peers at its contents for a long moment; the coffee is still steaming, rising up and over his face as he breathes in the smell of fresh grounds, and the condensation feels pore-opening and warm against him. He takes a drink, and it is scalding, and it is bitter, but that's alright. 

Sasha gave it to him; of course he'll drink it. 

"Morning," He says, and flashes her a smile as he watches her sit down. His voice is gravelly-- let's call it the result of a long sleep. 

There is so much tension in Sasha's body as he regards her, but loose enough that it seems to waft off of her in droves as she settles into her desk. There's a furrow in her brow as she drinks her coffee, one that makes her face so, so much more severe than when it's smoothed out, and Tim loves to make mental notes on her every action. Less categorizing; more romanticizing.

Sasha ignores the tone, because she is  _ not _ encouraging that. Especially not this early, at the start of the week, with a meeting she’s nervous about nipping at her heels. She’s always nervous about meetings. No risqué office role-play rebuttal for you, Stoker. 

“I have no idea why I even offered to schedule that meeting with Jon so early.” She scoffs at her desk, addressing him with words alone and not eye contact. “I’m just torturing myself at this rate.”

Tim squints for a moment and then leans back in his chair, slowly props his feet up onto the desk. Loose. Casual. Expressive.

"Could you have scheduled it later?" He asks, and cocks his head slightly.

_ “Yeah, _ Tim. But Sasha James of the distant past thought getting it out of the way would be... less of a pain, I guess.” She offers up a deep sigh, then finally looks at him. “You sure you’re okay with not coming this time?”

"Mmmm..." He purses his lips. "Think I'm fine here. With my--" Well. There's certainly files in every which way on his desk. "Workload and all."

Sasha bores into him with a sharp squint. It’s almost comical, and she almost laughs, but he’s either setting her up or thinking about something he’s not sharing. “You’re joking, right?”

He snorts, and levels her with as knowing a smile as he can muster. "Well...  _ yeah, _ Sasha, obviously. Pretty locked down until the ghost fancies another rendezvous."

Maybe distance has been good for him, then. Not that it’s a surprise, a listless Tim is one that makes regrettable decisions. Potentially more so than a very dedicated one. “Uh-huh. And that’s going... well? You’re being careful?”

"As careful as I can," He beams at her. 

Oh, the care she has for him. Emotions, swell. How wonderful.

Guess that’s all she can ask for, then. Her smile is friendly, open, if the slightest bit worried. A flash that’s intentional. “Okay.” 

She leaves it at that, content to work in silence as the minutes tick by. Up until the very second she realizes how much time has passed. Suddenly she’s a blur - notebook, pen, ‘shit’, phone, coffee, that seems to be it. “I have to go. Text me if something comes up?”

He winks at her. "You got it." And then, as if in an afterthought-- "Good luck."

Sasha balances the pen behind one ear, and the second smile she gives him is one of relieved appreciation. “I hope I don’t need it, but I’ll take it.” 

A busy bee. She only hovers in the doorway long enough to toss out a, “Try not to get too much work done without me!”

\---

Jon knows when it's time; there's a feeling, a Knowing, a gut-understanding when Sasha is close. He says, "Come in," in a mild voice, sitting as casually as he can at his desk. Which isn't much, actually; it's still a very professional stance. He supposes he hasn't gotten over that with Sasha, yet. Or ever, really. Maybe soon.

Sasha sees it coming this time. Her hand hovers slightly too long over the knob in wait for the invitation, and then, just like that, it arrives. She never has to knock. 

Knowing this does not make it pleasant. A tiny, tiny nervous strain rattles the very edge of her greeting. “Hi, Jon. Happy Monday.” 

_ Good going, Sash. Maybe he’ll hand you the keys to his office for that one.  _ ‘Bye, guys, see you later! This one’s got it all figured out from here’.

She closes the door behind her and knows it matters very little either way. She talks as she walks, crossing the space to rest her coffee on one side of the desk— the half she’s decided to claim. “So— I know we had a general idea of where to start this time, but I was thinking we could start with names and see where it goes from there.” She sucks in a short breath, afraid she’s talking too much off the bat. “Important figures. People to watch out for. Things like that.”

"Not a terrible idea," Jon muses, and slides an open notebook over to himself, clicking the head of a pen open. "I was thinking of doing that." Especially after speaking to Helen.

He blinks and as if in an afterthought, mumbles, "Happy Monday."

“Right.” At least that cracks the ice. “So. Um, to clarify, this isn’t a list of people I want to contact. I think it might be important to know names so we aren’t blindsided by someone we should know about. Unless we decide we... should get them involved. In theory, emergency contacts, and a block list?”

She sits before him, lifting the pen from her ear to put it to paper with a soft click. “It might be a good refresher for you, too.”

Jon nods, and then sits back, thinking of where to start said list. There's... Quite a lot to go on the block list, isn't there. When it's put like that, at least.

"Alright. Avatars first, maybe. Top of the list, Jude Perry, absolutely do not contact."

Sasha dedicates a section on her notebook to aforementioned designation. “Avatars, then. Name, Entity, recommendation for contact, and reason? That’s two of four for Jude.”

"Right." He drums the end of the pen against the desk for a few moments, and decides yes, that's a good categorization system. "Jude Perry; Desolation; Do not contact; Will likely kill or at least severely hurt anyone she comes into contact with." He holds up one of his hands. "Burned me, just to see me scream, once."

There is no burn on Jon’s hand, so she nods, assuming this is a matter for the previous timeline. “Helen Richardson; Spiral...” 

Sasha looks up to Jon to fill in the last half, and asks a question she poses with calm neutrality despite how childish it feels to ask. “Do you... have any highlighters?”

He opens a drawer to go hunting for some, and ah, yes, there's the pack he bought a couple weeks ago. He goes through them terrifyingly fast. He hands a blue and a yellow one to her, then holds the rest up with a questioning look in case she needs more.

"Helen Richardson; Spiral; Emergency contact, ah, preferably with either me or Martin accompanying said call. She's helpful, if she's feeling like it."

“Thank you.” She takes a moment to write the rest down, then takes to highlighting. Blue for bad. Yellow for yes. Very efficient. “Michael Shelley, formerly the Spiral. The Spiral seems to be... helpful, to us? Is that normal?”

"I don't... Know." Jon hums. "It seems to be a bit more frivolous with it’s favor than... Than the other entities. The first time, the other timeline, Michael nearly killed me; bit different this time."

“Okay. If you’re sure.” Sasha holds her tongue and writes a small note near the bottom of the page for things to bring up later. It’s a subtle action, as she looks up at him. Practiced. “Next round? Anyone that comes to mind. Neutral too.”

"Yes. Well. Simon Fairchild; Vast; I'm... Not sure? Go for neutral I guess. He's awfully evil, but I've never met the guy. Peter Lukas; Lonely; top of the blocklist, especially for Martin." He starts to count each name on his fingers, pressing the pad of his other pointer finger to each finger as he names them.

Even as she writes, Sasha’s brows furrow together. Snagging on a thought. “...’Especially for Martin’?”

Jon's expression twitches. "He... He was Lukas' assistant, in the other time. He, ah, was becoming an avatar of the Lonely because of him."

“...Right. The Lonely?” Sympathy gnaws at the edges of her question. She sighs. “Poor Martin. Can’t catch a break.” 

She blinks, and sits further upright. Stop it, Sasha, be professional. “Sorry. Um, next then. The ghost, Gerard Keay? Not an avatar, right?”

"No." Jon shakes his head. "Affiliated with the Eye and the End. Perhaps would have become an Avatar, like me, had he not died. The End has him bound, though."

“What does that mean for us, then? If he’s aligned to both. The End is more concerning, especially with...” 

She taps her pen against the notebook and decides to just come out with it. “...I don’t think it would be a surprise to either of us that Tim... is Tim. You know? If Keay is bound to death, he’s not... Sorry, remember, all new for me. I’m asking if he’s a vulnerability. If he can be controlled, somehow. Against us.”

"Not by the End." Jon worries at his lip for a second, trying to figure out how exactly to word this without... Without talking about  _ him.  _ "The Eye has some level of control over him. the End is... Very passive. Very patient. And it has Gerry already, technically, so... It should be satisfied."

“Well. Mm. You can say the same thing about any of us. With the Eye, I mean?” She shrugs. “Next ones.”

"Speaking of the End, there's, ah, Oliver Banks; avatar of the End; He's... probably okay to contact? He helped me get out of a six month coma once, rather severe bloke all things considered, but I have to give him that. Ah. Mike Crew; Vast; No need to contact him really, he's... Retired, it seems."

“So they go through phases, then? Periods of calm, or... temporary alliance, when not actively planning their rituals? And... What does retired mean, here?”

"I... suppose? I mean, at the end of the day, avatar or not, some are still... people. You know, maybe not-- not the likes of Jane Prentiss, but. Human or not, I'm still a person, I certainly have entities I prefer over the others." He pauses. "The End is passive, generally speaking. It... It will win, eventually, right? Everything dies. The... The Web-- Ah, yes, Annabelle Crane, for that, don't contact-- meddles constantly, sometimes grotesquely, sometimes without you knowing. It seems the Spiral is on our side, at least partially, this time." 

Not as much active malevolence if your ritual has failed and you have to wait a couple hundred years." He cocks his head. "Retired, meaning, I think he just-- Has Leitners and sits around. He was plagued by the Spiral, years back, and joined the Vast to... Win? Get rid of the Spiral creature following him? He's not nice, he very much tried to kill me, but... Left alone, I don't think he'll be a problem."

Sasha takes to her notes with careful precision. She intends to do her own research on each name, but this well of leads is plenty to jump from already. “Got it. Are there any more, or are we on to... people? Not that— I know you just said they’re people, I believe you, but— I’m taking a guess that you kept a... lot of people out, this time. Powers aside.”

Jon thinks, and then names off the rest of the avatars he's run into. Jared Hopworth, of course Nikola, their current thorn, Breekon and Hope with the Singing Coffin, etc.

When he finishes, he takes a drink of cooled tea, and then gives her a solid nod. "You'd be correct. There were about three other people working here, by the time I left to  _ this _ time. Melanie King, Basira Hussain, and Alice Daisy Tonner. All people I'd rather let live their own lives, if possible."

“Is that safe? How do you know they won’t eventually show up? Most of it has come back around for us, in different ways. It might be good to at least do a check-in. Keep...”  Sasha keeps her voice steadily neutral, but it is a joke. “...an eye on them. I’d want that for me. Well— I’d want to know, but if it’s genuinely more dangerous, then it is.”

"... Maybe. I just-- you know, Melanie had to blind herself to get away from it all. And had a stint with the Slaughter. And Daisy..." Jon's mouth thins. "She went into the Buried. They're probably... Well. I suppose Melanie might be fine. Daisy is... Dangerous, right now. Hunt."

Sasha blinks. “Dangerous? And... just out? In the world, doing... What does she do?”

Jon thins his lips and kind of looks away. "She works with the police force. Law enforcement."

“She’s dangerous. And she works with law enforcement.” Sasha leaves it at that, deadpan while she stares.

"Well... What  _ can _ we do? Bind her to the Institute like the other time? That seems-- cruel."

“Um, no. I mean... not—“ She sighs. Maybe she needs Tim here as much as he needs her. “Isn’t it cruel to let her hurt people, Jon? If that’s what she’s doing? I can only assume.”

"I- Maybe? I don't-- What can we do. She doesn't even know us, she's hunting-- I mean, as far as I know she's only hunting monsters, but--" He shakes his head. "Maybe it's cruel. I don't know what to do about it."

“I barely know you, either. But it’s— It’s not my place, I guess. Still good to keep track.”  Sasha fidgets with the end of her pen, trying to spot loose ends. “You said the Hunt killed you, this time around. What’s stopping her from finding you? I don’t know how indiscriminate they are. I haven’t seen it... in person.”

Jon squints, thinking. "That... is a very good question. I'm not... Sure. I don't think it would; from what I can tell the Hunt is... It finds a scent it needs to hunt. Or protect. I suppose if... Daisy came here, she might smell the monster of my being, but I'm not sure she would be drawn here for that."

“Unless something else brings her here, Jon. Like the thing that sent you back in the first place?” She isn’t judgmental in her execution, but she does lift an eyebrow.

He scowls at her briefly, and then runs a hand down his face. "The Eye doesn't have hold over a Hunter that's never stepped foot in this place, Sasha. The Eye is what sent me back, and it was my fault for-- for trying to take myself out of the narrative."

If they were on better terms, she might have a few things to say about people being taken out of the narrative. Instead, she moves on. Other questions to be answered. “Is there anyone we  _ should  _ get involved, then?”

"I'd prefer not to. We've been calling Helen occasionally. Other than that... As internal of an affair as possible is good." He pinches the bridge of his nose. "We know a lot more a lot earlier, this time. And once we get over the Unknowing, we can focus on the rest."


	69. Chapter 69

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Martin get some alone time. Also, welcome to 600,000 words! We're only two months behind in editing now. :,)

Jon has a notebook slung underneath his arm like a safety blanket, or a childhood stuffed animal that brings comfort and nostalgia. Equally like a safety blanket or a stuffed animal, it doesn't really do anything materially; he just doesn't want to be empty-handed for this. 

Not that it's  _ much, _ of course it's not, it's just sitting with Martin and talking, but... Well. Jon doesn't want to look like an unhinged maniac talking to his partner, his-- Wait, didn't they talk about them being  _ married _ in some cosmic sense? A memo he had clearly lost in the mail and had barely thought about in the past few days over the pressing worry of the web, the web, the web. 

His grip tightens on the notebook and  _ that's _ why he's carrying it along; to have something to hold onto tight in case Martin doesn't want to be that for him, right now. 

He rounds a corner in the stacks; he'd asked Gerry where, exactly, it is that Martin goes when he disappears from their little nest, and that's where he finds himself now. Once Gerry said it, he'd given a small sigh of obviously to himself, because  _ duh. _

Additionally with him is a bag slung over his side with some snacks and a bottle of wine, already chilled; they've been too busy for... For... Nice things, and each day more and more misery piles upon them, and the most he can try now is to do... Something. If Jon's scared about all this marking nonsense, and the names, and the web, he supposes... Well. How does Martin feel? Does Martin feel alright? Protected? Safe? Does he feel loved?

Jon turns the next corner and-- ah. There's Martin, nestled deep into the back of this row. His hair is shorn so short now, and Jon hadn't commented, because he felt, somehow, that the pink disappearing overnight was somehow his fault. Still does, kind of. 

"Hey," he greets, so he doesn't just launch into a long-winded babble without Marting knowing he's there, first.

\---

Martin, for his part, is oblivious to Jon’s approach until the first word comes out. It nearly jolts the pencil out of his hand, but he reflexively tightens instead, a sharp press of lead against paper that nearly punctures. The headphones were left behind somewhere in the office out of forgetfulness he wasn’t too keen on slinking back into the room for, and they ground him too much, anyway, so he really should have noticed. 

His spine presses into the wall behind him, knees hiked up to his chest where he can rest his own notebook against them for a makeshift table. He looks small there. Subtle. Unnoticeable. Inseparable from any other fixture in the room. It’s not a conscious effort, at this point, but something he takes to naturally and quite well. 

His conversation with the Archivist and subsequent lack of lonesome self-sabotaging through the aftermath had him a step up from before in terms of mental stability, but his heart does still race when he looks up and finds Jon’s face. They haven’t talked yet. Martin hasn’t been weaseling out of it, but he hasn’t gone out of his way to solve that one, just yet, it’s— Likely the hardest one. And the one that has him the most embarrassed. Ashamed. Nervous. Afraid. Afraid.  _ Afraid.  _ Even now, he struggles to rein in the replay of their last conscious encounter so he can focus.

“...Hi?” He speaks slowly, carefully. “Is... everything okay?”

\---

Jon rustles in the bag and produces a bottle of Rose, and his expression can only truly be described as sheepish.

"I thought.... I thought we could take a half day, and uh, just... Hang out? I brought charcuterie, too. Um-- impromptu library picnic?"

\---

“Ch...charcuterie?” He forgets to confirm what his answer is in his daze, but his body works for him; pencil slides through the metal circles at one side, cheap notebook closes on itself. Knees inch down from the barrier they make at his chest.

\---

"Uh-- I mean, I just ran to Aldi and got some cheese and meats and fruits and bread, and, um, potatoes? Latter being for you, mostly, I'll eat the bread, and Um-- only if you want?"

\---

“Oh!” Martin seems to realize how little he’s eaten today - a grand total of nothing sits in his stomach - and that Jon doesn’t seem repulsed by his very existence in one short breath. “Yeah— Just, um, one second, I have to...” 

He fumbles for his own bag, empty aside for the notebook he’s now shoving into it without much care for dents or creases. And then he stands up, one achy, tense motion. His hands ball up in the strap over his chest. And then he forgets to speak again.

\---

"We can-- hah, guess I assumed we'd stay here, but... Um. We can go anywhere. Courtyard, maybe? That might be, uh, nice?" Jon steps back out of the hallway of bookshelves to let Martin through, his hand tightening on his journal.

\---

Martin takes a step and a half forward. There’s a pause just long enough for him to worry good plus good can’t equal great, that good must be followed by bad and that means Jon must be sitting down with him to have a talk of some kind that ends with  _ something. _ Thank you, mostly unfounded but maybe not anxiety, and he finishes the second step. 

“Courtyard’s fine,” Martin barely peeps out, since there’s not a better word for that grating shyness in his vocabulary. He walks with intent to match Jon’s speed, not end up in front of or behind him. “Not too, um, not too busy with work today, then?”

\---

Jon shrugs. "Kind of make my own schedule now, don't I? At least-- ah, on the Institute side. What the Eye demands from me is a little different, but, um-- no, not too busy."

He starts down the hallway, shoving the bottle of wine back in his bag.

\---

“Right. Horror gods, very demanding with their workloads.” Martin flinches at his own words. Stupid. It makes him babble instead of settling into an awkward but manageable silence. “I’ll... I’ll do us a favor and stop talking until we sit down. I’m not about to ask ‘hey, um, Jon? Are you okay?’ While we’re w-walking through the halls and I don’t want to say anything wrong or— Or anything before we even get there, so! So, for our sake. Quiet Martin.”

\---

Jon grimaces and is quiet for a few moments, as he turns around all of that in his head. Oh, how Martin self-flagellates. Might even rival Jon's own tendencies. 

"No! It's-- Martin, you don't... You don't have to stay quiet, and I'm not, um, I'm not the best, but I'm better, and I came to you to talk anyways, so if you want to..." God. Off to a great start, Sims.

\---

“I-I do want to, I just mean—“

Martin starts to panic. He doesn’t want to. His hand reaches out between them to find Jon’s. 

“I mean we’ll start talking about serious stuff and I’d rather do that over... cheese. And the rest. With you.”

\---

"Oh. Okay. That--" He gives a shy smile to Martin. "Okay. That works." Oh, how Martin's hand feels natural to slot with his own. "I uh, at the store, had to-- realize I barely know what cheese you like. So I got like-- seven different kinds? It's too much, I know, but." He gives a one shouldered shrug.

\---

“I’m a scavenging omnivore.” Martin squeezes him tighter, unsure where to go from that. “Cheese-wise. Not that there’s cheese made of meat. Or— I guess it’s not under ‘herbivore’, either, that’s not— Meat or plants. I’ll like it.”

\---

Jon shoots him a fond look. "Can't wait to have our own kitchen to make meals in."

\---

Martin takes an extra minute to process that, and then inhales deeply. Like he’s never breathed until right at that moment. “You still want to live with me?”

\---

"I-- yes, of course?" Jon blinks rapidly and then looks at him incredulously. "I love you, Martin, of course I want to live with you."

\---

“But I— Me?” They’re still walking. And talking. Great job keeping yourself quiet, Martin, stunning work. As always. “I-I don’t... know... how to deal with that, actually! I really...” He phrases it like a question. “I’m evil?”

\---

"Um, I think I am too?" Also a question. 

\---

“There’s a— Big difference between kinds of evil, Jon. The Eye doesn’t... really scare me, but— But I’m, um, Michael thinks— What if I am? And you can’t trust me? I can’t trust me?”

\---

Jon looks away, and his steps falter as they reach the lift. He shifts forward to press the button up with his elbow, and then looks down at the floor. "I don't... I mean. We can do more research and... Figure it out? We'll figure it out. We have to, right? I'm not going to just- j-just... Ignore you."

\---

“Research? On... me?”

\---

"Not-- I mean, kind of? Not-- you make it sound so clinical, I meant-- well. We should figure out, or, or try to at least? What-- you know, why the Web has you?"

\---

Martin clenches down on his teeth. “You say that like you know.” His voice is strained. Like he’s holding a stab wound in at his side. “We don’t.”

\---

"Exactly! E-exactly. That's what I mean. We.... We just need to research. And-- I don't. I don't know. Maybe there's someone we can call." He's quiet for a moment, and doesn't speak until the elevators open and he steps inside.

"We're doing this together."

\---

Right. They can just call up an exterminator who deals with massive bugs. 

Martin doesn’t say that out loud, literally biting down on his tongue to hold it back. An unfortunate or potentially very fortunate side effect of that means he’s entirely silent for the rest of the elevator ride.

\---

Jon's own tongue holding is entirely metaphorical, but nonetheless, he stays quiet too, anxiety riding in his gut. He doesn't know how to fix this-- And it's not fixing Martin, but the situation. He's not that callous. Even if the way his words come out make him sound like a clinician who wants to dissect Martin. 

It's stupid to trust Helen, in all her words of kindness. She is the literal goddess of lies. But at the very least, there's some level of comfort in listening to her at least halfway; if he belongs to some utter patron of truth, and nothing but, then meeting halfway... It at least gives him solace. She certainly didn't seem worried about the situation. Though, gleefully clapping from the sidelines isn't exactly a vote for everything will turn out alright in the end type logic. 

Regardless, by the time the doors open, Jon's wound himself up quite a bit, and the hand holding Martin's is tight, claustrophobia in his lungs. He pulls Martin out of the small space of the lift, needing some room to breathe, and keeps them walking towards the courtyard. 

Before they reach it, he says, albeit a little haltingly, "I don't think it's a bad thing, if it's-- If it's real. It's just an unknown, and I get nervous around unknowns."

\---

“I don’t want it. I grew up with a-a screwed up, manipulative mother, I’d rather go _ feral  _ than— Than do that to you. Or Gerry. Or Michael. Or people. Normal, not-murdery people.” 

He lowers his voice considerably. “There’s different kinds of monsters. I’d rather be... rather be fucking  _ lonely  _ than secretly some sleeper cell for someone else.”

\---

"At least... At least we can look into it now. We know it's a possibility now, we know--" Jon takes a deep breath and brings them to the door leading out to the courtyard. He nudges it open with his shoulder, pulling Martin along with him. "We know to look out for it. And-- And look at the other things that have marked you, I- I mean. Little things aside, you're-- You're not completely mad with the Spiral marking you, and you aren't, actually, feral even though the Hunt's marked you deeply, it-- we don't... We don't know how the Web will do its... Thing."

\---

Martin follows along on their fragile string and wishes desperately that he could find this comforting. “Do you think... Do you think it’s leading me there so I can— So you don’t—“ 

He can’t quite get the words out of his mouth. Too sticky. Too heavy. Too wrong. “The Archivist doesn’t know what happens if I get them all, too. I keep making up ideas to fill in the blanks. It’s all I can do.”

\---

"Oh, right, he-- he woke up, that one night. I forgot about that. You're...  _ sure _ he doesn't know? Can't he just--" Jon raises his eyes to the ceiling before stepping out into the daylight. "Know it? More than I can?" 

He's keeping his thoughts about what it is Martin's leading into to himself; 'So you don't' is so awfully close to the apocalypse. He needs to mull that one over longer.

\---

“I’m sure. He can’t— I can tell. If he Knows. I-I think. And when he guesses.” Martin worries his bottom lip. “He doesn’t... seem like the kind of person to take a truth game... not... seriously?”

\---

"...Well, I doubt he's the kind to lie, so-- Yes, I guess.... Ignorance is the likely answer there." He takes them to a bench, and sets his bag down on it, starting to pull out containers.

\---

“He doesn’t know everything.” Martin sits down on the ground beside the bench, watching Jon’s every move. Not scrutinizing. Just watching. “This was... Really nice of you, Jon.”

\---

Jon focuses on the bag, and hands the bottle of wine to Martin, miming opening it. "I don't do enough for you, especially lately. You deserve-- You deserve all the love I can muster."

\---

_ “...What?” _ Not indignant, not even necessarily confused, just a soft, sweet question. The cap unscrews and he’s left with an open bottle of wine held precariously by the neck with one hand. “You do plenty. I-It’s me. Being me. Not your fault.”

\---

Jon takes a moment to look behind him and glare at Martin, shaking his head. "Don't put it all on you. Come on. I-I know I'm a workaholic, I'm not stupid. It's not just you. I should make gestures like... Like this for you, too. Especially since--" 

Oh, god. Time for him to color a bit. "You really said we got married on that beach."

\---

Martin can’t break eye contact, though he tries. Especially when his body temperature starts rising a few degrees. “We... We sort of did. I thought that— I... think I sold my soul to you? You... You know  _ you  _ marked my h-hand, right? You did?”

\---

"...Yeah. Yeah, I guess I-- It's hard to remember, I've told you, but-- I guess I did. It's just--" He breaks off to laugh a little, a breathy thing. "I guess I'd never thought that the moon and the lake could marry us, you know? Thought a, uh, priest had to do that, or-- or the government. I'm not objecting."

\---

Martin finally shatters the odd lack of bodily control and looks down, thumbing the edge of the bottle. He’s not about to ruin this by taking a swig right then and there, but his lack of adequate response and docile, near-muttered tone do that well enough. “...Did you bring glasses?”

\---

"...Oh." Damnit. "That would have been-- Classier, wouldn't it. Shit. Uh, no. I forgot. We can-- We can just drink from the bottle. Sorry." 

And for the grand finale, after pulling everything out, there's a sparse blanket they barely use, that he tries to billow out onto the ground, giving Martin a Look, since he's already sat ass in the grass before giving Jon a chance to flourish.

\---

Right, then. Martin scoots over onto the blanket. That’s an easy fix. The rest, though... 

He tries to hand the bottle of wine to Jon without drinking any first. “It’s fine— You’ve seen me just... drink it. I—“ Hmm. “Sorry, I was— I didn’t think you’d still want to... be around me. At all. E-Even if I’m not, it’s still— When you were a kid, the book, I don’t want to ever just... be a bad story. To anyone.”

\---

"You're-- Martin, you've never been a bad story to me. You're a-- a gospel story to me. Okay? I told you. We'll figure it out. We'll-- Go through it all, figure it all out, and I'll stop-- You won't be a bad story. Of course I want to be around you."

\---

“A gospel story?” Okay, he must be dreaming. Funny. “I don’t know. I just need to get over it, I-I guess. I signed up for it. It’s the hurting people thing that I... mmh.”

\---

"It'll help to be.... Open? About it, maybe. Like what you've done, I guess. No hiding it." Jon balances all the containers in his arms and slowly slides down to the ground beside Martin, settling on the blanket. "Is it-- you didn't seem to remember doing any of the stuff Michael mentioned."

\---

Martin scowls openly. “I’m not denying it on  _ purpose, _ Jon. It’s— I’m not  _ hiding _ it!” Ah. No frustrated tears, thank you. “I don’t just pick and choose what I remember.”

\---

"Oh. I didn't mean--" Jon shakes his head. Great. He's already upsetting Martin. "I'm not-- I didn't think you were doing it on purpose, I'm just... Thinking out loud? About it. I wonder if it can be-- be, um, compelled from you?"

\---

“The memories? I... I mean, you can... try? I just, um. Make sure there’s no people around if you do?”

\---

"I--I mean we can plan for that, you know, it--what I gleaned from Michael was you just scared a real estate agent? That's not even... That's not even that bad."

\---

Martin shakes his head. Pathetic, tight, miserable. “I made her walk away. I made her go home.”

\---

"I made you leave the bed once. By compelling you. It--" Jon sighs. "It's not normal, and it's not great, but I think-- I think we're... Past that? We're not normal. We just have to... To try to work on being ethical about it?"

\---

“How can I be ethical if I don’t know I’m doing it?” Martin leans slightly in Jon’s direction. “It wasn’t just one thing, like, like compelling. Michael showed me— We walked around and talked with her, and I was just— It was like herding? Almost? I don’t know how to... It was... I’m trying.”

\---

Jon starts opening up the cheeses and meats, and he has a small container of potatoes he cooked that he opens and sets down between them. Busying his hands as he speaks. "You don't remember doing these things at all?"

\---

“Not really. Or, I do, but just— Remember, in the hotel? I thought we were just talking, but I was taking a statement. Or— I still don’t know... with all the taxi drivers. I just always remember them differently than people say they really are.”

\---

"What-- what are you thinking when it happens? You... Genuinely just think it's a normal conversation?"

\---

“Yes? I-I think? It’s kind of just, slipping? Slipping into something? Or... Or a dream, but you only know when someone wakes you up? They’re all so different, it’s hard. Hard to point out.” 

He gingerly reaches forward to take a cube of cheese. He’s pretty sure he’s allowed.

\---

"The... The names. Is that what it is?"

\---

“...I don’t really know. I haven’t— I’ve been afraid to... It feels like Michael and Gerry get it, more. Or— Michael does. I don’t know if... there’s some that I think, maybe I had, b-before? But then, some that— I can’t really see from the inside.”

\---

"But it's-- you?" Jon kind of frowns. "I'm trying to understand, but--" He shakes his head.

\---

“As much as the Archivist is you, I’m guessing. If there’s anything I can compare it to. I’d have to...” Oh, God, he doesn’t like this idea. “Show you. I don’t know if compelling would work. It... might? I don’t know the rules.”

\---

"But-- not from the same place as the Archivist, right? It's-- different... Yous? I... I mean, yes, I'd like to meet them, if it's-- if they're staying."

\---

Martin finds some comfort in that. And the prosciutto he shoves into his mouth. “I think some of them come from... inside the Spiral. And the Hunt. Some are just... me. Some I can flip back and forth. Some I can remember being. I don’t know how you can meet them.”

He shrugs brokenly. “I think I’ve always had... erm— Issues, going somewhere else. You’ve seen that. It just didn’t have names. It wasn’t... alive.”

\---

"The names.... Changed it, somewhat?" Jon cocks his head. He's thinking it all through, what Martin means, what he implies, what this is. And certainly, it's complicated, but this is the part that worries Jon the least. The only one he's worried about is whichever one is utilizing the Web.

\---

Martin makes a dual-handed, noncommittal shrug. “Making distinctions sort of fueled it, I think? In a different direction. I’m like... I’m like a Swiss Army knife of stupid nicknames.”

\---

"A Swiss army knife. Well, at least you're well protected, then." It's an awful joke, but he's trying so, so hard.

\---

“Yeah.” Martin offers a weak smile. “I think they all like you, though. Since they’re all technically me.”

\---

Jon musters up a small smile in return, slightly nervous. Not of Martin, but afraid of messing something up with him, with this, like he always does. "How... How many of them are there?"

\---

“Um... Depends on which ones count. Kelsie’s... That’s me, but if I was— If I grew up better, I think. Not all...” He twists his fingers into the blanket. “...Repressed. Made friends. Didn’t stutter over everything. Actually said no to my mother before I was almost thirty. I guess that’s who I wanted to be in the Spiral... world.”

\---

"Kelsie. Okay. That's-- Michael's definitely said that name." He nods.

\---

“And then... There's some that Gerry used to tease me with, back in America.  _ Growly  _ just— I don’t know if it’s a whole separate... thing, it’s just— I don’t talk much. I...” 

He squints down at their food. “Animal sounds, mostly. I think it— Maybe it exists as an... outlet? Maybe? I haven’t been going after you or - or anyone, it lets off steam. That’s just— Just a theory, though.”

\---

Jon starts to pull together a cheese and meat concoction on some of the bread he brought, pursing his lips as he thinks. "Hunt instincts in a proverbial off-leash park so it doesn't get triggered later?"

\---

“Maybe. Hopefully. That’s sort of what all our commands were based off, so that makes... sense. Since it’s my brain, it had to pick a word I hated. Um, what else.” 

Martin is quickly deciding he likes everything he’s put into his mouth. “Messenger, I guess.”

\---

"Did the Archivist... make that one?" Jon grimaces a little.

\---

“That one I can always remember. So far, anyway. It’s just— That one’s a title, but it’s... more than that. There’s weight to it. Sometimes I hate it. Sometimes I’m in the right mood. Where I— I don’t, as much?”

\---

"It's-- but he's the one who brings it on, right? Is it-- is it a good title? He always refers to you with it, when he speaks in my dreams."

\---

“You two...” Martin hesitates, mouth open around a chunk of sausage. “...talk about me, in your dreams? What does he say?”

\---

"Rarely. I don't want to talk to him, not then, when I'm-- I'm witness to such horror. He's mentioned you. Likes you, it seems, which is the only reason I'm so calm about the whole-- about my body being held hostage. As long as he's... kind to you."

Jon pops the little bite of prosciutto and some kind of gouda and bread that he wrapped into a little hors d'oeuvre into his mouth. Around the food, he says, "Calls you Messenger, the harbinger of his 'message'."

\---

“He was sweet, the other night. I think he’s... maybe he’s calming down a little. Acclimating? Unless I’m just getting crazier.”

He smiles, awkward but definitely loving. “I asked him to give you good dreams if he could. I don’t think so. But, um, he was... helpful. I am sort of a messenger.”

\---

"I suppose with all the things we run into... You kind of are." Jon tilts his head slightly as he thinks. "Maybe being in a body is good, for the Eye."

\---

“Maybe! Too bad he ended up in a workaholic.” Martin cuffs him gently at the side of his jaw. “Sorry I got... dramatic. I was— I think it’s, mm.” 

Wow, food has helped his brain function. Funny how that works. “I was already sensitive. Um, the— The dress thing, that’s a whole...” He makes a vague sound. “And then that. I freaked out. And - And just sort of got stuck worrying about hurting people. Old unlovable worries back at it again.”

\---

Jon is surprised by the motion but doesn't flinch back, instead snorting in amusement and then reaching over to grab the bottle of wine. He takes a long swig and then sets it back down carefully.

"I hope you know, at least now, that that isn't true? That you're very much loved?"

\---

“I-I know that, but— I’m just stubborn. Not on purpose.” 

He pauses briefly, chewing on a thought and his food. “I played a question game with him, the other night. Helped me snap out of the worst of it. Our wager was if he lost he’d pretend to be human with me for a day. I... want to know what you think of that?”

\---

Jon looks at him in confusion, squinting his eyes a little. "What's your line of reasoning, there?"

\---

“I want to show him nice things about humanity, since he seems interested? And— Maybe it’ll help us? Help you with him?” He rubs his shoulder sheepishly. “See if he might change his mind some day.”

\---

Jon gives a breathless, disbelieving huff of a laugh. "Reconsider ending the world, you mean. That would be-- quite a change of heart."

\---

“Hence the effort. I’m not expecting it overnight. It’s like really, really unstructured research?”

\---

"... Right. I mean. If you think it'll work. Or-- even if it'll calm him a little down. I-- just be careful? Taking him in public."

\---

“So it’s okay, then? If I do that? Being careful, obviously, that’s a given— I just mean emotionally. For you.”

\---

"I mean-- yeah. I suppose. I mean. If he lives in me, it's-- I'm going to have to get used to it." He's quiet for a moment. "It, uh, I sleep well, when he's running about."

\---

“Oh. That’s good!” His next smile is warm and genuine. They’re trying so hard. “I don’t think I ever asked about your dreams. They changed, when he showed up? I-I know they’ve always been bad, but in a... bad memories, sort of way, right?”

\---

"It-- yeah. Since I died, really. So I guess-- yes. When he came. More vision-y? Than just... Memories. The Eye always watches, bloodshot in the sky, a constant voyeur to my silence as I, too, watch the destruction." He swallows, and shakes his head to clear the thought before he goes into more detail. "It's less that I hate how awful it is, and more that I hate how much I-- I do like it, in the moment? Being privvy to all that trauma."

\---

“You’re a voyeur. Shocking.” 

Martin swallows. “Sorry, that— That wasn’t funny. I don’t think I can really tell you enjoying it is... badwrongevildepraved when I kind of liked killing for you, and, um, spiraling, so. No double standards. You can still Know things and be good to people, I think.”

\---

Jon nods, sullen for a moment, before looking up and giving Martin what can only be described as a sly smile. Rare for someone like Jon. "Well-- alright. I can Know things and be good, and maybe-- maybe you can use the Web for good. Maybe. Right?"

\---

Martin’s eyes narrow viciously. He dodges expertly. “There are nice spiders out there.”

\---

"Well--" Jon wrinkles his nose. "Yes, yes, exactly. Some are good. For, for the ecosystem, and the environment, and whatnot."

\---

“Thank you, Jon. I’m sure all the spiders you’ve cruelly put down in the past appreciate the gesture.”

\---

Jon glares at him and reaches down to pick up a cube of cheese and throws it at Martin. "Don't bring my homicidal tendencies into me being nice to you."

\---

The cheese bounces off his chest and Martin brings it up to his mouth. Five second rule. “Throw another one. I think I can catch it in my mouth.”

\---

The glare turns into a squint and then Jon does just that. The problem is, his aim is horrendous. Good luck diving for that, Martin. Your husband isn't the sporty type.

\---

Martin tries. He gives up halfway through chasing it, there’s no way he’s getting that one, and he can’t help the astounded laugh that follows. “That was awful, Jon. I can’t impress you if you can’t toss!”

\---

"I'm an Archivist, not-- not an American football player!" He throws another chunk, and this one is far better aimed, because it's being thrown with emotion. He wants to get his face.

\---

With no time to react verbally, Martin chases the goddamn cheese. It’s an overshot, so he has to tilt, and tilt, and when he tilts some more he catches it just as he loses balance. 

The fall makes him loosen his already-abysmal grasp on it, sending it out of his mouth and onto the grass. Awful day for Martin.

\---

The peal of laughter that falls from Jon's lips is probably the hardest he's laughed in a long, long while. It surprises him, his eyes widening, and watching Martin on the grass makes his laugh emit a snort that is absolutely embarrassing on his part but he considers it fair exchange for the way Martin just wiped out.

"Oh my God," He says between giggles. "That was a good throw that time."

\---

He’ll allow himself to be the butt of the joke for the sake of hearing Jon’s laughter. Martin joins in, his own senseless additions that feed off his other half and loop back around. 

“No it was not and you know it,” Martin manages, trying and failing to sound stern about it. “And I still caught it! You saw that, didn’t you?”

\---

"Of course I saw it! Well done. Caught it with the sacrifice of your face! A modern warrior, really!" Oh. He cracks himself up sometimes. That just makes him laugh more.

\---

Martin gropes for the cheese - wow, he hates that phrase more than life itself - so he can chuck it with force back at Jon’s face. “Jerk. I can’t believe I’m in love with you.”

\---

Jon flinches back and has the audacity to shoot Martin the most puppy dog face in existence. "I can't either, but I'm grateful for it."

\---

That gets a flash of teeth. Only one person in the courtyard gets to make pitiful, depressing dog faces, and his name is Martin Blackwood. “You should be grateful I have restraint, too. Otherwise I’d be pelting you with cheese as we speak.” He maneuvers so he can roll onto his back close enough to touch Jon, to look up at him. Always the best angle. “I’m merciful.”

\---

"Well get closer than that, you fool," Jon says, and clumsily grabs under Martin's armpits to pull him up more, trying to slot his head into his lap.

"Thanks for abandoning work today to-- to be frivolous with me."

\---

Martin opens his mouth to snap out an indignant reply but Jon effectively scruffs him with a surprising amount of strength. He goes limp there, surrounded by Jon’s warmth, and he realizes for just about the hundredth time that there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. 

“Thanks for finding me. And giving me cheese. And— Still loving me, even though I’m a mess?”

\---

Jon, sufficiently sated like a cat having sunned itself in the warmth of Martin's glow, is far less nervous than he was before. As such, he rolls his eyes and presses a hand to Martin's hair, and says, "I'm not just going to... stop loving you, Martin."

\---

To keep from going mindlessly lax, Martin searches for Jon’s other hand with both his own. “I know, I just— I think we need to... get better at being on the same page. My, um... It’s easier to keep all the fear away when we spend time together. Otherwise I just— I have these versions of people in my head that say things, a-and they feel true, but they’re just assumptions. Not real.”

\---

"Yeah. Yeah! Yes." Jon nods enthusiastically. "It-- I do that. It's... It's so stupid. It's never true, but it causes so many problems. I love you. I always will. No matter what."

\---

Martin brings Jon’s hand up to rest over his chest, beneath both of Martin’s palms, so they can both better feel his heartbeat. 

“Real Jon said, ‘Martin, how dare you ever think I could stop loving you’. And then the Jon in my head says things like ‘If you use any powers from evil fear gods, Martin, I’ll neuter you and leave you out on the street and then you’ll be sorry. Also, I’m terrified of you and you’re out of control, so I can’t bear to look at you ever again, forever’. I don’t know where fake Jon gets it from. Me, I guess.”

\---

_ "Neuter _ you?" He laughs again, this time a little frailer and nervous again, but a laugh nonetheless. "Martin, I literally use powers from evil fear gods. We're-- I mean. I'm not going to be a hypocrite to you. At least not anymore. I'm-- I've been bad at explaining and getting scared and mad and freaked out, and I'm going to do better."

\---

“Ugh, it’s an expression. Not literally.” That out of the way, now he can focus on Jon properly. He lifts his hand again to press a soft kiss to Jon’s inner wrist. “I believe you.”

\---

"Good. I can't lie." Jon smiles down at him, starry eyed in the night sky. "And it's a terrible expression. I don't want you neutered, personally. Even if I'm ready to, you know, have  _ fun, _ way less than Michael."

\---

Martin’s face scrunches up with dumbstruck embarrassment. “I don’t know whether to make a joke about me being your on-call house servant, say that ‘have fun’ is the worst possible phrasing on that, or mention ‘having fun’ doesn’t need to have anything to do with sex, so— so I’m telling you all of them.”

\---

Jon scowls. "You know what I mean. You-- ugh. Not all of us can be as lurid as Michael and you are. Okay? It... is still new to me. And you're not my servant, you're my... Husband? My husband. That seems insane to say. I didn't even get you a ring."

\---

Martin doesn’t know how to confirm that. Alarm bells of _ ‘husband?!’  _ ring shrill between his ears even as his heart does deliriously pleasant flips at the concept. He plans to comb through every part of what Jon’s said, assure him it’s fine, because it is, but instead he has a short fit of nervous laughter that ends with him blurting out, “A man can dream for both!”

\---

"Oh my God." Jon mutters, and spreads his fingers through Martin's hair. "You're ridiculous. I love you."

\---

Martin hums, tilting his head up to watch Jon with half-lidded eyes. “I love you too. I... don’t know what I’d do without you, honestly.”

\---

"Mm. You'd know way less many stories, that's for sure. I know a lot of stories."

\---

“Stories? Like what? Books?”

\---

"No, I-- it was a joke? About the statements. Gah. Sorry." He's terrible at jokes. Too serious in execution.

\---

“Oh!” Martin’s eyes light up.  _ “Oh. _ Right.” 

He laughs. Belated, but it still counts. “I do know more stories, then. Gross ones. Thanks for that. I know way too much about flesh and - and skin.”

\---

"Yes, well, you're the one who wears skin around your neck. I think that one might be on you."

\---

Martin lifts one hand to cover the ball of the locket with an affronted gasp. Gerry’s poor ears. “I don’t  _ see _ it, I got this one half for being waterproof and half so I don’t have to think about that!”

\---

"Oh, does it bother you to think about your ghost boyfriend's  _ skin  _ being written on?" Jon snickers a little.

\---

“I think it bothers me the normal amount.” He tugs slightly on the necklace, looping it around his fingers and reversing the motion to let it rest over his collarbone again. “Are you two doing alright? I, um— I don’t know how it went after I left that night.”

\---

Jon hums as he thinks, looking up away from Martin and over across the courtyard as he dredge up more memories of that whole situation. "He was worried. He--  _ oh, _ Martin, it's so clear how much he loves you. It's-- it's really quite sweet. I'd be a lot less okay with this all if-- if he didn't care as much as he does." He kind of smiles. "I'm rather fond of him too. He's very clever."

\---

Martin opts for thoughtful silence in the wake of new information. The kind that brings his hand right back up to the locket as substitute for a hand that isn’t currently present. 

“I’m glad you can tell.”  _ Glad _ doesn’t cover the half of it, but that’s his current depth of vocabulary.  _ Elated. _ Surprised despite the constant evidence. Warm with love, almost too warm but not in the sick way. Warmth that makes you smile involuntarily and tilt your head to the ground even though you’re not ashamed. “He is very clever. You both are. He wants a library in the house, did you know that? You should both get a library. And— I told Michael we need a bay window for you.”

\---

Jon's expression crumples into something soft and hopeful. "Oh... I'd like that. I really would. He's-- doing quite a lot of work on the house. I'm surprised how well he's dived into it. That little notebook of his... He won't show me everything but I've seen the color coding."

\---

“He needed it, I think. I hope I didn’t— Didn’t ruin it for him. I’ll have to have a... real talk. With both of them. Say sorry. I don’t...” Ah. The dress. “I did like the dress. I just didn’t like— It’s stupid. Like I don’t deserve to indulge that. Like it makes me too happy.”

\---

"Martin," Jon says sternly, and his expression hardens. "Of course you're allowed that. Don't-- you looked happy in it. It-- it made me happy to see you that ecstatic about it."

\---

Martin sinks further into his lap in lieu of shriveling up completely. “I-I know. I think I’m just not... brave enough for that, yet. Or— Kind enough. To... me. Myself? I started feeling bad about me, so it— It made it feel wrong.”

\---

"Oh... Yes. I-- I can understand that. But-- you did like it, right? At least, at... At first?"

\---

”Yes, Jon, I did. I do. And the time before. Both times. The second one fit better, it felt right— physically, but not - not in my head, I don’t think...”Martin sighs heavily. “No amount of telling myself it’s not just playing selfish dress-up while I’m turning evil and doing evil things to people I love, it still— It feels that way.”

\---

"You haven't done anything evil to us. You--" Jon purses his lips. "You've helped us all, in-- in so many ways! No matter what's going on with-- with all of this, you've been-- the best partner any of us could ask for. Truly."

\---

Martin makes an involuntary sound in his throat, whine-adjacent. “Definitely not the best, Jon, I’m— I’m learning, it’s just—  _ Wow,  _ I’m insecure, you know? All the time. But at least I can... I can say I love you now, that’s big, I can— I don’t disappear, I just... go sit in the Archives, it’s— I’m a lot happier, just... slow process. I’m trying. Trying to like myself enough.”

\---

"When it's hard for you to like yourself, you can just come to us and we can love you." Jon smiles down at him. This wasn't as hard as he thought it would be. Turns out having a ferocious love for his partner makes the difficult conversations just a tiny, tiny bit easier.

\---

“Okay.” Martin angles his head so he can obscure a good portion of his face with the side of Jon’s knee. “I’ll try.”


	70. Chapter 70

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final part of "Martin apologizes for having feelings part 800"... before... smiles.

Michael has his entire body wrapped around Martin's sleeping form, head on his chest, curling around him with his legs under Martin's knees, and one of his arms thrown haphazardly over him. He keeps trying to signal to Gerry to just take his damned hand, but the dumb goth ghost is either intimately ignorant of common cues, or he's shading Michael, and either way, it's hard to hold back his pout, even as they speak. 

Gerard isn't _that_ cold, though (well, metaphorically-- He's rather cold to touch, really), since he's positioned at the headboard, his legs criss-crossed so his lap can fit Martin's head, a hand in his hair and the other said free hand which Michael keeps trying to slyly commandeer, which overall gives the three of them a picture of utter debauchery. Not really, but Michael thinks that word is such a sweet word to describe them, so he aims to use it as much as possible. 

Michael's got them talking about houses, because talking about the other stuff just isn't really fun right now, and besides, he'd wanted to discuss Gerry's library. Which has morphed into them talking about all their homely desires, and fondly looking across the sleeping face of the man what really made this conversation possible to begin with. He might not have the words for what he is to Martin, not yet, but he knows it's something bone-deep and soul-changing. And that's enough to know, for now. 

Knowledge too soon is sometimes a very, very bad thing, Michael's learned, so it's best to take his time. Maybe that's why people think he's stupid. Maybe he is. Who knows.

"A greenhouse. I'd rather like a greenhouse," Michael is saying softly, and he makes another pass for Gerry's hand, which Gerry swiftly slaps with a look of abject amusement on his face, like Michael's just a house cat gone stir crazy.

"I've never even owned a plant," Gerry says, and wrinkles his nose. "Could be some poeticism in that. Something dead planting something alive."

Michael nods, and grins up at him. "Or even live plants that kill others. Like flytraps. And pitcher pots. And poisons. Hemlock? I might get hemlock."

"I'm not helping you brew poisons. I'm already called a witch by just about everyone who sees me, jackass. And _you_ shouldn't be around poisons, either. Pretty sure you'd get confused and think it was acid and complain about your bad trip as you're lying there in cardiac arrest."

It's Michael's turn to slap up at Gerry's hand, and the damn ghost makes his hand incorporeal. Terrible trick. "Mean. Spiteful. And most of all, unnecessary. That's everything you say, always. MSU-- that's the uni you graduated from. And a minor in being old as fuck and crotchety."

"Oh, yeah, buttering me up really well to petition for you to have poisonous plants. Really hamming up the persuasiveness here, Mikey."

Michael presses his face deeper into Martin's chest so he can pay attention to his heartbeat for a moment, and then glares up at Gerry through a curtain of hair, saying through a yawn, "You could be more creative with the nicknames. _Mikey._ Ugh. Makes me sound like a football player."

"Oh, yeah, I bet you were in tons of sports in secondary school."

_"Ugh._ You're consistently such a prick and I hate that I'm slowly learning to find it attractive."

Gerry is quiet for a moment, long enough that Michael looks back up again, squinting. Gerry's mostly covered up the ghostly shiver of embarrassment that runs through him, but Michael catches the tail end of it and snickers. Gerry tries, still, and says with mock shock, "Gasp! Our local Michael Shelley has caught more than just sexual feelings for his sexy goth roommate?"

Michael buries his face nose first into Martin and groans out a reluctant, "It's more likely than you think."

\---

The dull, safe murmur of familiar voices keeps Martin from tipping over the edge into consciousness. Words and sensations flow together and pass him by without time or need for comprehension, ghostly static the lull of crackling fireplace embers, weighted blanket pressure that moves and twists and jostles but never enough to make him want to separate. 

He still wakes up, eventually, sheets rustling and sudden moves and voices lost in conversation just enough to forget lowered volumes drawing him back into a world he wants to be in over endless dark nothings. Slow, thick sleep gives way to slow, thick environmental awareness. 

No direction lets him stretch without maneuvering someone else around him, so he holds out despite the discomfort. Not that it makes where he’s stuck any less fantastic. He announces so with a pleased hum and a hand finding Michael’s arm to rub idly over his skin, tactile and just lost enough to forget his worries. 

“Hi.” His voice is still gravelly from sleep, smiley and unfocused while he figures out who’s lap he ended up in. Not Jon, not nearly warm enough, but still buzzing with something uncannily close to life, a way that makes Michael’s body almost too hot. Martin blinks several times in the dim light of the room to adjust and then tilts his chin up. 

The first idea that comes to mind is that he’s dreaming. But his dreams aren’t usually so vivid or so kind. His second is that he’s been mumbling in his sleep enough to summon him. His next idea, much more enticing, is that this is a brand new development where he can somehow manifest himself. Sheer childlike amazement, still bleary and soft with sleep, colors his question. “How did you get here?”

Gerry jolts somewhat when Martin speaks, not realizing how awake he is. The smile he levels down at him is wholly and utterly devoted, in a way he would not allow himself to possess were he not in what can only be called a _cuddle pile_ right now. 

"Michael said you were sleeping in too late. Guess he wanted company, and I was kind of tired, so we decided to just..." He shrugs. "Stick around here." Gerry's hand smooths through Martin's scalp. 

"You're such a deep sleeper," Michael mumbles against his chest.

The first few words are muffled to Martin’s ears, mind drawn blank by a gravity he can’t pry away from in the face that now takes up his whole vision. Even once he can comprehend, he ignores the truth of it to linger in the magical space of romance where Gerard Keay can appear purely of his own accord. 

He’s not so stuck that he won’t push his head insistently against the hand in his hair. Unfiltered, needy motions before it all has a chance to catch up to him. “I don’t do it on purpose, your fault for being the world’s biggest octopus.” 

He lowers his hand to brush over Michael’s back as a quick apology. “What’ve you been talking about?”

"Everything. Gerard Keay has something to say about everything in the entire world." Michael reaches up to boop Martin on the nose, but he misses because he's not looking, and gets his cheek, right under his eye, instead. 

Gerry rolls his eyes. "The house, some more. Michael's inability to play sports. Me being a prick. Quite versatile, Michael's mind is."

“Gerry has—“ Martin doesn’t bother asking Michael why he poked him just short of jabbing out his eye. Moving on, then. He mumbles out every other word. “Gerry has good opinions. And he’s a prick. Same way Michael’s mind‘s’the only thing versatile about him.”

"What's that mean! I'm very flexible, thank you. I'll exhibit that for you one day. Now you're the prick." Michael presses one solid palm to Martin's chest as he pulls himself bodily up to sit up, pouting down at him. No pouts for Gerry, he'll get made fun of; all the pouts for Martin, who will take pity on him.

“Physically,” Martin confirms vaguely. He’s too unaware to be truly smug this early, and he isn’t immune to the pout, but that’s exactly why he puts himself in a position to be distracted and the cutest in the room. Gerry will protect him.

Gerry rolls his eyes. "Wow. You really do jump to sex immediately, every time."

"Oh, call me a whore while you're at it, asshole." Michael sticks his tongue out.

"Hey, it's not like Martin isn't putting out!"

Martin raises an eyebrow in Gerry’s direction. “What does me putting out have to do with Michael being a whore?”

Gerry shrugs with his free shoulder. "Takes two to tango, you know."

Martin yawns, wide and toothy. “Are there any dances with three people?”

"Fuck if I know," Michael says, and rolls his eyes. "Dancing's for clubs." 

Gerry's mouth opens unbidden, his voice dropping into something flat. "During World War Two, many men would dance the Lindy Hop with two follows, as overseas there was generally a lack of female partners to dance with. There is also the Ceroc, the Hustle, the Salsa, and the Swing, which can all be performed with three partners. More traditionally, the Russian and Cajun Troika and Polish Trojak contain a man and two women."

Oh, no, Gerry. Way too early for that. “We’re all out of girls.”

Martin reaches up, momentarily lost in how good stretching his arms feels. He tries to find Gerry’s face on either side and ground him out of that dance fact nonsense.

"We've got one, sometimes." Gerry says, and leans down over Martin, letting him take him by the cheeks. Can't quite feel it, especially this early and still rather sleepy himself, but it's still grounding in a way that touches the very core of his soul. "And then whatever you're doing. Michael, bless his heart, somehow manages to be the most man out of all of us, sans Jon." 

Michael, in the process of pulling his hair on top of his head, rolls his eyes. "I'm like a throwback to even pre-transvestite culture. Just gay and weird. Oh, fuck, Martin, that's problematic, have mercy on me."

“Whatever... I’m...” Martin frowns as he lowers his hands just slightly. There it is. A thick object stuck in his throat he can’t quite swallow, one he’d forgotten about in his post-sleep euphoria. “I’m sorry.”

"For what!" Michael laughs, quiet and still sleep-thick. "Just joking."

“No— No, about ‘whatever I’m doing’. Sorry, I didn’t— I didn’t hear what you said, Michael, I’m just saying sorry. For the other day. I-I haven’t seen Gerry since.”

"I wasn't saying 'whatever you're doing' like _that,_ Martin," Gerry starts, and gives him a flat look. "It was-- Whatever term you want. I don't care. I'm not talking about that. Though maybe we should."

Martin shuts his eyes. Flexes his palms into fists, then out again, resting them protectively over his own chest. “It’s not about the wording. That just made me remember. My meltdown. Freak-out. Whatever. Just— I talked to Jon.” 

And the Archivist, his brain sternly supplies. “...And the Archivist. About it. The— Web thing. If it is that. We don’t know. I got scared. Of me. Of hurting you. Everyone. And I’m sorry.”

"Well?" Gerry asks. "What did you talk about? Figure anything out? I know we've talked about-- Well, you know, that, and that got brought up a little--" He shoots a look to Michael, who is avoiding both their glances now, "--But the Web, is definitely... New."

Martin keeps his eyes tightly shut. “I figured out I’m afraid of being controlled or controlling any of you. And that— That Jon thinks I should extend my optimism about doing good things with powers to me. And that the Archivist doesn’t know what happens if I get all the marks, just Jon. And that I’m really insecure. And that I don’t want to be my mother! I-I knew that, but— becoming her, it’s sort of my worst nightmare.” 

He wrings his hands, grip on one wrist twisting enough to hurt. “And now it’s just, ‘oh, yeah, that might be real and literal if you think you get to be a girl, now. What’s next, a mother? Funny, you know, they just so happen to call her the _Mother_ of Puppets, Martin!’”

He sucks in a breath. “Okay. That one’s new. I didn’t know that was a... um, a thing.”

Gerry blinks down at him, and huffs out a breath. "Well. You've certainly figured it out." He smooths his hand through his hair again, up and off his forehead as his hand fingers move through his scalp. "Utter bollocks, obviously, you fucking around with your gender isn't some cosmic important thing, don't be so narcissistic, you're allowed to just feel nice, but if you've got it all wrapped up in that... Guess we should untangle it."

Martin holds back from leaning into the touch, though he really, really doesn’t want to do that, utterly still behind twin shields of darkness. His voice wavers around the edges. “I’m not narcissistic, I-I-I just have baggage, and I don’t know how to ‘untangle’ that, Gerry, I didn’t even know it was a _thing.”_

"I don't actually think you're narcissistic. It was a joke." Gerry says. "It's just... I mean. I guess you know about it, now, that's step one to undoing the knot. Your-- your femininity isn't evil."

“It’s— I know that, I’m not exactly the most masculine to begin with, but— It’s applied. You know? Like I— I’m sort of a bad person, a lot of the time, I shouldn’t...” Martin rubs his hands over his eyes and shakes his head. “I guess Jon can be that and _that,_ and I still like him plenty, but— Applied to me. Does... Does that make sense?”

"Yeah, you're the exception and you're evil for it. I follow the line of reasoning, but it's bullshit. And you're not evil." Gerry rolls his eyes.

Martin makes a soft noise that indicates he’s not sure. “It’s fine. Just—“ he cracks an eye open to watch Gerry from below. “You’re okay? You had to... I didn’t mean for you to have to damage control. Again. For me. It’s not fair.”

Gerry's shrug is mild, almost not there. "Wasn't going to just leave you to flounder. Even though I felt like I kind of did. I really didn't want to stay in the office when you left."

“You didn’t. It’s okay. I think it actually helped me calm down faster, just— Being looked at made it harder.” Martin offers him a small, tired smile. Call it a thank you. “Jon said he’s fond of you. And that he can tell you care a lot about me. No Knowing, just seeing it. That makes me feel safe. More, um— Secure?”

Gerry reaches down to take one of Martin's hands in his own and squeezes. "Good. New purpose in death-- keeping you all as safe as I can muster." His smile turns a little goofy. "Jon says he's fond of me, now, has he. Interesting."

Martin keeps his mouth shut. If Gerry wants that purpose, he can have that. If that fulfills him, he thinks that’s perfectly okay to want. “He is. Says you’re _clever._ I’m only spilling his secrets so you can have the advantage. And I love you and it sort of works out for me if you all get along.”

"You two are so romaaaaaantic. Sickens me," Michael grumbles, and slowly rolls around on top of Martin, so that his head is on the other side of the mattress and his spine on Martin's belly.

It isn’t that Martin is purposefully putting off meaningful conversation about his deepest worries. Just that love is a very convenient scapegoat. 

He uses the hand not currently in use by Gerry to jostle Michael’s side a bit. Just enough of a push to tell him to shut up. “You’re next, Michael. It’ll be candles and roses by the end of the year.”

Michael scoffs. "We've already had a romantic date," He says, and then angles his face to look up at Gerry. "I painted him in a dress at my flat. To the Mamas and Papas."

"Oh, no, not the thrall of the Mama's and Papas," Gerry fake-gasps.

Martin frowns severely. 

And then, all at once, it collapses. There’s no buildup to his laughter, it all seems to tumble out at once, genuine and light-headed. One might even call it mirthful. He’s not sure what does him in; Gerry’s tone, the level of gravity to a first date where calling it a dream is the truth and not just pure dramatics, now absurd it is to hear a band named that treated with careful consideration, but he’s laughing, and it feels good, so that hardly matters. 

“Hypnotized, really—“ He manages through his tapering giggles. “I’ve been going through more of their music since then, Michael. Do you think I’m the right somebody to love?”

Oh, Martin laughs, and it gets Michael going, that strange breathy laugh that's all the more strained because of the way he's laying on Martin. "If you keep everything up, darling, you might just be!" 

“We’ll see,” Martin sighs on the tail end of his laughter, too fresh from sleep to keep going. “How long are you two planning on staying in bed?”

"Was waiting for you to wake up," Gerry says. "At least that was Michael's excuse."

"I'm comfy now. Can't possibly get up." Michael presses as deep into the bed as he can, becoming a dense weight on Martin.

“At least come up here,” Martin says, punctuating the words with a soft tug on Michael’s arm. “You’re like a heavy sideways rug.”

"Too much effort," Michael groans. "You'll have to move me yourself."

“I can’t even reach you! And I only have one hand!” He lifts the hand intertwined with Gerry’s. “Is it really too much effort? For me?”

"Oh, he gets one too many partners and he gets demanding, I see how it is." Michael slowly sits up, though, trying to see where Martin wants him.

And so he wins, in his limited stroke of confidence. Martin makes a grabbing motion with his free hand. “Just make me the mattress instead. Your back will thank me later for making you get up anyway.”

"My bones aren't as old as yours," Michael says, but he moves where Martin wants him, laying in him stomach to stomach so his face can press into his neck.

“So don’t make the same mistakes I did and they’ll last longer.” Martin angles his head just enough to breathe Michael in and still keep Gerry’s hand on his head from falling away. It almost makes him want to go back to sleep. 

He doesn’t want this to end, though. On the off-chance it’s all a Dream.

Huh. Why is that one a capital letter word? 

Probably no reason.

Not one good enough to keep from lazing in the center between two people he loves. Love, love, love, loves. His breathy sigh leaves a few strands of Michael’s hair brushing over his cheek. “Personally, I’m fine with staying in bed all day. Any complaints?”

"I reckon we deserve it," Gerry says, and Michael's nod is all the answer Martin gets. He snorts. "No dresses this time. I doubt we could convince Michael to put a shirt on, regardless."

“Mm. I’d be— Maybe in the future. I liked the dress. It was perfect. Just... s-slower. Slower? Time to process.” Martin smooths over the plane of Michael’s back with the tips of his fingers, an aimless up-down drag. “I might have questions for you, Gerry. About it. In... the future? If that’s okay.”

Gerry smiles down at him again. "Always. If I have answers for you."


	71. Chapter 71

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New friend(?) time!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes I posted twice so I could have this up tonight. Yes I'm very excited.  
> EDIT: I missed a chapter on accident while editing so it's up now in case it redirects you here, it's the new 67!

Question of the day: Is it risqué, maybe even a little  _ saucy,  _ to wear the dead skin necklace of your coworker’s apparent personal unicorn ghost around your neck for the heist of a lifetime?

Maybe so. Maybe  _ so. _ But, above all else, it is the most logical choice. Hands-free breaking-and-entering is easier than the same thing done with just one hand or the other. The Stoker family might be full of ambidextrous miracles of nature, but knowing when to show off and when to get the job done is an equally important skill.

Cute store. Shame they have to break in and destroy an evilly arcane tome so it won’t circulate to the masses. The welcome mat is a nice touch, must be at least a few decades old, one of those charming antiques you can boldly display as it’s so worn and garishly ugly that no one in their right mind would think to steal it. The family of tiny wooden ducks in the window also felt very inviting, in that evil black-eyed duck staring way.

They did some snooping and picked a weekend. Places like this have weird hours on the weekdays, and stay delightfully deserted every other day, so this is their best bet. Not heavily guarded, that same old ghost-from-the-inside trick seems to be holding up well, and besides. It’s an antique store, not a vault. 

This arrangement is doing wonders for his skin. Something about getting your rage out on the forces of evil will do that to a man. 

Getting out here was a pain and a half that will unfortunately have to be repeated once the deed is done, but that’s a small price to pay. They’ve only done this a few times, as Leitners are rare, so that high-energy giddiness that comes with the job hasn’t faded from him yet. He thinks he’s earned a decent portion of trust by now, and he could even say the same about his company.

The place is bigger on the inside. Storage room for stock needing refurbishing at the far back, smaller upstairs display cases for a few of the pricier items. Even a taxidermy bird of some sort. Definitely from before regulations on wildlife came into place. Well-meaning banters about ecological health to be had all around. They’ve found a nice, handy bookshelf upstairs, and Tim has made it his new task to comb through them for what they’re looking for. No use relying on the ghost for everything. 

“So,” he starts up again as he tosses a beat-up old copy of some Sherlock Holmes over his shoulder. “What do you think the guy who owns this place looks like? I’m picturing… mm. Big, curly mustache.  _ Ancient  _ clothes, monocle on his vest kind of guy. Last name Doyle. No, no—  _ First _ name Doyle.”

\---

Gerard snorts as he browses, and even though they're here to destroy a book, that doesn't mean he appreciates Tim's carelessness with the others, and he moves quickly to catch it before it falls and destroys its binding. He sets the novel gently on one of the display tables and glares daggers at his back.

"I was thinking more of a Wollstonecraft figure myself. Spooky woman, thin gnarled hands, maybe a-- a Susan, or a Clara. Old name, for sure. Don't throw books."

Tim's good company for these missions. He used to have fun, doing them alone, when he was young, still a teenager. The allure wears off after a while. At least these hunting missions are social, and, most of all, his choice. It's reinvigorated his spirit a little to choose this.

Applied knowledge forcibly imparted in him willingly given as a gift... There's something charming in that.

And he even dressed for the occasion. No flashy piercings or overtly stare-able goth accouterments, just good boots and dark clothes and his hair pulled back in a low ponytail to get them through the night. No need for the heavy and noticeable trench coat. Not in such a normal store.

\---

Tim rolls his eyes playfully. “Oh, come on. That’s not even a first print. If some sad sap gets that here and not a library where you know it’s readable, I question his sanity! It’s not exactly collector stuff.” 

He stands upright, having combed through the whole shelf. “I don’t think it’s here. Would’ve been nabbed a long time ago, right? Let’s split up and search for clues, gang.”

\---

"Sure. Just don't callously maim a bunch of innocent books. Christ." He rakes his gaze over the bookshelf once more and then steps back and away, trying to see if he can feel for the book.

He  _ knows _ it's here. And he knows the Eye's spooky bastion of powers includes weird feelings for the truth-- he's seen the way Jon meditates and sorts through the threads of knowledge that hang heavy in the air. Seems his Knowing didn't work. So passive. So encyclopedic.

Still; being in such an old shop brings back memories, and though there's that barrier between him and this world, the faint feeling of dust all around and controlled rot fills him, and he finds himself muttering under his breath, "Grant us the sight that we may not know. Grant us the scent that we may not catch. Grant us the sound that we may not call." He used to say a lot of stuff to his patron deity on old hunts as a kid, before he really knew what he was messing with.

\---

"Uh, hi? Weirdo? What is that, the live-laugh-love of the monster world?" Tim balances his hands on his hips while he cocks his head. Give him a second. He's figuring it out. "I'm sure those kitschy art monkeys will show us the w--" 

His eyes narrow to a pinpoint focus. A string hanging off the ceiling. Just dangling there, all anglerfish-esque. Alas, if only Tim Stoker knew how horrendously unfunny that connection is. "Huh. Ignore all that. Attic."

\---

Gerry blinks and looks above them, and then gives a solid nod. "Best to start there, then. At the very least, cross it off the list of where to search.'' It feels promising, though. He's gotten a feel for these things over the years. If it's not in plain sight… it's usually hidden away for very, very specific reasons.

\---

"Boo. I hate these tropes. We never get any of the cool ones here in Institute-Land. Right." He reaches for the cord and gives it a gentle tug. It takes a few tries with how well the door seems wedged in there. An unhealthy amount of dust sprinkles down from the ceiling, and eventually Tim has to yank with both hands. The ladder attached to the frame starts to come loose as originally intended except with a touch more rust along the hinges. 

"Great." Tim says blandly. He gestures to the ladder with a flourish. "Ghosts first?"

\---

"Guess booby traps won't work on me," Gerry says, and starts up the stairs. He's thankful the dust doesn't affect him in any way; past knowing it's there, it doesn't clog in his lungs, and he doesn't cough. It's dark, though, and he has to squint to see more, even with his supernaturally endowed sight.

\---

Being the trooper that he is, Tim manages a strained  _ "Nice view" _ as he follows suit. Hook, line, sinker, whatever, this place hasn't been opened in years. Thank fuck it doesn't smell like decaying corpses, just mildew and old wood. 

He paws at the floor when he reaches the top to make sure it's stable. The entire floor creaks with stubborn age, reverberating groans all the way to the columns of thick wood at various positions in the room. Good enough. He hoists himself up the rest of the way by his elbows and blinks into the dim light. 

Odd, there being a window up here. Old and dusty, must have been on the other side of the building, since there wasn't a window from the front. The way the glass is marked up reminds him of slobber stains on car windows, this big square thing shining light onto the various old boxes and trinkets up here. "Welp. Let's get to it." 

He ends up on his knees by the nearest old cardboard box, shuffling things around in it without a second thought. Like he could somehow get a feel for an evil book among old vases and mason jars and cobwebs upon cobwebs.

\---

The room  _ Feels  _ more promising, and it's one of those odd aura things where he could never explain what the feeling is, just that it Is. That they're closer, in some way. He drifts around the room for a few moments, catching bearings, and then gives a hum and a nod and moves towards the other end of the room to begin there. Opposite corners, meet in the middle, work from there.

He starts to soft through an old desk, nothing promising, but he knows from experience that sometimes, sometimes it's the smallest places that shouldn't house artifacts that do.

Maybe it's a sign of the times, but as he shifts, he speaks. "You know I grew up in a bookshop? Some antique shit like this? It was awful. I kind of miss it."

\---

“Oh, yeah. Local teenage legend, nameless snappy goth. Too bad they named Leitners after the guy and not the one who hunted them down. So much cooler if they were called Keays. Very cult-y.” Tim roots through the rest of this box before moving on, and he’s starting to get impatient. “Were they normal books?”

\---

"The ones we sold? Mostly. Not every magic book is a Leitner, you know, the entity kind. Some are just occulty." He looks up from where he's perusing, some unidentifiable piece of furniture that's lost its coherence under years of dust and cobwebs. "Calm down. You don't want to be agitated when we find it. Never know how tempting these things are."

\---

“Right. Hey, I’ve been to a few magic shops enough to know my way around. I still keep a few sticks of incense handy back at my flat. They always get me with the cool names.” 

He snickers, deciding to ignore that comment about calming down. He thinks he’s doing a lovely job of staying sane. “Dragon’s blood. Come on. How’s a guy supposed to say no to that?”

\---

Gerry snorts. "It's just pigment that comes from a house plant." He thinks for a second. "Mum used to burn incense. Jon does too, but I can only faintly smell it. Very weak, more like an impression than a smell."

\---

“Ha! That’s a good insult. Jonathan Sims, everyone knows you only burn weak incense. All the witches on this street hate you and your lame sticks.” Tim laughs again, crossing a particular spot in the attic that makes each individual floorboard protest audibly. “Do people usually know they have a Leitner? Or is it— Accidental?”

\---

"I just can't smell, Tim." He rolls his eyes. "His incense is fine. That nice Indian stuff with the blue box."

He straightens, and looks around the room again, trying to think of hidden nooks and crannies. "It... Depends. Sometimes. For people who aren't in the know, I reckon they could go their whole lives not knowing. Considering the books tend to shorten those lives quite a bit... Ignorance is common. Some people hunt 'em. Some people come across them randomly but still can tell there's power in them. Knew a bloke who got a hold of a pretty standard Vast tome who figured it was dangerous and called me and mum. Burned it for him, at a loss of 5 grand. Just some normal guy, got a whiff of something dangerous, wanted it gone."

\---

Tim huffs, but he goes about the business they came for. The way everything is organized up here - not organized at all, to be specific - he gets the idea that this is one of those no-idea-officer situations. Most of this stuff is untouched by at least a few years, and even the more recent newspaper clippings and jars can’t have been moved in months. 

He stoops low to the next box, about halfway into the room from where they started. Sandwiched geographically between the window and the way they came in. He moves a few old books out of the way, and on the third one he displaces, there’s a hand that is definitely not Gerry’s impeding his path to a cover he can’t see. It doesn’t fly out from the darkness, just moves at a normal, controlled pace, an open palm facing Tim’s chest in a stop-there gesture from across the box. 

“Uh, don’t move. Don’t touch that. And— Stay where you are.” 

The voice isn’t stern, and there seems to be a strained, unspoken  _ ‘please’  _ tacked onto the end of that. Tim can’t see well in the dark, but he freezes anyway. Not the frozen response of fear that keeps him paralyzed. The kind that has him calculating on where his next move is depending on what’s about to go down. The floorboards don’t creak, hadn’t creaked  _ at all, _ and he has no fucking clue when another fucking person showed up. Out of fucking thin air. Fucks to go around. “Oh. Hello?”

\---

Gerard spins where he is and stares daggers into the air, a soft "Tim? What is--" echoing from him before he shuts up and merely pays the fuck attention. This is surprising. Unexpected. And thank God the  _ Eye  _ decided not to tell him  _ anything. _

\---

“Is it just you two?” The voice says.

“Up in the attic party? I think it’s three, now.” Tim replies.

“Three of you?” 

“No, no, that’s including you.”

“What— No, don’t include me. I’m not part of it.”

“Two, then. Only if you count ghosts, though. Important distinction to make, there.” 

The stranger hums softly, and seems to decide he might get better answers from the other half of the idiot book-burning club. “What’s your name? Come here. Slowly.”

\---

Gerry takes a moment to glare at Tim; way to take a potential trump card of theirs and just throw it to the wayside to clarify the party's dynamics for a potentially hostile stranger. Fucking great.

He steps forward, and does step slowly, squinting. "Tell me yours first. I'm not telling you  _ shit _ unless you give us a little more, here."

\---

“Calm down, it’s a reasonable question. Crew. That’s Tim, then, so that leaves you.” The stranger’s voice is collected, not for show but genuinely so. His hand still hovers carefully over the box between them, and Tim is starting to notice this subtle, creeping scent of ozone seeping in at the outer edges of the moldy attic, but that’s about it.

\---

Gerard pulls his lip back, but he complies. "Keay." He takes another step forward. "Are you here for the same reason we are?" Oh. He squints some. Familiar name. "Tim, ask me who he is."

\---

“That depends on your reason.” 

Tim spends another fruitless moment trying to gain any details of his face in the dark. “Who is he? I’m guessing not the spokesperson of the clothing brand? If we get out of the dark and you’re wearing a polo shirt, I’ll scream bloody murder.”

\---

There's a momentary green flare of eyes in the dark, and maybe he could have suppressed that, but he doesn't feel like it. He doesn't know who this man is, until he does, all at once, but that only implies his motivations.

"Mike Crew, hunted by the Spiral, newfound rapture within the Vast. He has enjoyed _ his  _ fair share of Leitner's. Tsk, tsk, Mikey." The academic tone leaks quickly from his voice, until it's completely gone, back to just Gerard. "Don't know his shirt, but I wouldn't be surprised."

\---

“Don’t... call me that. Why do you care what I’m wearing?” Mike shakes his head in the dark. “No, hold on. I have better questions. What are you two? Collectors? You’re dead. What business does the Eye’s lot have with ghosts?”

\---

"So many questions," Gerry growls, and his next huff sounds like one, too. "The dead can have affiliations too, Mike Crew. Willingly or unwillingly. I don't collect. Do you?"

\---

“Why would I  _ not _ have questions? You just...  _ happened  _ to show up, on the  _ same _ night, to the  _ same  _ book I came to investigate, which is... one neither of you look like you’re prepared for, and now you’re being... rude to me?” 

He fidgets uncomfortably from the other side of the box. His voice is hoarse from lack of speaking so much so recently.

\---

"You hunt Leitners and you're unused to rudeness?" Gerry shakes his head. "Not a coincidence, probably, this, but--" He spares a glance at Tim. "Not purposeful on our end. Why are you hunting it?"

\---

“The books don’t call me Mikey.” He stands up to full height and shrugs. “That’s not important. You two getting out of here is.”

Tim makes a knowing ‘ohh’. “This is the part where he tells us we walked right into a trap.”

\---

"And does this trap have a name other than Mike?" Gerry curls his lip. "What's with every Michael hating the name Mikey, anyways?"

\---

“It isn’t a trap. It’s... hm. A communication between artefacts. Places like this tend to accumulate. A fair few are called to them, let alone searching for them.” He pointedly glances at Keay in the dim light. “Well. If you were both dead, you might have less cause to worry.” He steps away from the box. It doesn’t take him very far. “See if you’d like.”

\---

"I can only smell the Desolation," Gerry squints, and then looks to Tim and cocks his head to gesture for him to get behind Gerry. "I'll go first, then. Try to hurt Tim, here, by the way, Crew, and I'll kill you. Just so you're aware of where we stand."

\---

“It’s not me you have to worry about. Some things don’t smell.”

Tim, amazingly out of his element here, scoots back around Gerard. Gets off his knees. There’s something exciting about all of this. About the way sparks crackle in the air, the way Gerard is taking charge, here. He’d have something to say about that if he weren’t so intensely focused on seeing what happens.

\---

Gerry hums in annoyance, and mutters "Just focused on the  _ one _ smell, not that I can't smell the others," But it really doesn't matter. He steps forward and tries to momentarily ignore Mike Crew. Prick. Asshole. He already pisses Gerry off, and he doesn't even know his motives.

He steps closer to the box and makes himself physical. If it makes him vulnerable, so be it; he doesn't want Tim, who can actually die, to get hurt because of his incorporeality. He pulls the lock up and starts to open it.

\---

“Oh. You’re doing it, then.” 

The box opens and stale air dissipates from the enclosed space. Inside is a small pocket manual with another compartment unopened beneath it. It’s a wonder how this thing managed to stick around so long without activating properly, but...

Maybe it can sense intentions. 

Something inside tries to latch onto Gerard Keay. It fails. The heat metal sting is the first failsafe, the box lighting up red to a touch that can’t quite feel the same as a living body, even while corporeal. When that does nothing to deter him, the air it releases starts to turn to smoke. A very slow, delayed smoke bomb filling up the attic. 

Tim notices first, particles of ash finding their way to his throat, clogging his lungs while he tries to cough them back up. He locks his elbow around his mouth and nose to stifle the coughs. 

Mike, who was content to let them get theirs, grows cautious. “That’s... not what I’m looking for.”

\---

"Me neither," Gerry says, and his eyes widen, excited in the thrall of almost finding what he wants, fingers twitching in hardly kept restraint to keep digging. "Suggest you two step back, or go downstairs, or whatever it is you need to do to keep breathing."

\---

“I don’t.” 

Mike, pointedly, does not cough. His shoes, when he moves a step and a half to the exit, are silent against the wood of the attic. 

“Uh, Keay?” Tim reaches out, muffled and teary-eyed, to pull on his shoulder. The smoke is starting to blot out the window, embers gathering at the floor beneath it into some shifting form. Tim thinks it looks like a rat, at first, sparks reversing from the body to the tail like a backwards dynamite string. Then it gets bigger. “You’re flammable. Let— Let’s go, c’mon.”

\---

Gerry's almost petty about the situation, wanting, almost  _ needing _ to see what this is, how it works, glean whatever Knowledge he can from this-- this thing. He almost goes incorporeal so Tim can't touch him, but he doesn't, instead pulling back from his hand and sparing a glance at whatever the sparks are coalescing to be, and sighs. Right. 

Maybe reconvening somewhere  _ not here _ is a good idea, as much as he hates to think of it. 

He doesn't say that he's had worse, been burned worse, done way, way more reckless things in the heat of adrenaline-fueled hunt, because that's not the kind of skills he wants to teach Tim. Tim seems more reckless than even he is. Not a good combo. He follows.

\---

The fire hops, then slides across the ground with four legs leaving skid marks in its wake, now square between the exit and their position near the center. Tim, still kneeling on the ground, can’t help but watch as the thing twists in on itself. A mesmerized, immobile moth held fast by the eyes until the ball of the locket starts floating up to eclipse the light. 

Wait, the locket is floating. Why is the locket floating? 

He hears a muttered,  _ “Not a Dragonology book”, _ and grabs the locket to hoist it back down over his neck. He gets up onto his feet in the same motion, which seems to really piss off the creature growing larger and pulsating with fire a few feet ahead of them. It starts to suck in the smoke from the air, or maybe it’s that the smoke is being forced into its mouth by a breeze he can feel from behind, snarling and spitting its way from dog to some sort of... a cow, maybe? He can’t look at it directly for too long before his vision goes spotty. 

“Uh, what do we do now? Any bright ideas?”

”Don’t run,” Mike’s voice tells him.

“Oh, wow, no way. Huh. I was just about to try that next. Shoot. There goes my plans.”

\---

"Find the book, Tim," Gerry says, and stands solid in front of the thing, staring at it and trying to seem even taller than he already is. Not that using a Leitner is smart, ever, but they are in a room with living testament that sometimes, just sometimes, these books can be used to deter that avatars of other entities.

Either that, he figures, or they're all three of them dead, and permanently. He can smell the beast, the crackle of fire that, even with his page protected, gives him pinpricks of fear that leech down into his soul, but its scent is a twisting, complicated thing. More than one entity? His nose is still just so focused on the Desolation, it's hard to pull anything else apart.

\---

“Wh— It’s in there, isn’t it?” 

Tim moves painfully slowly on his quest to find the box again, but just as he starts to close distance the floor groans. Ear-shatteringly loud, too, as floorboards splinter under his weight and the foundations struggle not to turn to cinders beneath a beast that shouldn’t exist, the embers catching onto the old wood. 

The second his foot falls through - he’ll go ahead and ignore the agonizing cuts digging into his ankle, thank you -, and he gets his hand on the box, the thing gets excited and flares up. Some sort of cat, now, massive tail lashing to either side in a quest to gut them all. Probably. Tim won’t assume. 

It phases through Gerard when it leaps, a few of the flames snuffing out in the cold insides of his form, and lands on the poor new guy instead, and Tim can’t get a good look at what happens because—

Well, there goes the rest of the floor crashing down into the antique shop. Goodbye, awful taxidermy bird.

\---

Gerard may not be corporeal, but he's not the Vast, either, and floating isn't exactly in his current wheelhouse for manifestation of power, so when the floor goes, and the locket with it, so does he. What's the point of being a ghost who can trip and fall?

Fuck, he wishes he had a knife. Or something. Or anything to make a dent in whatever the fuck this creature is. Bestial, and made of fire, but--

Oh. Shit. Poor Mike Crew.

He pulls himself up from the rubble on the first floor, dust and God knows what chemicals sloughing off a body that doesn't exist. He's no worse for wear, but his body wavers and statics as he tries to get his bearings in this mortal plane again, and he grunts out, "Tim? Tim, you're not dead are you?"

\---

Tim offers up a pained groan from the floor, eyes clouded with dust and stars and debris from decades-old God-knows-what. But he’s alive and absolutely sporting a few bruised ribs. 

A plank of wood hits his face. That earns him another cut. He wishes he could see the old antiques swirling around the room, the creature currently burning its way through an avatar of the Vast by flame-tipped teeth. 

But he’s only human, and he needs a moment to recover.

The light from the fire and the outside windows shows their new not-friend off, tiny and kicking wildly at the belly of the beast that towers over him. It fights against the wind that’s started to blow with more and more hysterical desperation from a point just beyond the back of Mike’s skull, fractal scars twisting over his body in the panic. Wind knocks some of the fire back into choking smoke until the cat looks more like a snake, fangs stubbornly digging into flesh. Into the stormy light crackling beneath.

\---

Gerard isn't sure he's ever seen a Vast avatar. Not in person. Artefacts and books and remnants, relics, sure, but there certainly is something breaktaking about seeing someone move with its gifts in person. Something that bubbles not from a book, but channeled from the very thing itself.

Mike Crew, it seems, is a very, very dangerous individual. Gerry would be a liar if he wasn't callously hoping the two creatures would mutually off one another, if only to keep things simple.

He gets to his feet. Clearly Tim is incapacitated more than he was expecting. That's what he gets for hanging out with non-human avatars, ex-avatars, and whatever Martin is considered. He makes his way over to Tim, and he crouches to take him by the wrists, pulling him up with as much strength as he can muster. Falling winded him, and it's more effort than he'd like to admit.

\---

Tim inhales sharply. It immediately comes back out as a pained cough to clear away the rest of the ash caking the inner lining of his lungs. Works well enough for him to blink his eyes open. Just in time, too. 

“So. Come here often?” 

The front windows shatter. Most of the glass twists into the center of the storm, sharp blades jutting into the writhing, flaming body catching the rest of the room on fire. 

It melts, of course, chunks visibly fusing together into ineffectual half-baked sculptures that pool around the scene of the crime. Mike Crew is screaming. Tim can see him now, pale eyes reflecting the fire above him, a scarf now charred at the fraying edges, blood that’s almost kaleidoscopic beneath the white hot flames. 

Tim has gone nearly deaf with the noise. That just makes it easier to watch. Well, it would, if everything wasn’t getting hurled across the room with them two just outside the range. Even as he does nothing, just stands there, he tries to speak loud enough to hit Gerard’s awareness. “We can’t just leave them to it, Keay.”

\---

"I know." Gerry says, but it's hard to look away. Hard not to be the Witness, as he's want to be. A Book unto himself, categorizing and keeping record for the Archive. Hm. He's too entranced to think about how that thought pools in his stomach like righteousness.

"Find the Book. If something like this is guarding it, it-- it stands to reason that the Book is powerful. A Hunt-creature might kill, but so can the Desolation." He says it as calmly as he can, but it's vague, a little out of his own body, his mouth slow as he keeps watching. He's useless, and it'll bother him later, but he's near to a trance.

\---

“Sure.” Tim says, breathless. “Sure, sure, sure.” 

He scrambles to find the book. Small lockbox. Fuck. He cards through the rubble and scratches his hands up in the process, but diseases are the least of his worries right now. Maybe he’ll even get lucky and get all these wounds cauterized in a minute flat. 

He finds the box. The manual is still there, and he figures that might be as much of a book as they’re getting. They can be small, he tells himself, and starts trying to flip through it. 

Owner’s manual for a blah blah blah blah blah, he’s reading too fast to fully understand, something is roaring above him and around him and behind him and reverberating through his chest and—

He tosses the manual out of the way. He doesn’t need it. When he pulls the tab open inside the box to the second compartment, it’s just there. Gleaming, bright, inviting. 

Oh. 

That’s handy.

Good thing Gerard’s warnings haven’t quite soaked in just yet. Tim lifts the heavy metal gun out from the box, a weight that feels like home in his hand. 

He gets both hands around the grip of the gun and swivels around from the floor where he’s been kneeling to sift through the wreckage. After a moment where the blood raging through his ears drowns out all the other useless noise, he mutters, “1981,” like he’s answering a question nobody asked. 

The thing is massive, now. Maybe this is what Crew meant about a Dragonology book. Something got its wires crossed, but he still got his dragon. He aims it at the creature tearing into the man’s shoulder, now, wounds trying to heal over and split open all at once. “I’m using this, Keay.”

\---

Gerry can feel when it's pulled out, something arcane and old and  _ powerful, _ and his attention shifts to it immediately, narrowing in on the chamber, the hilt, and barrel, the way it sits firm in Tim's hand like it belongs there.

"That's a terrible idea," He mumbles, but it's not a no, because he's not sure he wants it to  _ be _ a no. Maybe the cosmos want this to happen. Something new. Something fragile and gossamer, a thread, in the air, whispering that this should happen.

"Use it," He breathes, and turns back to the dragon, like a pointer found a duck ready for the taking.

\---

Yes, sir. 

Tim shuts one eye as he fires. He went to a shooting range once, and once was enough to understand just how deeply a recoil can hit. His body responds to the jolt by buckling down, fire shooting straight through his elbows and up to his shoulders, his teeth, forcing his jaw to clench. 

It  _ burns.  _ His palms heat up on either side of the trigger, flames winding up and over his arms but never sticking to his skin long enough to do more than lick. 

It almost feels good. 

The bullet drives home along the spine of the dragon. The two surfaces collide into sparks as its energy starts to fizzle out, violently thrashing and spitting flames onto the person below it. 

It cycles through shapes, smaller and smaller as it flounders through its own death throes. Tim hasn’t lowered the gun. Maybe it isn’t that the flames aren’t touching him, but that his palms are numb to the pain, and something floods into his brain, something a lot like nothing lost, nothing gained.

_ “Awesome.” _

\---

It's breathtaking to behold. Gerard wonders if his own hands would fit snug around the gun, could shoot, could finish the job so thoroughly, but something sharply reprimands him and he thinks, no, no, it's not for me. It's not my role here.

The sparks and flickers of flame move through him as they circle the store, doing nothing more than lighting him up from the inside, giving him an ethereal glow that is quite different from the surface level green eyes that are blinking bright and standing to attention all over his body to See.

He waits, waits until the creature is no more than smoke and ethereal gristle, and he steps forward, the smoke and dust moving through him. "Mike Crew?" He asks, and it isn't very hopeful.

\---

Crew hasn’t moved, save for the good hand he uses to stop up the blood from thick bites along the length of his other, almost up to his neck. There isn’t much to do about that, not with how the wounds seem to heal over and remake anew over his flesh, inside deep down to the marrow now boiling as fire courses through his veins. 

One special detail of note, of course, is that he’s hyperventilating. He doesn’t need to breathe. He does. Eyes gone blind with pain and the called-up storm now choking itself off with a lack of drive to keep protecting him, settling down into a breeze. Tim still hasn’t made a move to drop the gun, the thought hasn’t occurred to him, but he’s lowered it between his legs away from the danger of shooting it again. He doesn’t have to. 

He has enough in him to call over across the room. “How is he? Try asking how many fingers you’re holding up!”

\---

Gerry does not do that, and doesn't spare Tim the reason why; in an effort to preserve energy, he's barely corporeal and as such, barely visible through all the dust and debris. No matter. The Eyes signal his arrival, lighthouse beacons through the dim visibility. 

He steps over to Crew, able to avoid, well, everything, his jaw clenched to ignore the awful numbness that comes with moving his soul through physical objects.

Eventually, Gerard stands above him, and before he moves to touch, to become whole and physical, he says, "Crew? You with us?"

\---

Mike lolls his head to one side so he can inspect the damage without any true coherency over his current situation. Beyond the fact that he’s fucked.

“Wrong book.”

\---

"Just a gun, it seems. You're fucked up. Guess we could help, so long as you don't bring anymore tornadoes."

\---

Mike tries to level him with something stern, but there’s two of him now, and he’s already pale enough to make a good portion of his veins visible beneath the skin, but now there’s an added feverish touch that looks like he’s about to throw up. 

He can’t remember the last time he ate. Recreational drinks are one thing, a stomach that needs to sustain itself is another. 

He squints. “Who’re you with?”

\---

Gerard grimaces. "The Magnus Institute. Technically speaking, that is. We're kind of working both with and under their radar. Not sure how far word of Jon Sims has spread outside of our little troupe of mischief."

\---

Mike lets the back of his head slam against the wooden floor. He’s sure he makes a rather pathetic sight. Doesn’t seem he has much of a choice here, does it? “Don’t kill me.” 

Tim stands up, then, shaky and breathless with both hands still glued to the gun. The feeling is uncanny, that post-fuck bliss if sex ended with the skin getting burned right off your hands. Maybe for some people it does. “How are we getting him back, exactly?”

\---

"Use some trigger discipline, Stoker. Christ." Gerry sighs, and thinks, and then shrugs and tries to make himself as corporeal as possible, the feeling odd as air shifts around him and pushes away from a body that exists, mostly, in space out of nothing, and then he crouches. "Guess I'll carry him. Need you to call Jon and tell him we're coming. I'll need him there, if you don't want me to go to Sleep the moment we're through the doors."

\---

Mike has just about tapped out in the consciousness department, and with that goes the last of the wind. So much for cocktail hour. 

“Uh, hold on—“ Tim bends to put down the gun. It doesn’t hurt to let go, but his skin hums discontentedly with the loss. He fishes deep into his pocket for the cold screen that stings worse than fire against his raw skin. 

Aaand... emergency boss contact. Lovely. He squats down next to where Gerry and the new guy are, taking the sight of him in now that it’s safe enough to do so. With the phone lodged between his shoulder and ear, he can settle with his hands free while it rings.

\---

Gerry waits until he hears the phone ring, and then he nods, and bends down to scoop Mike Crew up. He's light, lighter than Gerry expected, and that's probably a good thing, considering he somehow has to get the guy all the way back to the Institute. Wonderful. He stands slowly, shifting Mike's weight in his arms, bridal carrying him. 

The phone rings twice, thrice, and on the fourth ring, Jon picks up, and he's halfway through a confused, "Ti--" before he cuts himself off and hums in discontent. "Will you make it back safely?"

\---

Tim makes a sour face in Gerry’s direction as soon as Jon’s voice hits the line. “Uh, yep. Think so, unless there’s another storm on the way. Goth ghost said to warn you we might need you to keep him up, whatever that means. That sound good, sorta-boss?”

\---

There's a near-audible grimace on the line, and then Jon says, "Yes." He isn't going to argue with the 'sorta-boss' thing, not when he can almost smell the brimstone and fire as clear as day, nauseating him the longer he stays on the phone with Tim. "Don't leave anything, uh, arcane? Magical? Behind, please."

\---

“Not planning on it. Bye, love you, see you soon, traffic, you know how it is.” Tim pulls the phone away and hangs up. “Wow, he’s small. Ooh, man. Are all avatars this small? Jon’s one, right? A lame one? Tiny.”

\---

"Michael was one. Don't think height has to do with it." Gerry starts to move towards... Well, what remains of the front of the building, giving Tim a look to follow. "Guess we'll see what that gun does to you."

\---

“We’ll have to wait until we get some light, but, uh— My hands aren’t great. Maybe I can make it a look.” Too bad, about avatars. “Think it’s a good idea to bring him back? I call dibs on naming the hurricane.”

\---

Gerry shrugs as much as he can with the weight. "Welcome to the burn club. I'll get you cleaned up. I know a few tricks to ease the pain." 

He shifts his attention to the man in his arms. Deceptively gentle looking, in sleep. "Pretty sure leaving him to die would be a far worse scenario on our hands than helping him out."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190263386@N04/50377208991/in/dateposted-public/)  
> 


	72. Chapter 72

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon-typical grumping.

Gerard is all but flickering by the time they get to the Institute. He may have been working on his strength these past few months, and Crew might be light, but he's still a solid, very physical weight, and Gerard is not. He manages to make it to the elevator, and leans heavily against the corner of it, taking heavy unneeded breaths just to focus his mind on staying, on being physical, on giving himself every cue in the book that reminds him of mortality. 

A shiver runs through him and he nearly drops Mike, but he's not going to give in, and he's not making Tim carry the man when he's burned all to hell. Still; he mutters, "Second I let him go, need the locket." 

So thank fucking  _ God _ Jon is there when the lift doors open, looking nervous and harried, hair flying out of its makeshift bun like he's been raking his fingers through it constantly since the phone call. Not 'like', really, more 'absolutely was.' 

Jon steps forward and presses himself to Gerry's side, and maybe either one or both of them would spare a moment to be nervous, awkward about the intimacy, but not now. Not when Gerry's one step away from passing out into the ether with a very,  _ very _ powerful Vast avatar in his arms. He leads them back to the office, and Jon glances behind him to suck in a second hand pained burst of breath at the sight of Tim, and he says, "I'm yelling at you  _ both _ about this later. I hope you realize that."

\---

Tim rolls his eyes. “Like you’ve never done anything risky.  _ Or _ ill-advised! No,  _ never.  _ We lived. It’s fine. I saved a guy! I think. He’s alive, right?” 

Mike is as conversational as he’s been for at least the past half hour, which is to say silent, his head hanging pathetically back. Good thing he’s immortal, or whatever. That’d kill his neck otherwise.

\---

Jon's touch against Gerry's back floods some strength into him, at least enough to get them all to the office. At least Jon is kind about it, walking slowly with him even as he's clearly not happy, his jaw tense and his eyes wide and holding back some semblance of anger. He says nothing, thank God, until the door is safely closed behind them, though. 

Gerry drops Mike not-too-gently onto the couch tucked between two bookshelves in the office, and a waver runs through his form even as Jon's grip tightens on him, one hand navigating to his arm and the other on his side as he leads him to the chair at the foot of the archivist’s desk. 

"He's alive, which is fantastic, considering how  _ dangerous _ he is," Jon snaps.

\---

“Hey. From where I’m standing, I’m the most dangerous thing in the room.” Tim holds the revolver up with one hand, spinning it on a finger. It hurts, but it’s worth it. “Safety’s on, by the way. And you were doing a great job at keeping him happy.  _ ‘Mikey’?  _ Really?” 

He lifts the locket over his head with his free hand, swallowing down a grimace as the cool metal touches his skin. He can’t toss it towards Gerry fast enough.

\---

It falls to the floor, Gerry's instincts too tired and worn out to reach to grab it from the air, and he groans as he bends to lift it back up, cradling it in his hands and pressing the metal deep into his palms. "I didn't know a nickname would piss him off! Fuck, I need to stop using nicknames, ever, it  _ always  _ leads to trouble. Fuck." He pauses, and leans back enough to press more of his skin to Jon, and he mumbles, "Thank you, Jon. Appreciate it." 

Because he does. Jon has all but leapt to help him, and he didn't realize how much that would mean to him until right this very moment, where he can pull his legs up to his chest and be touched and present and close his eyes and hold his locket and breathe. Breathing for the sake of breathing and being here, rather than necessity. 

He sits for a minute, two, and then takes a deeper breath and angles his head back over the chair, and says, "Tim. Lukewarm water on those burns for a bit, if you will. And if you could, tell me what our friend over there is dealing with, so I can get to work."

\---

“Sorry, how would I know that, exactly? I whip out a gun and kill a mass-breeding swarm of firecrackers and now I’m the expert?” 

Tim holds his tongue about nicknames working if they’re  _ creative.  _ Or funny. Or just said at the right time, even. “I’ll need a bucket. Unless we’re taking this conversation to the break room.”

\---

"God, I can't wait for us to have a fucking sink in our living quarters. This is a nightmare. I'm sure you can find something. And I'm sure you can tell me if he's bleeding, or  _ bruised, _ or  _ broken." _ Gerry keeps his eyes closed. He just needs a few minutes and he'll be right as rain. At least Jon has his hands on his shoulders now and seems to be pressing his hands a little harder against his flesh. Feels nice. He can almost feel it, at least.

\---

“Right. I’ll check him out and give you two a few minutes while I find something.” Tim doesn’t put down the gun. He’s not about to leave it behind in here or risk getting caught empty-handed if the guy actually turns out dangerous. Kneeling next to the couch, he... tries, for sure, to figure this out. 

Mike is passed out. That much is easy. The exact points where molten fangs carved into flesh are still open, puncture holes made nearly all the way through. If he wasn’t currently riding a wave of euphoric power, he might be too sick to look. 

“Uhh, all of the above? The white scars are old, I’m guessing, so— Deep, mostly burns, like if you stabbed a guy with a hot sword and put him on charcoal after. Up his arm, I’m seeing... three sets. At the elbow, upper arm, shoulder. That work for you?”

\---

Gerry hums in reply. Bad, but not Jon-Sims-With-His-Throat-Slashed bad. Got it. "First aid kit's stocked, Jon?" 

Jon thinks for a moment and then nods, then realizes Gerry's eyes are closed and says, "Yes. Should be. Might run out of burn ointment after tonight, though." 

"Whatever. I'll order more. He stinks of the Hunt and the Desolation, now. Dunno how that's gonna go over. Guess I'll try and clean him up. Ugh."

\---

“Aaaand, I’ll be back! Try not to do anything too exciting without me.” 

Tim slips out of the room. Once the door is behind him, his false smile drops from his face. He isn’t gone long, since he opts for a big soup pot that hurts to bring back into the room. He shoves the side of the gun in his mouth while he grips it with both hands, and it doesn’t burn his mouth, thank fuck, but he didn’t think it would. The worst part of the arrangement is how much that exacerbates the hand problem. 

He clears his throat to announce himself before he actually breaches the doorway again.

\---

Gerry's up and moving by the time he gets back, the first-aid kit on the floor as he crouches in front of Mike Crew's fainting couch, shifting through the contents and pulling out all that he'll need. 

Jon hovers restlessly behind him, not touching him anymore, but ready to, just in case he starts wavering again, and they both look behind at Tim when he comes back. Gerry gives him a tight lipped look. "C'mere and put that down near me. Then soak. You're more human than Crew; doubt he'll need it, and I'm not holding him over a pot of water."

\---

“Yes, sir.” Tim kneels next to the couch, just inches away from Crew’s face, and drops the gun on the floor. Straight from his mouth. It doesn’t seem to mind. 

He dips both hands into the water and can’t help the sigh that eases out of his lungs. Ah, breathing hurts a bit. That’ll fix soon, hopefully.

\---

Gerry pulls the ever-loved bottle of antiseptic out first, and gives them all a few moments of respite before getting it ready, not sure how Mike will react once it's pressed into his wounds. Sure, the fire probably helped to cauterize a lot of bacteria, but he's not taking chances. 

Nurse Keay isn't playing games, regardless of how loyal or unloyal Mike Crew is. He's mostly an unknown to Gerry, vague facts and little else in the ways of what his motivations are. 

He breathes out as he presses cotton soaked in the fluid onto the first of Crew's wounds, and absolutely notices the way Jon stiffens behind him.

\---

Mike, unfortunately, wakes up. Not the fully aware gift of consciousness that allows him to analyze what the hell is happening to him, but enough of a bodily response now horrifically foreign to him to snap him out of the daze his body saw fit to put him through to kickstart healing. 

He jerks back, which... just depressingly presses him deeper against the cushions of the couch, his bad arm limp against his will and his decent arm getting a death grip on the nearest spot that gives him emotional leverage in the wake of searing pain. Not quite well enough for words, but good enough to panic the same way he had the last few moments of consciousness before. 

Tim does nothing except try to look calm and inviting, but Mike doesn’t seem to be looking at anything, so it doesn’t matter too much.

\---

"Easy," Gerry says, and parts of him want to launch into fight-or-flight panic, but he forces his mirage of a body to stay still, to keep pressing the cotton to his arm, moving it up the wounds as he tries to push it into his flesh, to get every nook and cranny. "Just cleaning you, Crew. Don't know if you can get infected, but it doesn't hurt to be thorough. Just breathe, kid."

\---

Mike stops breathing the second Gerard speaks words that don’t sink in. He simply holds it in, and it stays there. He watches, frozen, as his own arm now filled with holes screams with internal pain he thought he didn’t remember how to feel. 

This is all rather humbling. “Ow.” He changes his mind. “Ow. _ Ow.”  _

Each one is an isolated sound, more confused and mentally very far away than genuinely pained. He can’t take his eyes off his arm. That’s all that exists. That’s his whole world. His whole world in a world that used to be so much bigger. “Do I still have my scarf?”

\---

Gerry squints, and nearly asks him why the fuck that matters, when Jon speaks up, and says, "Parts of it. It's rather frayed at the ends from where it burned."

\---

“No.” It’s more of a  _ ‘nooo’, _ but we won’t force that indignity on him. “I like that scarf.” 

He slumps against the couch again, deciding it isn’t worth the energy. Past the initial burst of pain, he seems to have expended what little there was left in him. His eyelids lower slightly. “You took care of it?”

\---

"Dead as can be," Gerry says, and takes a moment to get more cotton, more antiseptic, and starts the process of sterilizing the next of the wounds. "No Book. Was guarding something else in the corpse of a Book."

\---

Mike doesn’t bother flinching the second time. “Was looking... for a Dugald Steer. Vast-touched. They have... dragon-calling spells in them, ones that work. Not like this.” He hates talking this much, but somehow it’s nice to do it. Distracting. Unorthodox. Call it blood loss. “I need better sources.”

\---

"D--Dragons?" Jon asks, incredulous, skeptical, snappy, but a moment later, he nods, blinking a few times. He looks confused, annoyed, almost. "Okay. There's dragons. What did you want with a  _ dragon, _ Mike Crew?" It's compelled, if only because he doesn't think not to.

\---

A feverish shiver courses through him. “I quite like them. It might be nice if they were real, and not made of fire. Birds and planes are getting old.” 

He comes to with a few short breaths, once again forgetting that they should be optional. He also does not willingly offer up the fact that the way the book supposedly worked had little to do with genuine dragon-summoning. “Don’t do that.”

\---

"You want to summon a dragon because you-- you  _ like  _ them? That's--" Jon blinks. "What would you do if you succeeded? This isn't--"

"It's not Game of Thrones," Gerry finishes for him, and moves on to the third wound. He's being as gentle as he can, but his fingers don't move right, not all the way, and they already were a little stiff and neurologically Not All Together There after the burns, let alone the whole ghost thing, so he presses harder than he might need to. Still. Better nurse than anyone else here at present.

\---

“Well, you didn’t ask about what the book did, now, did you—“ Mike hisses, loud and desperate as he tries and fails to flex his arm away from the pressure. “Stop. No... no more. Let me go.”

\---

"You're not entirely human anymore, but I'm not going to just not mend you. Sit still for two seconds and I can get some salve on here. Christ. Whiny." Gerry says it all while continuing and not letting up on the pressure.

\---

Mike’s volume rises. “I am not whiny. You never should have been there. Or have opened it. Or just about anything you did in the span of five minutes.” He nearly growls with frustration, just barely holding back from pushing him away. “You’re doing that on purpose.”

\---

"I'm not," Gerry says stiffly. "My hands don't work right." He's not getting into ghost physics right now, and Mike Crew doesn't seem to care about explanations that don't sate his defensiveness, so there's that. "And you are. You've done nothing but whine since we've met. And for all your cool wind, you would have died out there if it weren't for Tim."

\---

Tim waves him off with one hand coming up out of the pot. “Oh, it’s fine. Really. I do it every day.”

Mike doesn’t care that much for what Tim has to say. “I did not. You’re the one who called me names. I tried to help you! And now you— You kidnapped me back to your Eye’s Den so your  _ friend  _ could force me to speak for nothing.”

A book falls off the shelf behind Tim with a quiet  _ thump. _

\---

"You make a lot of assumptions," Gerry says, and finally pulls the cotton away, reaching down to pull packets of burn salve. He's still tired, and weak, so he hands them to Jon and mimes ripping them open, which he does, automatically. Gerry's good at that; being confident enough in his commands that you'd be remiss not to just do what he says. 

"Jon shouldn't do that, but he's an idiot, and I'm sorry he has very little self-restraint. We're working on it. I didn't bring you back here for that, I brought you back here because we don't know your motives, one, and two, this is the more important part," He takes the packets back from Jon after they're opened, and he leans forward to start pressing it into the wounds. Less of a burn than the antiseptic, but there's still going to be a sting, and a hot flash of heat as the salve works to numb the area. "I didn't know if you would die back there, and I'd rather heal you up than leave someone for dead."

\---

Mike goes rather silent. He can’t argue much with that. 

This particular pain is next to nothing after the original burns, and he does his best to ignore it. Won’t do to look more pathetic and killable here than he already does. Even on the brink of passing out a second time, he prioritizes that. 

“Thanks.” 

Tim hums, content with the gratitude. He doesn’t seem like he’ll be awake much longer, so he doesn’t push his luck with the one-liners. Best end on a high note.

\---

"Sure. Rest up, and we'll evaluate what's going on with your spooky healing later. If you're anything like Jon, I reckon it'll be fast." He finishes smearing the burn salve on and moves onto the bandages, unwinding the gauze quickly around slightly trembling hands.

Exhaustion pools in him, even with Jon close, and after a moment of that, Jon presses his hand to his back, to stabilize him a little more.

\---

Mike dozes uncomfortably off by the time Gerry starts wrapping bandages, and isn’t that a blessing? One less worry for them all to deal with. 

“So,” Tim starts quietly. “How are we doing this? Taking watches? What about the harem in your office bedroom?”

\---

Gerry is largely quiet while he wraps, giving only a hum to signal to Tim that he heard him. When he finishes, he sits back heavily, pulling his legs out from under him and sighing heavily, running a hand down his face. He looks _ sallow, _ if ghosts can look sallow.

"Guess they can take turns. If they want to behave and actually help." He glances up at Jon and gives him a thin smile of gratitude. "More burn salve packets opened, please, Jon."

He's too tired to be more hands-on, but he can dictate.

"I don't really need that much rest and I'm not hurt, so I could... Could watch over for a while," Jon says, and tries to hand the opened packets to Gerry, but the ghost shakes his head and gestures to Tim, so he offers them to him instead.

\---

Tim removes his hands from the water and takes the packets. “Not alone, you’re not. You spend thirty seconds in a conversation and you do _that_ to him? I’m sure leaving you two alone would go great. He loved that! In fact, you should do it again and make it quick!” 

Tim holds his tongue the second he can wrangle it, biting down on his lip as he tries to essentially use the salve like hand-soap. Hopefully that’s the right move. “If you get a watch, you’re doing it with me or him. I can stay up. I’m awake.”

\---

"It was an accident," Jon bristles, and glares at Tim.

"Doesn't matter, Jon, it was still a cock move. Ugh. If you're sure, Tim. Wake me up when either Crew gets up or it's..." Gerry thinks for a moment. "Been ten hours." Won't be enough to get his full strength back, but he does not trust the others not to ruin the very very miniscule thread of ambivalence instead of hostility he's struck up with Crew at a moments notice.

\---

“Great. Guess we’re a team.” Said with the dryness of a vast desert. “It’ll be a long night for both of us. You don’t happen to have Postmates, Jon, do you?”

\---

"We can order something. Or send one of the others out, when they deign to wake up this morning." He looks between Mike Crew's sleeping body and them two. "Did you  _ have _ to bring him here?"

"Not killing through negligence. Stop whining. Ugh. I think ghosts can get migraines and you're the trigger, Jon. Get it handled. Tim, gauze if you think it's necessary, otherwise leave it to the air."

\---

Tim nods. “To the air it is. Where else would we have taken him, anyway? My flat? Oh, no way. I’m not prepared for gentlemen callers at this time of night. Let the ghost rest, I can handle this.”

\---

Gerry gives them both another round of firm, stern looks and presses two fingers to his forehead. "Alright. Adieu." And he disappears into the ether.

\---

Tim lets the silence stretch on for about a minute before he gives in. He’s in too good of a mood to let this opportunity go to waste, so he finally looks at Jon. “I want pizza.”

\---

Jon huffs and steps back towards his desk, fingers trailing along the edge of the wood as he looks for his phone. "Fine. Bring that gun over here. I want to touch it."

\---

“We’re not there yet. You can get your eyes on it, but that’s all I’m letting you do. Maybe I’ll be more willing to hand you a gun after pizza.” Tim smiles, trying very, very hard. “Depends on what you get on it.”

\---

Jon huffs, and looks at the gun on the floor and then back at the screen, squinting at it in the dark as he pulls up whichever pizza place is open and clicks on whatever deal is the least amount of hassle. It's a couple pizzas, but it'll get eaten; if Jon and Tim don't devour it, the other two grown men here will. And he's learned fast that when Michael gets hungry, he eats.

"Uh-- spinach. Pepperoni. Mushrooms. Pineapple."

\---

Tim squints. “You’re lucky I’m insane. And starving. And completely hopped up on this adrenaline high.”

\---

"We can get-- I'll get you your own pizza, Tim, we're not--" He laughs a little, "--broke uni kids anymore."

\---

“Nah, it’s fine. I’ll eat anything right now.” Tim lifts up from the ground just so he can fall back on the opposite side of the couch as Crew’s body. There’s still plenty of room for him. “That was hell. I’ve never seen any of that before.”

\---

"I saw... Glimpses, when you called. It-- I'm glad you're alright. Both of you. That--" He shakes his head and looks up from the screen for a moment to give Tim a concerned look. "I'm sorry."

\---

“Ha! Don’t be. I had a blast. Hell is great. And I signed up for it, so, hey. I got what I asked for and more, right?” 

Tim doesn’t know if he wants to pursue that train of thought. He doesn’t like knowing that Jon knows some details whether he wants him to or not. So he’ll ignore that and move right the fuck on to preserve the peace.

\---

"I suppose so." Jon looks at Tim's arms for a long, long moment, and then down at his screen again. "You're deeply marked by the Desolation, now. I can smell the fire on you." He taps the bottom of the screen. "Pizza's ordered."

\---

“I should think so. It spoke to me.” Whoops, didn’t mean to say that. “Literally. With words.” Shit, Stoker, stop talking. “Uh, thanks. Any idea what that means for me?”

\---

Jon puts his phone down and leans forward a little, his eyes wide and bright. He starts to speak, getting through the beginning syllable of 'what', and then he swallows, and very deliberately starts over, without any of the compelling nonsense that his brain wants him to do, automatically. 

Sure, Helen said it should just be a given that he does this, but-- But it's violating. He'll not, when he can. "What did it say?

\---

Tim shrugs, taking the effort to restart as a stutter. “It asked me what year I was born, and then it told me ‘Hit Me With Your Best Shot’ by Pat Benatar was on the charts that year.”  He snorts. “Kidding about the second one. It felt like a friendly conversation, not too many words.”

\---

"Ah." Jon grimaces. "I think you bound yourself to it. I suppose it's your gun, now." He runs a hand over and down his face, thinking for a few moments. "It's dangerous."

\---

“Dangerous as your all-expenses-paid trip to America?”

\---

"Yes, Tim." Jon gives him a severe look. "And if you recall, I died there. Along with a host of other things."

\---

“Oh, I recall what I know in passing. Guess I’m one up on you, boss. I married a gun.” He hums. “You want to see it?”

\---

"Yes," He breathes immediately, almost too needy in his want.

\---

Tim leans over Mike’s body to grab for the gun. It sits warm and heavy in his hands, as alive as it had been when he first fired. 

He holds it out for Jon to inspect, but pointedly out of his reach.

\---

Jon leans as close as he can, practically out of the chair to try and get a closer glimpse of it. He can feel it, and he subconsciously holds onto a hand that had once been burned, badly, with a power of the same scent.

"Oh," He says, and shivers. "This can kill things it really shouldn't be able to."

\---

“Oh, no way. It killed the thing that was protecting it, so I figured it wasn’t, y’know, totally normal, but that’s handy.”

He lowers it slightly, so Jon can’t get closer. “What do you think happens if anyone else grabs it? It burned me. It’s not burning me now.”

\---

"I...don't know. It's yours... I wonder if it would be... A regular gun, to someone else. Or if it would work as intended." He stays where he is, eyes locked on. Cataloging it. Knowing it, as much as he can.

\---

“Mine.” The way he says it isn’t intense, or possessive, just factual. Honest. This is a sudden development on a long list of sudden developments. “Guess we’ll have to wait and see.”

He looks back down at their new hostage. “What’s his story?”

\---

"He was plagued by a Spiral creature, and turned to a Leitner to... Cure him of the ailment. It... Bound him to the Vast. Or, I suppose, he just said yes. Bound himself. He jumped off a tower."

He doesn't look at Mike, or Tim, but the gun, still, watching the way the engraved hilt moves up into the barrel, swirling patterns arching their way upwards. It isn't a gleaming gun, rather dirty, actually, but there's spots of red-pink polished metal where fingers often brush, human oils keeping it clean.

The longer he looks, the more the swirls become shapes. Long looping swirls turn to tail feathers turn to arching wings, turn to the regal, furious head of a cock, its open beak poised to spit acrid fire through the end of the barrel.

Jon finally looks to Tim, and his eyes are wide, crystalline with clarity. "1981."

\---

“That’s a Rooster year, yeah?  _ Classy.”  _ Tim snickers, moving the gun off to one side at the floor. By his ankle, partially obscured. “Can’t you turn that off? At least— Would you mind turning it off with me? I’d really appreciate it.”

\---

"... I didn't even-- I just put two and two together that time. You said it asked your birthday, and I've seen the creature, and now there's a rooster--" Jon frowns. "Besides. I don't really think I can, not really. It's already hard enough not to compel people. Let alone-- not know things?"

\---

“Fine. Forget it. I can pick up a gun and know when to turn the safety off, but you can’t help yourself asking questions.” Tim sighs, wincing as he forgets that he can’t bury his face into his hands with burns across his palms. “I’ve been trying really, really hard to figure out some way I can trust you, Sims. And every time I get closer, there’s a new development. If it weren’t for Keay I doubt we’d even be on speaking terms at all.”

\---

"What did I even _do_ this time?" He can't help the frustration leaking into his voice. "I don't--I don't see how knowing things is bad. By all accounts, it's efficient!"

\---

“I don’t know, it’s just your general—  _ You! _ And it’s bad when you ask your freaky god for answers instead of, I don’t know, whoever’s in front of you? I just watched you do it, you just made a grown man tell you he wishes dragons are real. Dick move, Sims!”

\---

"That was an accident, it--" He wrinkles his nose. "No, no, I won't defend that one. It's hard. I'm trying. Yours is an external gun that isn't a part of you. Mine is like asking... Like asking someone to turn off their sense of smell, or taste, or touch. It's instinct. I'm trying, but-- fuck, Tim, I don't know what to tell you!"

\---

“Then wear a blindfold, or something.”

\---

"That's not-- that's not how it works, Tim! I don't know what you want from me! We're well past pretending everything's normal and if you think  _ I'm _ bad--"

Oh. Well he roundly cuts himself off, shaking his head. Not bringing him up any more than necessary.

\---

“Yeah? And if I do? This the part where you tell me there are worse monsters out there?” Tim leans forward. “You don’t need to read my mind to know I fucking know that, Sims.”

\---

He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "I just don't know what you  _ want _ from me, Tim. I'm not the one that caused all of this. I was thrown into it, same as you."

\---

_ "Yeah,  _ all of us w--"

His breath halts as the door to the safe room creaks open. Great, they just pile on out, don't they. 

Martin looks like he's been through it, pretty recently. That pink hair was making him look ten years younger, and right now it's messy enough from sleep that he can pull it off, but... well, there's no youthful charm. He looks like they woke him up, which sends a pang of guilt deep into Tim's gut, and he kicks the gun behind his foot against the couch before he can think twice about the motion. 

He finishes wiping sleep from his eyes, leaning up against the doorframe to bear the most of his weight. When he blinks his eyes open, the first thing he looks at is Jon. Tim, he skates over, to land squarely on suspect number one. 

When he speaks, it's tense. Strained in that way Tim knows isn't a question aimed at him. "What is that?"

\---

Jon doesn't even spare a glare in Tim's direction. This is on him, too. He sighs, and leans back in the chair, so that he's not strangely nearly falling into Tim anymore.

"Mike Crew. Not sure if you've read his statements. Tim and Gerry... Found him. While trying to get a Leitner. Good morning."

\---

Martin does not say good morning. He actually looks vaguely ill, when he brings a disgusted hand up to his mouth, a few of his fingers reaching up to block his nose. 

“He smells like a fight.” 

Tim scoffs. “Why do you all know so much about smells?” 

“I-I-I don’t know, it’s the first thing I thought!”

\---

"They fought some-- Hunt creature. And I suppose Mike Crew got injured. Hence--" He waves a weary hand towards the couch and then sits up a little straighter, angling towards Mike, to verify he's still sleeping.

\---

A second hand joins the first up at Martin’s face. Delightful amount of composure, he has. Mike doesn’t stir, but the waves of Hunt-Mark-Scent-Fumes-Brands hit just the same. 

And then he decides to count the heads in the room. Gerry isn’t there. 

From where Tim is standing, the knowledge he already has about the way Martin can work himself up into a delirious fuss does wonders to keep him calm. Martin starts to pace.

Or, sort of. Pacing would imply there’s a thread of direction in there. He just starts to move, looking everywhere. “Where’s Gerry? Is he okay? Did he get hurt? You didn’t leave the locket, right? You smell like fire and - and he’s not— The locket isn’t magic, it can’t keep magic fire out, and—“

\---

"Martin, Martin, he's--" Jon points to the floor near the med kit, where the locket sits loose on the floor, the chain spooling below the metallic ball like a finely woven nest. "He was just tired. He-- helped Mike Crew here."

Jon doesn't like how agitated Martin already is, and isn't sure why he's so pent up, but-- ah. If he's smelling everything, then maybe the Hunt still has its throes on him. He tries to reach out and pull Martin to him, but he's only half-trying, in case Martin needs to pace.

\---

His heart leaps into his throat the second he locks eyes with the necklace, ignorant to the fact that he’s only dressed in one of Michael’s oversized - very comfortable, pricy for a reason, but mostly he just likes the smell - shirts and a pair of boxers with Tim present. 

They all smell like death just barely avoided. Mike Crew smells like death enacted. Like someone who can kill, who doesn’t mind it. Martin hasn’t read his statements, but he doesn’t need to to Know. It pours off him in waves. Book-burying heights and wind laced up with humid light-shows and teeth marks and ozone. Ozone. Michael smelled like ozone. Michael threatened Gerry. Michael wasn’t Michael, then, he was  _ Michael.  _ Mike isn’t Michael, and that makes it worse. Mike has drenched the locket in violent, clogging confusion. 

The man is unconscious, and Martin growls as a warning regardless. 

Tim is the closer of the two, unfortunately. “Whoa, hey.”

\---

"Martin, he's not going to hurt us right now," Jon says, and he gets up from the chair, trying to step closer to where Martin is to... He doesn't even know. Comfort him? 

He hates how the growl runs a shiver through him, some instinctive reaction to something so deeply from the Hunt that he can't help but have the smallest flash of fear. He squashes the fear immediately and stands behind him, reaching out to take and pull his hand.

\---

Martin squashes his own reaction to the reaction just as quickly, but he’s still wary enough to hesitate pulling away. 

“Will he hurt you?”

\---

"I don't know. Hopefully not." Jon shakes his head. "No way to know."

\---

“I don’t like it.” Martin continues to glare at poor Mike’s unconscious body, but he moves to hold Jon’s hand. He’s very mad about it. Not about holding his hand, but about not being able to do anything about it right now. 

Well. Not being allowed to, mostly. “I’m... not going back to bed.”

\---

"I don't exactly love it either," Jon grumbles, and tries to pull Martin back to the desk. "Michael's still sleeping, hopefully?"

\---

“I’unno,” Martin shrugs vaguely. “Didn’t check.” Now that Jon has given him a temporary safety check, and Mike is still unconscious, he feels safe enough to yawn. 

Tim’s eyes widen. “Holy shit. That’s what it is. Martin’s a werewolf, now, right? Please tell me Martin’s a werewolf.”

\---

"Not... Not quite." Jon pinches the bridge of his nose. "But I suppose that's-- I mean, the Hunt does leave its marks."

\---

“I’m a werewolf, Tim.” Martin smiles thickly and settles down in Jon’s chair. He’s allowed to be a jerk, he decides. “Did you order pizza?”

\---

"Yes? Did you Know that?" Jon supposes he gets the guest chair, in front of the desk. Fine. Guess they did wake him up.

\---

Martin blinks up at him, then turns sheepishly to find the still-open screen. Ah. Chicken-egg. “...No?”

\---

"Oh." Jon has the decency to look a little embarrassed. "Sorry. Been-- been a night. Yeah, pizza's coming. Tim's hungry after killing a Hunt-beast."

\---

“Was... Was it the Hunt? You’re all covered in burns. Doesn’t one of them have fire covered already?”

\---

"Well..." Jon cocks his head. "You're of the Hunt, and yet you can use the Spiral. And the Eye. Same concept, it seems. A Hunt-beast sworn to protect an item of the Desolation."

\---

“Oh. Weird.” Martin slumps forward onto the desk with a tired sigh. He still occasionally glances in Mike Crew’s direction, none too pleased with that unresolved predicament. “That’s kind of neat.”

\---

"Sure. Dead now, though, thankfully. It seemed to be... Nasty." He looks to Tim. "Do more research next time before jumping into book hunts, right?"

\---

“Save the speech for Keay.” Tim offers blandly. “Or Crew, when he wakes up. Either works. Maybe you can even tell them both.”

\---

"I don't exactly care to warn him off. He was looking for dragons." Childish, is what he thinks of Mine Crew thus far.

\---

“Different strokes. I think dragons are cool. Oh, here’s an idea. Tie-breaker. Martin.” 

Martin looks up at his name. 

“Thoughts on dragons?”

“They’re— Um, they’re alright, I guess?”

“I’ll count that. Three-none, Sims. Think Michael #1 shares the anti-dragon philosophy?”

\---

"I don't think you should ask Michael about any kind of philosophy, ever." He rolls his eyes. "Dragons are-- ugh. They're cool, but it's one thing to think them cool and another to risk your life for a book to summon a dangerous creature, potentially, in real life."

\---

“Mhm. Sure. Maybe they weren’t people-killing dragons. Maybe our friend Mike just wanted to fly some kites.” Tim sighs wistfully. “Now he’ll never get the chance.”

\---

"Tim, he kills people. Let's be a little more hesitant on the 'friend', thing."

\---

"Aaand, that's the joke, Jon."


	73. Chapter 73

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mike's on the mend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for brief recreational drug use (It's weed).

Mike Crew does not dream of lightning. He does not dream of storms, or wind, or even of blinding fractals that jut deep into his skin.

He dreams of fire. Brimstone infernos scorching over flesh, gnawing aches without the merciful comfort of rain. 

He dreams of two dark eyes with opalescent semicircles at the center, colors he knows all too well from his own body on one that is entirely foreign.

And then he dreams of nothing at all, because dreaming takes up too much thought he doesn't have to spare.

He wakes up before his own eyes blink open, feeling for the terrain they've left him in. The pillows beneath him bite into his spine, telling him he hasn't moved an inch in his sleep since he last woke up. The pain lancing sharp across his body reminds him he isn't fit for his usual flair, and he knows without looking that his coat is no longer functional at one side. There are voices, at times, but he is focused less on understanding them and more on when he believes they might be turned away. 

When he does crack his eyes open, he does so carefully. Just enough vision through bleach-white eyelashes to make sure their backs are turned. 

Mike Crew is used to being so quiet when he wants to be. Silent steps so that floorboards don't creak. Shoes barely hovering over the ground to avoid being caught. Breath so shallow it defies bodily need entirely. Until now, it seems. 

He makes it onto the floor, a crawl that tries to deny sound the satisfaction. Horror spikes through him at the knowledge that he isn't silent. Drives home and twists when he tries to hoist up onto his hands and knees and the right side of his body capsizes under his weight. His valiant effort to sneak is the least of his troubles (considering he lands on the side still flooding him with violent tremors of pain at every minute motion), let alone dropping all of himself on top of it. 

He rolls onto his back, as there's nothing else he can do, swallowing a scream just barely in time for the humiliation to start.

\---

Gerry's explaining to Jon in detail everything that happened-- a Statement, really, willingly given and bolstered by instinct that lets him speak well, true, categorical-- when he hears Crew and turns. The movement is punctuated just a second before by Jon's own straightening back, as though he senses something that's to come, and then they're both owlishly staring at Mike Crew's form on the ground. 

"Idiot," Gerry says simply, and rotates his wrists as he steps closer to Mike, still fatigued but far, far better after some rest within his page. "You're gonna fuck up all the bandaging. Really cool. Really grateful. Where the hell do you think  _ you're  _ going?"

\---

Ah. 

That's fear.

Something he seems to have plenty to spare, as of late. They're watching him now, and that sinks in deeper here. He knows where he is, to an extent. A place he'd rather not be, under a designation he does not follow. "I--" 

He uses his legs at the ground to push himself back, away, but that makes it worse. He thinks about lifting one to use as a shield against the ghost - who's name he's forgotten, suddenly - but decides better, keeping both sneakers on the ground. "I thought I could avoid-- I'm not-- Undoing your work isn't the goal."

\---

"Yeah, sure, but it's still the end result. Terrible foresight. Love it!" Gerry makes himself as physical as he can and steps in front of him, his boots heavy enough today to actually make the smallest of scuffs against the wood. He didn't need to, but yeah, he wants to make a point here, and the point is don't try to fucking leave and think you're getting away with it. "Back on the couch, patient Crew."

\---

He flinches at the sound. And then at the pain that follows the flinch. Endless loops of torture inflicted.

"Oh, God." The words might as well have gone through a blender before coming out, scared-pained-confused-uncomfortable-maladjusted-embarrassed-incredulous-affronted-etcetera. "Foresight isn't... my specialty." 

He tries to not look like a broken animal while he moves from the floor, but he's wobbly and out of it and absolutely not enjoying the comfort of any sort of painkillers, magical or otherwise. He sits down, but he doesn't lie down. And then he says nothing. Does nothing. Just sits there and waits for whatever comes next.

\---

Oh. He isn't arguing with Gerry. There's almost a stab of guilt at that, but he's also seen Crew in action, so it doesn't last long. "Right. Good. Thank you. How do you feel?"

\---

"The parts I can feel don't feel great." Mike's eyes drift to Jon, and just as quickly fall back to the ghost. Something about the potency of something beneath the skin he can recognize making him uneasy about spilling details. "You'll remember I could move silently in the attic. I'm..." Worried, he keeps to himself. "...Recovering slowly, I assume."

\---

"Seems so." His eyes, too, slide to Jon and then back to Mike. "Hunt tends to do that to people. It might take longer than you're used to. So don't try to overdo it. Would hate to see you puke all over our floor from overexertion." 

"You're welcome here as a guest," Jon says. "Just-- please don't try to hurt anyone."

\---

"I don't think I can..." Hm. He would very much not like to test that theory. "...vomit. I'm not interested in hurting any of you. I don't..."

He can't. That's what he'd like to keep to himself. He very much doubts that he can. "How bad is it?"

\---

"Burned up pretty bad. Not horribly. It bit you, or something, for sure. You'll live." Gerry shrugs. "That's my prognosis." He holds out his forearms, close to Mike, showing off the reddened scars of portions of his flesh that healed over wrong. "I'm pretty decent with burns."

"Shit," Jon mutters, and Gerry turns to look at him questioningly, as the bedroom door opens again, and Gerry has the mental reaction of Oh Great, before Michael steps out, his hair flying everywhere, his face scrunched up as he looks around like he smells something foul, face still sleep-cloudy and vague.

\---

Mike has just enough time to react similarly. A question had danced on the edge of his tongue about burn scars, one he would make with genuine curiosity, but then something changes, something that makes him think he really can puke. Something that faintly, faintly crackles.

He stands up, at great protest from the rest of his body. "You-- No, no thank you, I'll be-- I'll take my leave, thank you for the hospitality, I..." 

And then he doesn't move despite the sudden string of goodbyes. Can't, really, frozen in place as the last ditch effort his instincts think to let him do. A panic response. A genuine panic response. Everything is out of place. He doesn't get stress hormones anymore, he doesn't feel afraid, except now he does, and if he'd been caught up on the vocabulary he might even say he was starting to spiral. Just a tad.

\---

"Ugh," Michael greets. "He smells like the sky. Who's this weird little bloke? He smells _awful."_

Gerry, near automatically, steps forward and presses down on Mike Crew's shoulders, to get him to sit again. He can see the panic, hear it in his voice, but he's not letting the man faint from overexerting his body for no reason. 

Michael at least, thank God, has thrown some kind of kimono shawl over his shoulders so he isn't entirely shirtless, a pair of Martin's sleep pants hanging loose over his hips and functioning more as capris that ride his calves than pants. 

"Hopefully the last of our intruders, Mike, don't-- there's no need to panic. He's with us, he's... Mostly? Safe."

\---

"Don't do that please," Mike says as one word, even as he sits back down. Much easier to deal with when the Spiral isn't right in his face sending color spots into the backs of his eyelids. Maybe not quite the Spiral. Spiral-touched, yes, absolutely, but not-- 

Cut off, somehow, from the figurative umbilical cord. "I don't have the best of relationships-- We're on... terms, erm, I'd..." Stood up too fast. Sat down too fast. Vertigo, how is he-- How is  _ he  _ getting  _ vertigo? _ "...Like to not... repeat."

\---

Michael raises his hand, like a girl scout pledging. "I'm ex-Spiral, for what it's worth. And not what hunted  _ you. _ So you can relax." He makes another stink face. "You're not the best presence either, man."

\---

"We've never even met, I have no idea what--" Mike shifts on the couch, interrupting himself with a pained and frustrated sound. He can't quite look through Gerard, so he opts for looking straight at him while he addresses his friend. "I've never done anything to you and - and you're insulting me."

\---

"You tried to run away from me! How is that not-- Joooooon, who is this? He stinks of-- of  _ me _ and also of the Vast and I hate the Vast, it wipes away the-- argh, what the fuck!" He spins to look at Jon, who raises his eyes at Michael questioningly.

Michael spins back around and takes a side step for good measure so Mike can see him. "Ugh! Fine. I'm Michael. Welcome to the shit show. Or whatever. Sooo sorry for being insulting."

\---

Mike's head spins with the sheer amount of dialogue hurled in his direction. "It's... fine? I think? I don't-- I just woke up. Um. Mike. Mike Crew. Your name is... Michael. Okay." 

He does not look in Michael's direction when he appears, choosing instead to shut his eyes against his forming headache. "Would, um, would tea be a possibility?"

\---

"Oh, uh-- yes. Yes. Tea is--" Jon grimaces, nearly a flinch. Something long remembered. “I'll go-- I'll be back, let me run to the, ah, the kitchen?" He stands from the chair and all but scurries out. A few minutes without the awkwardness that fills his office is more than satisfactory to him.

Michael wrinkles his nose. "Ugh. Goodbye originality. At least you're short and go by Mike. Hey! That's funny. Short name, short body. Long form of the name, tall body. Hysterical."

\---

They are... an eclectic bunch. 

Mike smiles, even with his eyes closed. He’s starting to marginally tilt to one side, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Used to swaying in some form or other. “That’s not... too bad.”

\---

"You think ibuprofen would... Affect you?" Gerry asks him as he watches him move.

\---

Mike decides to let gravity take hold and falls back down to the couch on his good side. The impact is excruciating, but the fall felt like home. In the dark behind his eyes, he could almost trick his body into thinking it was from a long, steep drop. “I doubt that could carry me through this. It’s fine. I’ve hurt... plenty, in my life.”

\---

Gerry rolls his eyes. "Yeah. Duh. We all have. Fine, if you don't want any pain killers, be my guest. You'll live. Congrats."

\---

“I don’t think they give you ibuprofen for bone-deep bite wounds.” Mike deflates miserably on the couch. “I would... prefer being unconscious.”

\---

"I can get you some weed," Michael says.

"We can leave you be, to an extent. Feel free to sleep," Gerry says.

\---

Mike speaks so quietly it almost goes under the radar. Well, it’s better than admitting he doesn’t know how to sleep, anymore. Not the normal way. “...Might help.”

\---

Michael blinks and then promptly turns around to go back to the bedroom, his finger held in the air. "Sounds good! BRB!"

"Okay. Wasn't expecting that. You... Seem straight edge," Gerry says.

\---

“Desperate times call for desperate measures.” Mike frowns, disappointed in the pun he hasn’t spoken aloud yet. “It’s called getting _high,_ isn’t it?”

\---

Gerry gives him a blank stare. "Oh, God. He makes jokes." He moves to sit in one of the chairs, as Michael comes back out of the office with a small glass pipe and a manic grin on his face.

"Found a new purpose today. Yep! Smoking up as many entity alignments as possible. Might as well get the Vaaast out of the way."

\---

Mike tries to sit up again. He would very much like it if pain stopped shooting up his arm at every tiny movement. It’s mostly the shoulder, he can’t just not rotate, or bend, or tilt, and he can’t sling his arm or hold it with the other with how the bites spread. 

It’s miserable. “Um... If one of you could hold it. I would appreciate that.”

\---

"Ugh. First I'm letting you get your sky-spit all over my piece and now I have to hold it? How presumptuous." But Michael is coming closer anyways, standing before Mike. He lights it, and takes a deep pull to keep the bowl burning, and then holds it out to Mike's lips, his finger still over the breath hole.

\---

This is the weirdest hostage situation Mike Crew has ever been a part of. 

He inhales deeply against the glass, and, well, thank God for small comforts. On his exhale out, his lung capacity seems to have remained mostly intact, and that’s... a relief. A... A vast relief.

\---

Michael leans back after his exhale and gives a firm nod. "Do you need more? I have no idea what your tolerance is."

\---

“I’ve yet to test. Under normal conditions my lung capacity is enough to carry me to heights that would easily kill a normal person. These aren’t normal conditions, and lung capacity doesn’t... really translate to tolerance, so I’m not sure.” 

He sure is talkative now, though.

\---

"Oh." Michael blinks at him, watching him breathe. "Isn't it weird," He starts, his voice kind of quick, "Having to breathe again? It's very strange. It took me days to remember to keep doing it."

\---

“I only have to when I’m upset, which is now, this is new, and I’d hope not permanent. Yours is permanent? You don’t have scars. I hope it’s not permanent. Do you think it’s permanent?” 

Mike inhales sharply, and then stops breathing all at once.

\---

Michael shrugs, and lights the bowl again, taking a deep inhale of his own. On the exhale, he blows the smoke up, and watches it curl, and knows Jon is going to be annoyed with him, but he doesn't really care. Michael's the one who had to wake up to the stink of the Vast, someone who also smells like the Hunt. At least the Desolation has a nice scent to it.

"You're still an avatar, I reckon. I'm not, anymore."

\---

Woodsmoke, wet dog, ozone, and storms. A fantastic scent profile if there ever was one. Combine that with the cigarette and pizza undertones here in the office, it’s downright charming.

“Oh. I didn’t know that could... happen.” Mike decides not to pry. He’s very interested, curious to a fault, but not a snoop. “I think I can handle more. But I wouldn’t want to impose.”

\---

"Oh, aren't you a polite one." He raises his voice as he lifts the lighter back up to the pipe to get it lit again. "Mind your P's and Q's, lest dear God and Mother Mary get offended at your devilish behavior!" He pulls to get it going again, and then holds it out to Mike once more.

\---

This Archivist certainly has an odd way of running things in his home. There are tracks looping the floors, of Eye and Hunt and Fire and Webs and even Is-Nots and Who-Nots and Death, of course, in the ghostly flesh. 

Curious. Mike misses most of what Michael says as he thinks, as he grounds himself in the mind-numbing substitute for genuine alleviation of pain. “Thank you. Your Archivist was keen on leaving the room— Do you think he’s actually... coming back?”

\---

Michael laughs at the name, even though he knows it's correct, technically, and knows Mike Crew doesn't know why that's funny. It's okay. Michael always laughs at jokes no one's privvy to. He'll get used to it. 

"He's really probably having a panic attack in the break room, if I know our Jon, but he'll be back. He gets quite overwhelmed these days. And I think you almost killed him once! In a faraway reality. If I'm remembering correctly. Hard to sort these things out, especially these days."

\---

Mike swallows a frown at the laugh. He’s mostly an unwilling guest, but that still means guest, and he seems to be at the mercy of their ghost, who also seems to hold authority here, and it wouldn’t do to ruin what positivity he has here. 

“I think... I would remember trying to kill someone like him. But I— I assume he must know I’m not trying to kill him now. Should I... have reason to?”

\---

"Guess it depends on what you want." Michael gets sick of standing and moves to sit on the other end of the couch, back against the armrest so he can pull his feet up and take up an entire cushion. "Think I almost killed him, in a faraway reality, too. It didn't happen. But it could have. He won't hold a grudge long if you're nice. Probably. I'm still quite new."

\---

“Okay,” Mike says, not fully comprehending any of this nonsense about faraway realities. He thought, at first, it was just a long-winded way of describing the past, but now he’s not so sure. “I wanted to be left alone to find a book and live my life. I... I suppose I still want that.”

He looks down at where the bandages have begun to soak through, but he can’t tilt his head well enough to see the worst of the bites at the junction of his shoulder. “When do these come off?”

\---

"I'll check on them soon," Gerry says from his perch by the desk. "Don't really know how fast you heal, so I don't really know how long you'll need them."

"Live your life. How charmingly vague," Michael says, and laughs again. He's enamored by this little man. "And no doubt murderous. Or-- Uh oh!, is this a Jon thing? Are we not supposed to talk about avatar requirements?"

\---

“I’m not injured often enough to...” Mike cuts off, catching up with Michael. “No, you can ask. I wouldn’t call it a secret, really, and... you’ve been accommodating to me.”

\---

"Do you like it? I couldn't stomach it, not really. It made me erratic," Michael says.

\---

“Yes.” A breathy sigh follows. “Have you ever read a book above the clouds? I try to save it for the nights where it storms, so you can see it roll below you and know it can’t touch you. Past that there’s just stars, everywhere, really. No light pollution. Bright enough to read without candles or lamps. It can be overwhelming.” 

Oh, Michael has unlocked an obsession under the truth serum that is marijuana. “I like it, yes.”

\---

"Charming." Michael thinks for a moment. "Yes, I enjoyed the pleasures of the being-- the spiralling, the colors, the deep madness so thick and clogging it became as gusts of wind on my tongue and throat. There are the moments that make it worth it." He lets out a breath, digging his nails into his knees to ground himself; it'd be too easy to spiral all the way into nothingness, atmosphere, with Mike's vastness in his aura. How fun it would be, though, to spiral on the eddies of an endless wind until you were nothing.

"I couldn't stomach the feeding. The-- the big ones. The murder."

\---

Mike leans back against the couch, shutting his eyes to the stifling Looks hailing down on him from no particular direction. “Oh. That’s... the easy part. I haven’t needed it often, um... the nature of my binding felt of equal exchange. Adding to it seems to be mostly a matter of updating terms.”

\---

"Oh." Michael blinks and then grins at him. "I was always bad at Law! Guess that makes sense. In an abstract way. I don't think Jon's going to like that, though."

Ah. Speak of the devil. Jon opens the door slowly and clumsily, three cups of tea precariously balanced in his arms as he does so. He kicks the door shut softly behind him, and puts one mug down on this desk, before turning to hand the other two to Mike and Michael. And then he wrinkles his nose. "Really, Michael?"

\---

“Mike.” He tries to reach for the cup with both hands, and is not very sly about pulling his second hand away at the last chance to avoid dropping the mug. “Oh, you meant him. Sorry. Really what?”

\---

Jon doesn't look entirely amused, but he's not angry, either. Bemused, maybe. "I left for two seconds and you're smoking now?" He snorts.

\---

“It... helped with the pain.” He takes a sip of tea, ignoring the temperature. And the taste. Especially the taste. “I’m sorry. The room— I assumed. I assumed that it was fine.”

\---

"Even if I didn't like it," Jon says, and rolls his eyes some, "Try telling Michael he has to follow any rules. It'd be a losing battle. You're fine."

\---

“Ah.” 

Mike goes awkwardly quiet after that, though he doesn’t seem to think the silence is awkward. Each sip from the mug is an arduous task - physically, it’s not that bad - and he is in their space, incredibly outnumbered, and he figures it might be better to keep his mouth shut.

\---

Jon does just the same, really. He sits, and he drinks his tea, and he tries not to think about how utterly strange it is to think of both the fear and the utter guilt that coils in his gut when he thinks of Mike Crew. The fear isn't as bad as it might once have been; but the guilt is far, far bigger than it once might have been, too. So he drinks his tea.

Michael smokes, occasionally offering more to Mike, and seems to have settled quite a lot by the time Gerry decides it's time to look at his bandaging, enough so that he doesn't seem to notice Gerry is coming close until the ghost all but wrenches him off the couch in a few moments of... Well. Good natured wrestling that ends in Gerry laughing and taking Michael's seat and Michael giving a pissy little hiss as he moves to take over Gerry's now vacated seat.

\---

Mike is good and proper high by the time the scuffle-that-isn’t ends, and had been since he began to deny hits, practically sinking back into the mattress with a half-finished cup of tea and a mind that keeps shutting off in some facsimile of sleep. 

He offers Gerard a curt ‘hello’ when he notices his presence, then pieces together why he’s suddenly so close, and can’t hide his frown this time. “What was your name, again?”

\---

"Gerard," He says, and holds out a hand. "Gerard Keay, if that makes a difference. Lemme see your arm. I'll change the bandages if need be."

\---

“Oh, Keay. That’s what you told me.” He puts the mug down on the floor and wobbles slightly as he sits back upright. He moves his own hand and winces at the stretch, his good hand digging into the nearest couch cushion. “...It looks need-be.”

\---

Gerard begins to unwind the gauze, and halfway through, he snaps at Michael and then gestures to the medkit still sitting on the floor, and though he's slow on the uptake, he fetches it after a moment, setting it on the arm rest behind Gerry's back.

He's careful and as gentle as he can be, his fingers shaking only a little as he works. He slept, but also was running on utter empty by the time he returned to the locket, and it clearly wasn't enough to be at one hundred percent.

\---

Mike is a brave patient, for what it’s worth. He’s all too aware of making sure not to look weak if he can avoid it, especially not here in the proverbial wolf’s den. 

The wounds dig deep into his flesh, healed just slightly along the edges and at the deepest internal points, his body confused in its efforts to heal a bite that damages the very inhuman fabric beneath the facade of flesh above.

He hasn’t been conscious for  _ this _ one’s previous arrival or exit, but the smell that they have all evidently gotten used to is not one Mike Crew is familiar with. Instinctual fear, a certain undercurrent of sharing space with a thing capable of cannibalism in the most profound of ways. Mike has trapped entities, but that isn’t the same— Neither is it the same as destroying another marked by the same brush. The Hunt houses the purest of violences he can’t begin to empathize with. 

Martin stands in the doorway, hovering there with a grocery bag, eyes that match the Watcher doing their best job to soak in the details of his broken body with more than a simple desire to see. His voice is hoarse, strained, and not at all accommodating. “Oh. He’s awake.”

\---

Perhaps Jon could have warned them of Martin's arrival. Sue him; he was too focused on the slow, mesmerizing unwinding of wounds on a body that should not be so harmed. He turns when Martin hovers in the doorway, and gives him a small greeting smile. "He is. And high. Michael thought... Well, 'thought' is a strong word, but he got him high."

Gerry pulls the last of the bandages off and holds Mike's arm aloft gently, holding him where wounds don't bite. "He's not gonna do anything, Martin." He barely spares him a look as he focuses on seeing how the wounds have and haven't healed. "You can relax."

\---

Martin makes a huffy sound and deliberately skirts the opposite corner of the room to Jon’s desk, using both it and Jon as a barricade. He reaches into the grocery bag and pulls out a small paper bag full of wedges that are still warm. He tries to insistently nudge them into his hands. 

Mike tries not to focus on it, the sick cocktail of power resonating off the ticked-off stranger, but there isn’t much else to focus on. His head ends up falling forward near Gerry’s shoulder, trying to use him to hold it up. “I don’t want to vomit on your couch.”

\---

"Then don't," Gerard says, and gives him a look. He gestures with his free hand to the bucket still full of water that Tim left the night before. "Use that if you have to. I'm going to have to clean these again."

\---

Martin places an iced latte on the desk with a loud glass impact, and Mike keels forward. These two things aren’t related, but they hit as two beats of the rhythm. 

It’s a dry heave. The last time he ate was... well, all he’s really had is tea in a very long time, so mostly all that comes out is a series of dry coughs and a string of spit. He didn’t think he  _ could,  _ but he’s learning several new things about what he can and can’t do.

“Was he doing that before I showed up?” Martin asks, like he doesn’t particularly care.(edited)

\---

Jon takes the wedges and gives Martin a small gracious smile. "No," He says, "Or at least-- I don't think so. Did he when I made tea?-- oh. No. He didn't."

Gerard makes a series of considering noises as he looks at the wounds, keeping his arm held aloft even as he keels over, moving with him so he doesn't wrench anything. "Is it the arm that's making you nauseous?" Gerard asks.

\---

“You made him  _ tea?”  _

Mike shakes his head minutely. “Over— Overwhelmed, is all. I’m not used to— Not used to a lot of things. The— I’m not— Mmh. I was hunted once, before I could sense it. I can... I can sense it now.”

\---

"Yes? He asked for it. Thought it-- it'd be kind," Jon says. 

"Ah. Right. Martin, then." Gerard leans back to grab the antiseptic and the cotton. "Well, you didn't hiss upon meeting him after he got Marked, so that's a step up from Michael."

Michael glares. "That wasn't  _ me, _ Michael, and you know it."

\---

“Sorry I smell so  _ bad _ to all of you. Not like it saved your lives or anything.” 

Mike looks up from the bin, thinking anywhere might be better than that, but... well, he can be wrong. He doesn’t mean to look at Martin, or Jon, either of them up near the desk, but he does. 

Martin’s hackles raise. “Is there a reason I don’t like him, Jon? I’m fine with Helen. And you. N-Now, I guess.”

\---

"He tried to kill me. Or at least, he hurt me pretty bad. In the-- the first time. Maybe that's it?" Jon cocks his head as he thinks. "Maybe you can sense it. Even though, I'm-- I mean I don't think I'm marked by the Vast, this time, and he marked me last time? Hm."

\---

“So did Michael. And practically everyone else you met. That’s nothing special.”

“Why would I try to kill you?” Mike says.

\---

"You thought I was rude. I- I mean, maybe you didn't try to kill me. You hurt me, though. I-- you were going to let me go, I guess." Jon fidgets in his seat. "I think. Didn't really have a chance to try and. Um. Leave."

Gerry looks up. "You did try to kill Michael, Martin. When you first caught his scent."

\---

“I’m sorry for what I didn’t do?” 

Martin glares at Gerry. “I wasn’t  _ that _ serious. It—“ Fess up, idiot. “Okay, I did. But that’s why— I just— It’s taking a lot not to freak out right now!”

\---

"No, it-- you don't have to apologize." Jon sighs and pinches between his eyes. It's becoming a tic, these days. Exasperation. "I'm just trying to-- to figure out what's going on. And-- I mean? At least this time you get to live? Hooray?"

\---

“I  _ die?”  _

Turns out, delivering news about alternate realities to a man who recently lost his functional capabilities as a silent jet engine and is inebriated while surrounded by a bunch of strangers is not the brightest idea. Mike’s fault for letting himself get put in this situation, but that’s his own baggage to handle later. 

He sounds scared, genuinely, and this is the loudest his voice has gone. It still isn’t loud, he’s by no means yelling, but it’s still frightened, confused, wondering how the Eye can see the future now, let alone futures that aren’t real. 

Martin tenses against the sudden motion of him trying to pull his arm away from Gerry, and now he’s growling, of course, even as he brings a hand up to his throat to try and stop his own tic before it gets out of hand. That just makes it a little quieter. “Sorry. Not doing this on purpose. Jon, you’re  _ awful.” _

\---

"Shit," Jon breathes, and weathers the glare that Gerry shoots him, acidic and mean and rude. Because Jon is all of those. "Not-- Sorry, Mike, no, you don't, I mean, hopefully? I just... I was in a different... Reality? The future? And the Eye brought me back here. Things are happening... Different. I met... I met you differently last time."

Gerry sighs and lets Mike pull away for the time being, busying himself with getting the cotton ready with the antiseptic. "Jon's awful at explaining things. You're safe here, as long as we're safe in your presence."

\---

Both Mike and Martin look to the cotton. Martin decides he hates it, but that he can deal with it, up until Mike decides he can’t deal with being focused on and starts getting more panicked, at which point Martin’s growling gets louder. 

“I-I’m not, I won’t... I don’t even think I can, I—“ All he can really manage, in the mounting pressure that’s mostly internal between them both, is another two books flying off the shelves. He’s out of wind, evidently. Ha, ha.

\---

Jon flinches at the books, and Michael jumps.

Gerry sighs, and offers his hand again. "You're fine, Mike. Ignore them. You're safe. But I do need to clean those wounds."

\---

“I can’t ignore them, they’re everywhere,” Mike whispers, like the words are just for Gerry, caught halfway between breaching the gap with his hand raised pitifully in the air.

\---

Gerry huffs out a slightly exasperated breath. "Martin, Jon, if you're going to be annoying, can you at least be annoying somewhere I'm not giving medical attention to someone?"

\---

Martin glances down at Jon like it’s his fault. “Fine. I’ll— I’ll just go pace around in the bedroom and tear up a pillow with my teeth or something!”

\---

"Martin, we can--" Jon looks down at the food Martin brought him sadly. "I was going to say lunch, b-but you already got us things."

Gerry drops his hand for the moment, since Martin and Jon are deciding. God, they make his life difficult sometimes. "You  _ could _ also be non-destructive. That's an option."

"You could just smoke," Michael says, and he's grinning, evidently loving everything that's happening.

\---

Good thing one of them has experience ignoring Michael Shelley. “We can— Let’s go eat it in the courtyard?”

\---

Jon looks between them all before nodding slowly. There's color in his cheeks, a slight tinge of embarrassment coating his entire presence, but he stands, and takes Martin's hand in one of his own, the potato wedges in the other.

\---

Martin ushers them out, a twin look of shame on his own face. He is very good about not giving a second glance at Mike, which he hopes will get him favor later. It probably won’t. 

“What is going  _ on?” _ Mike whines from the couch, still trying only to speak loud enough for Gerard’s ears.

\---

"Jon and Martin left. Just me and Michael now. Arm, please, kid."

\---

“It was... a question about the general atmosphere, not...” He sighs, and holds out his arm. “How old are you, anyway?”

\---

"Do we count when I died, or what I would be, had I continued to age?" He holds up the cotton to warn Mike a second before he presses it to the wound.

\---

"Uh, both, since I'll count m--  _ ack--"  _ Mike flinches, trying to grab Gerard's hand with his better one to hold it still.

\---

"Thirty-two. Thirty... It's 2016? Almost 2017? Thirty..." Gerard squints as he thinks. "Almost thirty five." He lets Mike take his hand, holding him still as he works.

\---

“I’m older than you.” Mike does not provide details or dates. “‘Kid’ doesn’t work here.”

\---

"You do  _ not  _ look older than me," Gerry says. "So either I look like shit, or take it as a compliment." He moves on to the next wound.

\---

“Well.” Mike smiles something genuine. “You  _ are _ dead. And I’ve always looked younger than I am. It comes with the... everything, really.”

\---

"The Vast?" Gerry snorts. "Pretty sure that's not true. There's some old fuck who's also an avatar of your domain."

\---

“No, not— I don’t know who that is. I mean with me.” He lowers his head. “Please don’t make me spell it out.”

\---

Gerry rolls his eyes. "You don't really look younger because of _ that.  _ I mean-- Not really. Maybe it's the eyelashes. Or the hair. No premature greys. Look at Jon, for god's sake."

\---

“It’s the height.” Mike sighs. “What do you mean, look at Jon? What, your Archivist?”

Mike doesn’t ask ‘why’, but it is implied.

\---

"He's barely thirty." Gerry clucks his tongue as though that explains everything. He moves on to the third wound. "Say what you want about my roots, but they're not that grey."

\---

“Ah.” Mike grits his teeth, and the bookshelf rattles, and he’d very much like to stop doing that. “I-I suppose it comes with the... job, s-stress, maybe, I don’t—“

He sucks in a breath. Tear-tracks start to stain his face on either side. Less the pain, more the fear, just as bad if not worse. He’s covered in soot and ash and blood and he wants exactly none of it.

\---

"Nearly done. Promise," Gerry murmurs, as Michael jumps again a little, And Gerry tries to work as efficiently as he can without up and dropping everything. He pulls away when he is, and grabs the burn salves. At least that will soothe the painful bits.

"And yeah, suppose it does. Being some cosmic voyeur and still trying to hold onto your humanity... Sheesh."

\---

“Aren’t we all cosmic voyeurs? In a sense.” Mike does his best to stay calm after that, frowning down at himself for scaring Michael. “I’m sorry about the books. I’m— At least I’m weak and not, um, overcharged.”

\---

"In a sense. Jon's is literal." Gerry shrugs a little, and finishes pressing the salve into his wounds and, leaning back to grab the gauze.

"Overcharged?" Michael asks. "How does that work?"

\---

“Have you ever overcharged a battery? Or, um— hm. It’s good that your friend took it out when he did. It’s easy to kick up a storm. Harder to stop it.”

\---

"You can't control your own storms?" He cocks his head, a little incredulous.

"Oh, come off it, Gerry, not everyone has your sterling self-restraint," Michael pipes up from the chair.

\---

“No, I can, usually— Those aren’t usual circumstances. I haven’t tested what it’s like to... experience life and death fear, as someone who can control the air.”

\---

"Well. If you're going to be hunting Books, you probably should start learning. Not that you should be looking for Books."

\---

“I’ve been hunting books since I was a teenager, Keay. I was— Ill-equipped for this one, I’ll admit.” Mike leans back against the couch with a soft hum. “I don’t look for them often. After Ex Altiora I haven’t needed to, really.”

\---

"Oh… Ex Altiora. That's a name I haven't heard in a few years." He continues to rewind the bandages. "Burnt it to a crisp. My mum wanted it."

\---

Mike freezes. “...You did what?”

\---

"Maybe if you'd taken proper care of your belongings, Crew, I wouldn't have needed to buy it off some poor fellow who was prey to its evils." He continues to wind the gauze, unbothered by Mike's sudden stillness.

\---

“N— The book kept it  _ in _ there. Why would you destroy the only thing keeping it—“ Mike pulls away from Gerard, but he can’t get far, all he can do is pull on the gauze. It hurts. “There was a Spiral creature— The one that hunted me, it— Did it die? Or did you release it?”

\---

"Sit still," He snaps, "Christ. I didn't see or feel anything, but-- are you an actual idiot? You bound something to it, and then... Got rid of it? Oh, yes, sure, let the next fellow sit down to a spot of tea and a new book and not know what they're in for?"

\---

“No one would pick up _ that  _ book and read it long enough to...” Mike sighs heavily. If it was years ago, he’d know by now if the thing had held a grudge. He’d  _ know. _ “...It’s not like anyone ever taught me how to properly dispose of them— But I don’t like destroying them. I’ve done all of them alone. With my own guidance.”

\---

"You can never know. Christ, that's irresponsible. Hurting books isn't exactly fun, but they're not Books. They're part of-- they're something more. And sometimes they have to die."

Michael laughs from his chair. "Bit ironic, considering what book you are, Gerry." 

Gerry glares at him.

\---

“If you happen to find a manual on responsible book-hunting, I very much would enjoy a read-through.” Mike hums. “Have you ever considered posthumous publishing?”

\---

"I've never written a book." Gerry cocks his head. "As much as I respect them, even the ones I destroy, it's not exactly-- there's not exactly a how-to guide. You just have to learn on the job and hope for the best. I've been burned before. What you've got is-- it's hardly anything, past the Hunt aspect. You'd probably be healing as your normal self without the teeth marks."

\---

“You should write a book,” Mike says plainly. “Ah, a guide to paranormal artifacts? Of interactions? A handy new-avatar guide might spare the next one that comes along from... flirting too close with tornadoes. I have a few I could tell you of right off the bat.” 

He’s not quite sure why he’s so friendly, except he is. Thank you, Michael.

\---

"Hm." Gerry finishes winding the gauze. "That's-- Hm. Not the worst idea I've heard."

"Useless, though," Michael says, and leans forward in his chair, looking at them both. "Funny thing, that. Useless field guide when the world will end soon."

Gerry shoots Michael an acidic look. "Right. Stop being a pessimist, Michael. Fucking Christ."

\---

“The world isn’t ending. Even if it changes, there will always be books. And fields. So, of course, a need for guides, hm?”

\---

"Your mind is rather grounded, isn't it, Mike? That's funny." Michael pulls his hair over his shoulder, trying to wrangle it so it's not just all over his everything, combing through it with his fingers. "What if there aren't fields? Or-- or the fields are alive and you wouldn't want to be there lest they swallow you, or the grass screams at you, or any millions of other horrid things. Food for thought."

Gerry rolls his eyes and finally sits back from his work. He's getting better at wrapping gauze in this state of existence, and if he does say so himself, Mike's arm looks very neat. "The risk is the guide itself becoming imbued with... You know. Magic."

\---

Mike decides Michael is having a moment that might be usual for his... self, and follows Gerard’s lead instead. 

“I would assume that’s a given. Perhaps you could commission someone to make it unreadable to the wrong people. Not that I know much about the deals they might... might make. If the book ends up holding escapades of all sorts, it’s bound to have something on it. Containing it is always a possibility.”

\---

Gerry gives a small huff of a laugh. "The concept is... Well, it's kind of tempting. If at least to pull together all the files we have here, already organized. An altruistic Book."

\---

“Ah. But this would be— Not just a catalogue, or a record of events, right? A... You could have an analysis. You seem to think about the way they work enough to gain your own assistants.” He pauses. “He’s a good shot.”

\---

_ "Assistants. _ Don't know if I'd use that word for Tim." Gerry cocks his head and then smiles. "Well. You have your fair share of experiences and tricks, I assume. You'd be a good help."

\---

“In... a quieter environment, maybe. Join me for a chat at forty thousand feet some time.” Mike returns the smile. “Without the entourage. This place is very... stifling.”

\---

"Suppose it must feel that way to you. All the Eyes." 

"Old eyes, at that," Michael says, and turns in the chair to prop his feet up on the desk.

Gerry shrugs. "Never lived without its gaze, I guess."

\---

“Yes. Old eyes.”

Mike tries to run over the details in his head. Very scattered today, for a variety of reasons. “Are they... always like that?”

\---

"Who?" Gerry gestures to the door to the office. "The lovebirds? Not this intense, usually. A lot's been going on."

\---

“Yes, them. Well— I’m sorry to... add more, to that? I appreciate the help, I don’t expect I’ll be forgetting it any time soon, but— You seem to have your hands full.”

\---

Gerry shrugs. "Par for the course. When you're trying to stop Apocalypse.... It invites shit. And you're not leaving until I'm sure you can walk a block without puking your guts out."

\---

Mike frowns, momentarily forgetting that he’s supposed to be a stellar patient. “Do you... um, in the meantime, is there— If we could try, walking, anywhere... outside?”

\---

Gerry cocks his head. "Yeah. Alright." He shrugs. "Just don't be an idiot. Michael, come with us, in case he falls." He is not carrying Mike Crew again, not with the amount of energy he has.

Michael perks up, having been slowly braiding twin braids down his hair as they chatted. One is bound and he quickly wraps the other with a hair band, some loose strands still bouncing out in defiance.

\---

Mike sighs out his genuine, genuine relief. “Just to the nearest window, or— Anywhere I could get air is fine. Um, if you happen to have an easily accessible porch.”

He sucks in a fresh batch of air and prepares to stand. He hasn’t tried thus far, just the crawling that went completely sideways, so he would like to be hopeful but is not.

\---

"A porch." Gerry snorts. "We're not in a nice house, unfortunately."

Michael stretches up from the chair. "Sims' household for wayward avatars isn't quite open for operation yet. And Martin and Jon went to the courtyard, already, so--"

"Roof, then, I guess." Gerry stands to wait for Mike.

\---

Mike holds his eyes open for this; he has a feeling he’ll need it. The creature never bit into his legs, thank God for small mercies, but the head rush and loss of blood does wonders for his inability to hold himself upright. 

His coat was already grey to begin with, and now it’s missing a full arm and covered in burn marks. His scarf still covers his neck, but most of it is an unsalvageable wreck. He liked this scarf. He liked this coat. 

Once he’s standing - swaying, really - upright, he moves to undo the loop of fabric around his neck and place it down on the couch behind him. That gone, the scars that lace the side of his neck, beneath his jaw, join the rest visible along his lower cheek. He has more trouble with the coat’s buttons, but he works on it with the silent determination of someone who doesn’t want to be interrupted.

\---

"Oh, aren't you gorgeous," Michael breathes the moment he can see the full extent of the scarring. All those gorgeous, gorgeous fractals. Twisting, twisting deep, deep, _ oh,  _ it sparks something in him, something that has him grinning and scouring his eyes over Mike. He steps closer to help, if need be, but he doesn't touch, letting Mike do what he needs without being patronized.

\---

Mike tenses marginally as he pauses in the middle of shrugging off his coat. And then he continues, as though no remarks were made. Mostly it’s sheer confusion. Compliments are not common enough for him to know how to say anything, so he does his best to fold up the coat and leave it with the scarf. “...Right. Lead the way?”

\---

Gerry shoots Michael an exasperated look and then does just that, Michael in the rear and Gerry leading them out of the office. "Probably doesn't help your... Anti-vertigo? That we're in the belly of the institute. Below ground. Not much, but if you're used to that 40,000 feet in the air shtick..." He tilts his head.

Michael, graciously, sees Gerry open the door and reaches around both of them to keep it open, not wanting their poor ghost to have to play door host (there is a word for this but Writer-Michael cannot remember it for the life of him).

\---

What an attentive  _ concierge _ this thankfully ex-Spiral Michael makes. Mike offers him a curt smile, partly for what he assumes was a compliment and not a precursor to becoming a meal, partly for the help. 

“I don’t do it every day, but it is...” Mike holds his breath to walk the first few steps, feeling very, very small and very, very observed. “I’m not much for conversation, in general. When the world is massive and quiet so often, people are... um, loud. This is a lot for me, beyond the circumstances of space.”

\---

"Mm. Yeah, our merry little band of freaks probably would overwhelm the most extroverted man, let alone you." Gerry looks behind him as he walks, to verify that he's still okay, staying upright. "Can't say I have the most in-depth relationship with the Vast, past cursory knowledge. Never called to me."

\---

“It took a few tries,” Mike says vaguely. He braces his hand along the wall; it makes his skin crawl just to touch it, but he doesn’t have much of a choice. He holds his bad arm up in an invisible sling and keeps it that way with as little motion as possible. “And my knowledge only comes from doing.”

\---

"Best way to learn, in my experience." Gerry tilts his head at Michael, who steps closer and offers his elbow if Mike so wishes to brace himself against him instead. "Read all you want, don't really know what gets you until it's trying to kill you."

\---

“When in doubt, lock it away.” Mike hesitates on the offer, but it isn’t long before he acquiesces. The moment his hand makes contact with Michael’s skin a static shock buzzes between them. Mike takes no notice of it.

\---

Michael shivers, and then grins, the ends of his hair not tied into braids staticking outwards in front of him. Oh, how exhilarating. Nasty smell, the Vast had at first, but it's addicting. Very. So easy to spiral. But he's being good. He loops his arm elbow to elbow, and continues at Mike's pace.

"Mm. Cruel, to lock something away instead of just kill it, sometimes, I think," Gerry says.

\---

Michael still smells like the Spiral, but in these halls there are much greater dangers to be aware of. “Some things can’t be killed. Or— I certainly can’t. I hardly do it at all, even with... normal, average things. I doubt they’re often aware of their situation.”

\---

"Maybe not." Gerry says. "But it's still existence. Even unconscious, we can feel the agony of existentialism, sometimes."

\---

“Ah. That’s a topic for another day, Gerard Keay.” He has no idea how close they are, but the oppressive weight of the building is at least starting to make sense. He’s moving heavier against Michael by necessity, eyes straight ahead to make the distance more bearable. “I really do think you’ll enjoy it up there. You make a good telescope.”

\---

That makes Gerry look behind him with a curious smile. "A telescope? You wanna elaborate?" They reach the elevator and he jabs the button, coming to a halt as he waits.

\---

“Oh. You’ve struck me as... someone who likes to observe things. Beyond the...” He finally gets a moment to consciously take details in about his not-captor, and he smiles back in turn. “Beyond the obvious. ‘Best way to learn’. So, I’d be happy to show you.”

\---

"Ah. 'Telescope.' That's cute." And he's not even being mean. It genuinely is. The lift doors open and he parades their small troupe into the small space, pressing the button to the highest floor they can get to. They'll have to take the stairs for the last stretch.

"It'd be a good experiment." He gestures to the locket he has dangling from his wrist. "This is all you need. Don't know how to float, though."

\---

Mike settles against Michael’s arm, trying to ignore the beads of sweat gathering at his forehead. 

“It’s about perception. The Vast is a space that exists around you, always. Awareness of it is a different matter. Currently, we’re traveling at a thousand miles per hour. But you don’t feel that unless you’re meant to.” 

A few of the shorter words slur together, but even in the cramped space of the elevator, he knows they’re traveling up. That helps.

\---

"Suppose that's true. Interesting." He purses his lips as he thinks. "It's a weird thing; I don't really have a body. And so the movement of air and space around me...." He shrugs. "More temporal than most. I'm sure it would work; it just takes intent. Like I said; an experiment. I can manifest in all sorts of different ways. Just takes energy."

\---

“I see.” Mike grows silent with concentration, content with the exchange. 

The lift doors open, and he can only hope that they’re close. He can feel a heartbeat in his arm where his wounds heal over, and he is very much not a fan of it.

\---

Gerry leads them out of the lift and to a stairwell. "Nearly there." His own steps are the opposite of heavy; and that's the problem. He's tired, aching, like the second day after a long workout. But instead of post-workout muscle aches, he just feels... Light. Wispy. Like he could let the world move through him and disappear within it.

He pushes open the door to the Institute's roof, and his hair does not blow in the breeze, but that's alright. Another time, it seems. When he's up to full capacity again.

\---

Mike makes it up most of the stairs well enough. It’s a good effort. He was already using too much of Michael’s weight to hold himself up before, and now it’s— Well, frankly embarrassing. But he wants to make it there, regardless of shame, and Gerard doesn’t know how much of a blessing he is for opening the door and giving him a taste of familiarity. It sends him up the rest of the way. 

It’s so cold. He can feel that against his skin, can bask in the wind whipping his hair into a familiar mess. 

After a moment on solid ground with Michael’s aid, he detaches so he can lower carefully to his knees on the roof. And then he turns around. Rolls so his back is to the ground and his eyes face up into the clouds. He has no intention of moving.

“Thank you.”

\---

Gerry blinks, and says, "No problem."

Michael looks at him for a scant second and then follows him, laying down next to him and staring up at the sky with him. He doesn't touch him, but he's close, and holds his hands over his belly. "Do you ever feel like you need to be grounded? Even momentarily? It can't-- the fears need their juxtaposition."

\---

Mike keeps his bad arm over his chest, the other pressed flat to the concrete. “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t know the difference between Vast and anything else. I’ve been afraid before. Afraid of the Sky, absolutely. Of falling, yes. You need the threat of impact.”

\---

"Parts of your Apocalypse, your world, would be similar to what mine would have been," He says, and blinks slowly at a fat winter cloud. "Not entirely. Your fall, your tumult down, it has an end. Unlike the Great Twisting."

\---

“Ah. I don’t think... ending the world is on my list of goals. I pledged myself to the Vast, I can live because of it, but I— I’m sure there are others out there who want that more than I do.” 

He watches the same clouds with different eyes, and almost tricks himself into thinking he’s floating. Soon. He will soon. His wings aren’t clipped forever. “I’m fond of this planet.”

\---

"You haven't even been to others to compare!" He laughs. "It's alright. A different Apocalypse is coming."

"Will you knock that  _ off,  _ Michael? Jesus Christ." Gerry leans against the stone wall at the edge of the building, looking back at the two of them with an annoyed glare.

"I'm talking about the Unknowing."

"No, you're not. Don't try and lie to me, idiot."

\---

Mike decides to step back from their squabbling. He has short-term problems to handle, ones that don’t include inspecting an oncoming apocalypse. 

He imagines a world where everything is the same, except he can stand perfectly upright. He can walk to the edge of the roof. He can look down, see where it ends, and know that measurement of distance is lost on those in free-fall. That the drop stretches on forever in the moments before it doesn’t. He can climb up onto the edge of the roof, he can turn around with his back to the ground in a different sense, and he can drop off the side. 

The wind picks up, forceful and wild. Mike has stopped breathing, but this is a good thing for him. His back is still touching the ground, and yet, it’s not. 

There. It’s still there. Not taken from him, still all around him, still everything that he is.

\---

Gerry turns at some point, to watch him, and as the wind picks up, his eyes glow green to watch, to know, curious at the sudden intake in energy. This, too, is grounding to him, in a very ironic way. Not in the solid, world-defining, feeding way that Jon can gift him, but it's energy enough, palpable in the atmosphere, the air, that Gerry can feel it and ground himself in it. His hair moves with the wind, pulling back off his neck behind him.

"Even if I don't write a book, Mike Crew, I'll definitely take you up on your offer. Wow."

\---

Gerard speaks, and the wind stops. Mike isn’t upset at the sudden lapse in concentration, he wouldn’t have been able to keep it up for very long, so it was nice while it lasted. 

“I hope you do.”

He tries to right himself, and... well, now he can’t get up. He hadn’t thought this through. “I... may need help.”

\---

Michael laughs where he lays. "You're so serious all the time! Like the Archivist! How charming." He sits up, and then stands over Mike, bending to hold out his hands. "Please try not to shock me this time. It hurts, and I don't want to drop you."

\---

“I don’t think I’m much like your Archivist. I just sound like this.” He tentatively reaches out with his good hand, and makes an effort to not discharge electricity on his new acquaintance this time. He didn’t know he could do that in the first place. In his defense, he doesn’t touch many people. Any people.

\---

Michael pulls him up, one of his hands flying to Mike's waist to help keep him vertical. "Exactly! It's the way you talk. Charming. Very charming. When I walked out this morning, I did not expect to like you! Count me incorrect!"

\---

“I’ll admit I thought the same.” The words come out slowly, each one a conscious commitment as he leans against Michael’s hold. He needs to breathe again. But he’s still connected to what he needs, what he wants-fears-loves. Even if making that connection exhausts him completely. “I can’t say ‘charming’ has ever been used to... describe... me.”

\---

"What has?" Michael lets him lean, though he thinks he's going to have to maneuver him differently when they go back to the office. "Mine are usually mean."

\---

Mike has barely moved from where he started on the roof. “Not much, to begin with. Usually it’s about the scars. Or how short I am. Or how... how pale. My eyes. Nothing fun. Or very... p-pleasant.”

\---

"All those things are lovely, though. I'd say, at least. Mine's the other way around. Oh Michael, how tall you are. Used to be a real annoying problem in school. Brutish, clumsy girl."

\---

“Mm. I used to wear flat caps.” Mike doesn’t bother to connect that to what Michael is telling him, but it is connected, somehow. He finally gives up. “I don’t... I don’t think I can walk back down. Not the stairs, at least.”

\---

"Oh! No problem. Climb onto my back. I'll carry you. I won't fall. Probably?" He steps back a little, still keeping his arm out for Mike to mean against it, but he crouches, getting low enough for Mike to hop on.

\---

Mike internally calculates for a long moment, unsure how to proceed. They’re... nice people. Odd, nice people. 

He crooks his good arm around Michael’s neck to hoist himself up, his other arm mimicking the gesture but acting functionally useless. He isn’t sure how to manage his legs, since he doesn’t want to cling to the man, so he’s mostly just... awkwardly standing there hugging his neck from the back.

\---

Michael slowly stands. He's rather strong, but it's still a man who's on his back, so he grunts a little in the upturn, and reaches back to pull Mike's legs forward. Too much weight on his neck, otherwise.

"You've functionally turned Michael into a eucalyptus tree, Mike. Good job," Gerry says, and there's a smile on his face again.

\---

Mike follows limply along with however Michael decides to move him. He enjoys the height, especially on the roof where he can tilt his head up away from the concrete and pretend the ground doesn’t exist. This was good for him, if fleeting. 

“Thank you,” he mutters down to Michael and seems content with collapsing all of his weight against him and dozing off.

\---

"I like him," Michael announces as they step back into the stairwell, Gerry once more in the lead. "He's mad in a very subtle way."

"Yeah, well, no one's as unsubtle as you." Gerry still keeps throwing them fond looks, though. Utter sap. Michael wonders if Gerry realizes how obvious he wears his heart on his sleeve.


	74. The Archivist's First Day

In consideration of the fact that their home now smells like a fight about to break out at any given moment, Martin has tried to be appropriately absent. He has his own projects, and it’s honestly a relief that Michael and Gerry seem to… enjoy, this one. He isn’t warming up yet, and he’s trying to see it for what it is; not a personal failing, but an opportunity to learn how to better control an aspect of his life that makes him feel very much out of control. 

He hasn’t tried to kill Mike. He’s been involved in fetching supplies, it helps him feel useful and productive, but aside from that he’s been hands-off. A very unfortunately Hunt-driven week. 

So, naturally, he turns to the Archivist. To Jon. Mostly Jon, but today he has plans. Plans Jon gave the okay to. Plans that involve a morning where Michael has slipped out of bed to play assistant with his ghost, where he and Jon are alone. 

This could either go very well or very bad, but Martin figures the intent and the effort go a long way. He rolls over in bed, to where Jon sleeps curled up at his side, and nuzzles against the side of his jaw. Declaration of love before asking for a mutual agreement. 

“Sirius?”

\---

In the landscape of Jon’s dreams, the Eye watches, and it does not quite gloat, but it is victorious nonetheless. Jon hates how he hates the intruder less and less night by night; he’s perilously close to finding the Watcher’s gaze comforting, rather than violating. Homely, safe, Knowing. He says nothing in this dream, merely wandering through visions and sights that the Eye deems worthy, and beside him, an equally silent companion, is the Archivist. 

He looks like Jon and he does not, in this space. The mortal part of Jon can see nothing but a twin version of himself, wide-eyed and curious and cruel, but the parts of Jon, increasing by the day, that are nothing close to human can see the edges of something different, the swirling, roiling colors that make up a creature torn from the fabrics of a deity bigger than this reality. 

The Archivist speaks only sometimes, but as of late, he seems to be content to follow and watch as Jon follows the fugue of this dry-dirt landscape, content to listen to the whimpers of fear from those Jon has fed from, content in all things to such a degree that Jon, tonight, has forgotten that he’s there. Do we not often forget to pay attention to our own shadows when we walk through sun-lit paths?

That is, until the Archivist stops all at once, raising his face to a sky that knows all, and sees all, but he isn’t looking at the Eye. No, he’s looking behind it. Jon knows this, but he doesn’t know how he knows this. He just does. The Dream wants Jon to keep moving, traversing small stones that once might have been buildings, but he stops, turning to look at what can only loosely be defined as a companion. 

“I think my Messenger calls to me,” He says at length, his head tilted slightly as though confused. 

“You think?” Jon asks, and in this space, there is no guilt, there is no shame, there is not even thought over the way his voice naturally curls and bounces and compels. But it doesn’t matter to his companion; The Archivist wouldn’t lie, no matter how tempting. He rarely responds to the Archivist, but  _ I think _ is different than  _ I know _ in this space.

“...Maybe. Enjoy your sleep, Jonathan.” 

And then he’s gone, and Jon does just that, no horrid landscapes or clogging fear or the remnants of marks turned merely into psychological duress, just darkness so blessed and calm, the Dark would be proud.

The Archivist opens his eyes as he pulls himself within the constraints of Jonathan’s body, and-- Ah. The warmth of their bed, the warmth of Martin, surrounds him. He wants to stay in this moment longer, but he sits up immediately, looking down at him. 

“That is not my real name,” He says at length, and it’s spoken slowly, distracted, because there is something else here that was not before, and he almost gets up from the bed entirely to explore it. He refrains. Martin called him for a reason.

\---

“I know, but you picked it. And— No time like the present? One human day, and that’s it. So I can - I can show you?” Martin sits up, too, albeit reluctantly. “Besides, Archivist isn’t really your name, either.”

\---

"...It isn't. You're right. Alright--" He lets out a long, dramatic sigh. It's a little stiff, but he's learning. And no better people to learn from than the mishmash group living in the Archives. "Human. Sirius. The Vast is here?"

\---

“Um, yes.” Martin stretches up to relieve his tension. Oh, Messenger, Messenger. “Gerry and Tim went out hunting for a book and someone else was hunting it, and the book— tried to eat him, or something? And now he’s broken or, or whatever. And they’re fixing him.”

\---

"I see. Michael Crew." He tilts his head to the other side. There's something else here. Isn't that fun. What a sneaky little worm. Not the time to sidetrack Martin. 

"Dress me. I imagine you have plans?"

\---

“I thought it might be fun if you picked out something you thought was nice? That’s— Generally how people dress themselves. And I want you to be comfortable.” Martin stands up so he can gesture to the dresser. “I have plans. Loose ones.”

\---

He slowly climbs out from the bed, and moves to the dresser to begin sorting through the garments. "I do not know how to judge clothing," He says, and frowns, lifting up several shirts and putting them neatly on top of the dresser as he looks through them.

\---

“You need a shirt, pants, socks, shoes, a coat, since it’s cold, but if you like something you can just— It’s not like I’ll judge you for putting something on that feels good.” 

Martin moves to sit criss cross on the bed. It gives him a nice vantage point. “If you like something of mine more, you can do that. Erm— judging it is just liking it or not liking it.”

\---

"I know what judgment means." He says lowly, and frowns as he continues to sort. He goes through every piece of clothing methodically, sorting them on top of the dresser as he discards and thinks. It's quite hard. He would be content in anything, but Martin wants him to _ like _ something. Which requires opinions. His opinion is clothing seems so unnecessary.

Well. He would like not to be confined, he thinks. The body is already a strangely comforting tightness on his being, and he is overlooked so closely by the Eye. So perhaps something loose.

He ends up rounding up a loose shirt that he imagines must be Michael's, a tank top, and one of Martin's sweaters pulled over it. The fabric is soft. For bottoms, he finds a skirt, long, that hugs his hips but does not confine. He thinks it must be new, for no scent has latched onto it, past the vague intermingling from the rest of the clothes in the drawer.

\---

“Okay. That works.” Martin smiles, awkwardly enjoying the mish-mash of ownership. Alone. To himself. In his head. “You run warm, so you might be fine, but— I’ll bring another jacket just in case. Now, um— Is there anything you have a hard no to doing?”

\---

"If I knew the answer to this, would there necessitate a 'human' day?" He wrinkles his nose. "I made a deal with you; where you take me, I will follow."

\---

“Okay! Fair enough. Um, let me— Let me get dressed.” Martin slides from the mattress and starts to put things away, carding through them as he does. 

He ends up with a sweater he’d forgotten about, buried so deep in the drawers, one with a herd of sheep grazing in a patch of flowers. It’s soft and heavy, so he can’t break it out much, but it’s supposed to be cold today. 

He pulls his backpack out from under the bed so he can shove a coat in, one that somewhat matches Sirius’ outfit.

\---

"This is why clothing confuses me," He says when he looks at what Martin is putting on. "What is the point? Why sheep, rather than-- cattle? Or humans?"

\---

“Wh—“ Martin looks down, then back up. “Um, people don’t eat grass on pastures. And I’m sure there are some with cows, but I— Liked sheep, when I bought it. It was secondhand.” He huffs. “I would’ve gotten one with cows. It’s preference.”

\---

"To make the choice to make that over everything else--" He frowns. "It confounds me. The drive to do, and to choose one creature over another."

\---

“Some preferences are more common. It’s not like you can put every animal there, it’s like—“ Martin hums. “You know, a memory? Art is sort of like that. I see this and I think about the times I saw animals in a field and went ‘wow, that’s— That’s cool’. It also just... looks nice. Um, design-wise?”

\---

"It does look nice." He looks at it for a while, and then nods, satisfied. "A memory." He tries to think, and think, and think, and says, "Lakes, are... Cool?"

\---

Martin grins wide enough to show teeth. “Like that! People like lakes. You can find— I bet there’s art on a shirt or something of that lake, too. I think it’s famous enough for that.”

\---

"I see." He lifts the fabric of his own sweater up to his face, and says, "I like this. It smells of you."

\---

Martin tilts his head to one side. “Th—Thank you? At least someone thinks I smell nice!” He clears his throat, deciding that was way too enthusiastic. “Bathroom next? I need to, erm, brush my teeth.”

\---

"Of course you smell nice. You are mine." He nods, then, and opts for following Martin.

\---

Martin would very much appreciate it if his heart would stop beating irregularly. Maybe he should get that checked out. Like his eyes. And his weird throat. And his brain. 

“I guess you’ve probably never done this before, the— Boring, human rituals,” Martin starts after a beat of silence, walking them along to the multi stall restroom on this floor that they’ve basically commandeered. “I think it’s nice to get up and start the day with it. But I’m more low maintenance than, um, you. Your hair. I can just roll out of bed.”

\---

"Especially now that I have cut your hair." He tugs on his own hair, rather messy and unbrushed. "Assist me with mine."

\---

“I can do that.” Martin opens the door, where they’ve all set up a few toothbrush holders and various supplies in caddies and wall hangers. By now, Jon’s hair is familiar if difficult to manage as a general rule, but it’s not as unruly as Michael’s. 

He’s wielding a brush when he realizes he needs clarification. “You mean brushing it, not— Not getting rid of it, right?”

\---

"Yes-- yes? No, do not  _ cut _ it." He squints. "I would not have cut yours if you did not ask me. I think I like hair."

\---

“I’m not! I won’t. I like it too.” Martin gestures for him to stand in front of the mirror, and starts to brush his hair. He’s slow with it, the last thing he wants is to snag on any of the knots and put the Archivist-Sirius in a bad mood, so he’s trying very hard to be gentle. “I know where we’re going first.”

\---

"Where?" He moves his head with the motion of the brush, the touch foreign but not displeasing. It feels... Good, almost, especially once the knots from Jon's sleep are pulled away into better kempt curls.

\---

“Aquarium,” Martin says plainly, setting the brush down so he can splay all his fingers into his hair and fluff it out, for lack of a better word. “I think you’d like walking through one.”

\---

He thinks for a moment, feeling that word out, letting it roll around his mind and the Eye to provide him with images, definitions, knowing. "Fish. Do you like fish, Martin?"

\---

“I don’t want to  _ own _ any, but there’s this, um, this walkway? Underneath one of the bigger exhibits. You can see all the sharks. And there’s— I was reading about it, the bioluminescent rooms. Very... observational?”

\---

"Are there insects? Birds? I would like to see them, as well." He looks at himself in the bathroom, leaning close to the counter. He knows what this body looks like, of course he does, and he stands with Jonathan in his dreams. But it's quite something else to recognize himself in these eyes, to see the way he moves the body and how it differs from Jonathan.

He pulls a few of the strands of hair covering his face behind his ear, and realizes like this, it's hard to separate him from the body. It's connected. His perception is so wound with this limitation of physical space.

\---

“Not really, but we can go to the zoo, too. I just figured we can start small, less people, see if you like it. I think sometimes at zoos and aquariums and stuff like that they have, um, exhibits you can touch. Urchins and starfish and snakes and things.” He pauses. “Oh my.”

\---

He smiles, and catches it in the mirror and smiles wider, watching the way his lips stretch across his face, the way wrinkles appear and deepen. He turns to face Martin. "Alright. Let's go. People own fish?"

\---

Martin moves to the adjacent sink and readies his toothbrush. “Some people do. Aquariums in their houses, smaller ones. I’ve seen shows about it, rich people with massive tropical fish tanks.”

\---

"That would be... Beautiful, I think. Fish and insects. Caged and taken care of. Safe, under my guidance, and appreciated."

\---

“Don’t make it weird,” Martin snorts around his toothbrush. “Maybe instead of starting a new world you can be a zookeeper. I’m sure Gerry would have loads to teach you about that.”

\---

"Did he keep animals in life? That would not seem healthy, for the animal; he was often moving about. Little time for animals." He scowls. "If I am to be human for a day, you are not to make disparaging comments about our plans."

\---

“He keeps animals now. You should see him in the outfit.” Martin spits out into the sink. “Why would I say bad things about something I planned?”

\---

"No. Not those plans. My plans. Do not be rude about my world. What outfit."

\---

“Ah. Okay, deal.” Martin holds his composure with a tight smile. “His zookeeper outfit. I think it suits him. All the animals take it very seriously.”

\---

"... Gerard has animals? I have not seen nor smelled them in this space."

\---

“It’s me. I’m— I’m making a joke about me. The Hunt. The outfit is real, though.”

\---

The Archivist smiles. "All humans are animals, dear Martin. Not just you. Gerard works with... Zoological work?"

\---

“But I’m... especially... never mind. No, it was— It’s— I’m kidding. I’ve helped him change outfits before and that was one of them. I-It doesn’t matter. Let’s go to the aquarium!”

\---

"....Alright," The Archivist says and decides not to dissect all of that.

\---

Martin reaches out with a hand as first impulse, thinking nothing of it as he gently tugs him along. “We can take the bus, I bought, um, earbuds that we could share so it’s not just the blocky ones.”

\---

"To listen to... Music," He says, and allows himself to be pulled along. He could get angry about this, but he chooses not to.

\---

“Unless you want to sit in... complete silence? Or— I don’t know, yes, it might be nice to find out what music you like. If you like it at all. I think you would.”

\---

"Alright. I will watch the other people, as well." He nods, satisfied.

\---

“Oh, am I not interesting enough to hold your attention? On a bus ride?” Martin fake pouts down at him as they walk to the lifts.

\---

The Archivist squints. "I already know your fear, and pain, very intimately. I do not need to see it on the bus. I can look at other's trauma."

\---

“It’s not all about fear and pain. Sometimes it’s about— It’s about Oingo Boingo. Or saying ‘hi’. But I don’t think I want to... do that on a bus, considering what usually happens.”

\---

"The bus is about..." He thinks, and looks up, and then frowns. "Danny Elfman?"

\---

“Knowing who Danny Elfman is isn’t the same as enjoying Oingo Boingo, Sirius. Listening and Knowing are two very, very different things.” Martin takes that very seriously, with a horrifying gravity.

\---

"... I see." He nods, equally gravely serious. "He must be important. I will listen. Who is his entity?"

\---

“S—“ Martin laughs, high and genuine. “Spiral? Oh, wow. This puts music reviews in a - a whole new perspective. We need to find you some Ceaseless Watcher listening.”

\---

"I have not heard of musician avatars being of my domain. And I do not think the rest of the Eye has, either." He scowls.

\---

“You could find one. I bet if you asked Stevie Nicks she’d— She’d say yes, maybe. I’d like to meet her.” Martin forces himself to stop laughing in the lifts. Compose yourself, man.

\---

Another tilt of the head as he thinks and figures out what woman he is talking about. Ah. "She dresses like your Spirit."

\---

Martin makes a few internal connections and grimaces. Ah. That explains a few things about that type of his. “Is that a good thing?”

\---

He nods. "Beautiful. Decadent." He smiles. "It's very nice. Gerard would look nice in her clothing."

\---

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He really will. Stevie Nicks has never come up in conversation with Gerry, but now it seems at least he’s in the majority here for taste. “You’ve never eaten food before, have you? Even if you don’t need to, I think— Even if I did ever, you know, die and - and come back, I’d still eat. Even if it’s optional.”

\---

"You likely will. And Hm. Purely because you enjoy it? I can attempt to try it." He reaches down and holds a palm over his stomach. "This body is hungry."

\---

“Oh. We can get breakfast.” Martin pulls a couple of ideas together in his head. For someone so crucial to another entity putting the apocalypse on hold, he’s doing a terrible job at planning these things in advance. 

He holds the front door open for him when they reach it, inhaling sharply at the surge of wind. “We can start with a café. There’s one that, um, that Jon likes. Liked? Likes.”

\---

"I see." He cocks his head. "I am curious if we have the same likes and dislikes. I'm unsure what the limitations of my own consciousness in this body bring."

\---

“We’ll find out today, I guess!” Martin walks them both along, pretty sure he remembers where he’s going. It shouldn’t take them long. Odd, to think that the last time he made this trek he’d needed an Uber, and had... fresh worm scars adorning his arms. 

Martin swallows.

\---

The Archivist follows along dutifully, and once they get to the steps outside the Institute, he looks up, taking in their surroundings, a small smile playing on his face. "I have only been outside twice," He says, and his smile grows. "All things follow patterns of three. A deal or not, I am... Excited for your day, Martin."

\---

“It’s not  _ my _ day, it’s— It’s our day?” Martin shoots him a quizzical smile. “You believe in that? ‘Three’ stuff? So the Eye has superstitions.”

\---

"With enough instances of truth, a superstition becomes a statistic. And stories follow patterns. We are all stories, being consumed." He raises his gaze to the sky again; it feels lonesome without the Eye to stare back, but there's a thrilling little nothingness to this sky, as though what happens beneath it is allowed to stay hidden.

He walks slowly behind Martin as they walk, looking every which way with intense scrutiny. People, buildings, the cars and busses that pass them. All of it fascinates him.

\---

“Hm.” Martin peeks behind his shoulder throughout the walk, watching Sirius more than anything else. Aside from the sidewalk, he’s being a wonderful navigator. “Yep. I think you’ll like the aquarium. I used to spend almost— Almost all of my free time watching people. Figuring out what they do, like - like they were scenes playing out around me, not with me. It’s hard to get used to being part of them.”

\---

"Mm. Always so aligned with the Eye, even in subtle ways. Everyone is bright, but not too bright, as those like Michael are. The occasional Mark's I see upon their souls... It's like a dessert."

\---

“You’re calling Michael bright? That’s nice of you.” Something has him in such a playful mood today. It can’t be the Archivist, or maybe it can. God, who knows. “I don’t think I understand, actually? Terms of brightness?”

\---

"... Difficult to explain, without seeing it. The souls of people shine differently. Curiously. Michael is not bright in that way, but his soul is.... As neon in a shop."

\---

“Is... that...” Martin is forced to decide, halfway through the sentence, whether that’s a good idea. Maybe he should stop second guessing himself. He’s still alive, he’s still loved, for doing what he does well. Being a complete lunatic. “Is that something I can be shown? You know, you can look into how I see things, but I’ve never tried compelling or - or taking statements, or anything like that from you.”

\---

"I.... Suppose so, yes. Yes, I imagine you could. Here." He reaches out to take one of Martin's hands with both of his, still trailing behind him a little. And then, after a moment, he attempts to channel himself, move through the hand to Martin, nothing so traumatizing as a memory, just sight. It's difficult, patchy, like there's bad reception; he's never done this before, and he doesn't want to hurt Martin, not even accidentally.

Through the touch, though, the people are shining. Thick, roiling souls of black and white, light airy things blue as a robin's eggs. Yellow, pink, movements swirling and coalescing. Anger and sadness and depression and glee, rolling off those on the streets more like a perfume wafting behind them than anything extremely noticeable by sight itself. It's as though a new sense, and the Archivist smiles as it channels.

\---

The colors linger at the back of Martin’s eyelids, quickly finding it difficult not to give in to temptation and blink, and blink, and blink. Alone, each draft is subtle, but he isn’t used to seeing that way. Not at all. 

He still tries to walk, and the nausea is almost pleasant. It makes him conjure up memories of his own accord, of hunting trails that were almost visible, ones that he still vividly remembers tracking through thousands of them, meaningless background noise. “You see like this all the time?”

\---

The Archivist nods. "Yes, for the most part. It is more obvious when you focus on it. I don't often need to, in the Archives. I know what your souls look like. I pay attention when something seems to have changed." He smiles, honing in on a few of the souls. "It is all new out here."

\---

“I wish I could have seen why— All the people I like, I wonder what they look like. Why I latch onto them.” Martin whispers, like he’s afraid he might break the thread. “I’ve seen what Michael really looked like. I’ve seen— I don’t think I’ve seen  _ me, _ outside of the paintings, outside... sometimes Spiral memories get confusing.”

\---

"Yours changes. But it is... Heavy. Thick. A lot of moving, swirling parts. More activity than many." He smiles. "It is very gorgeous, if confusing. Many colors."

\---

“A little bit of everything, right?” Martin squeezes his hand and sighs deeply, trying not to fixate on any one person for too long. “At least it’s... nice, for you to look at? Can’t say it’s a bad compliment to be told by the Eye that my aura or whatever is  _ gorgeous.” _

\---

"It is merely a fact, but... Yes. You can take it as a compliment." He slowly disconnects their hands, blinking rapidly to clear the spell from his mind.

\---

“Facts can be compliments, too.” Martin shakes his hand out into the air at his side to get rid of the nerves. Those last lingering threads. They’re just about approaching the front doors now. “But gorgeous is subjective, too. I doubt everyone would think so.”

\---

"I think they would be wrong, then. You are very beautiful."

\---

“You’re... saying a lot of nice things about me today. Is— Is there a reason for that?” Martin shoots him a wary glance, a polite little awkward half-smile.

\---

He shrugs. "You are giving me reason to be kind. And you're asking questions with nice answers." He looks ahead as they walk. "And I will have plenty of my own days. This is one of your days, and you want me to be kind."

\---

“I want—“ Martin shakes his head and starts over. “Will you _ not _ be kind on your days? I can’t picture you walking around kicking puppies for fun.”

\---

"I won't. It's not my place to interfere. I will merely consume the fear of those in the new world and be content." He smiles. "Kind... No. The rules will be different."

\---

“Can you go back to not interfering with anything once you’ve done it a few times?” Martin stops abruptly just outside the front door. “Wait. Isn’t causing the end of the world interfering?”

\---

"It's setting things right and heralding the new god. Some things are worth interfering." He looks at the door, to the people eating, talking, living, and he shrugs. "I have lived for millenia as nothing more than part of the Eye. I have lived... Hardly a week within a body. I do not think these patterns of muscle memory will linger."

\---

“The world is surprising, Sirius. Being human is— It’s learning new things every day, and being in the middle of it. I hated myself when I was alone.” Martin opens the door, and the little welcome bell jingles above his head. “Gods first.”

\---

"You were human then." He steps in gladly. It smells good, and his stomach rumbles in memory, which causes him to look down at himself and blink a few times. "That was involuntary. The muscles within my stomach moved. I understand the concept, but it feels...not good.”

\---

“I know. We’ll eat soon.” Martin swipes two menus from the front counter and decidedly ignores the comment about humanity. “Now, here’s a test. Where do you want to sit?”

\---

He bristles. "I do not like that your wager involves testing me like some pathetic child." But he's looking around, anyways, deliberating, his eyes narrowed in annoyance.

"There." He eventually says, and makes his way to a booth in the corner that gives him the most access to the rest of the restaurant. Not all, as he would prefer, but most.

\---

"What?" Martin holds off on being smug. "I'm testing how similar you and Jon are. You wanted to do that!" He heads to the booth and mutters just loud enough to reach Sirius' ears. "He likes sitting there, too."

\---

"Of course. He likes to watch people, too." He scowls as he sits down, running his hand against the fabric of the worn booth, and then the cheap table top. He leans closer to all the condiments and jellies and looks at them one by one and then sits back up straight again. "You fill your lives with banal activity intended to waste time so you don't think about how the End will meet you sooner than you'd all like. It's fascinating."

\---

"If we were all obsessed with the End and nothing else, life would be pretty boring, wouldn't it?" Martin hands him one of the menus, and sits beside him rather than across. "I'm not that afraid of death. I feel like-- I've seen it, a bit, and-- Um, I spent a long time sort of wishing I was. I changed my mind. Sorry, wow, that's not really-- Not exactly breakfast conversation."

\---

"I suppose it would be boring. Or far more full of fear." He looks down at the menu and immediately frowns. He knows what the items are, but he doesn't know how they taste. How can he have an opinion under those circumstances? "I don't know what food is good."

\---

“Do you want something sweet, or not? Or— I could just have a few things sent out on smaller portions and you can try it all.”

\---

"Do that. I don't know what I enjoy." He stares down at the menu for a while. "What do you like?"

\---

"I'll eat anything. Um, let's see-- Pancakes, sausage, bacon, potatoes, eggs, a bagel with cream cheese, that should be... a good start?" Martin scratches at the back of his neck. "Orange juice, um, I think that's plenty. Not too much water-wise. Oh." 

He giggles a little. "Nothing alcoholic, I'm guessing?"

\---

The Archivist shrugs. "I have... Not had alcohol before. This body has, but I haven't."

\---

"Not today, then. Not this early, for sure, ha--" Martin tries to flag down a waiter and order everything at once, being very, very good about not talking to them about anything else.

\---

The entire time, the Archivist stares, without shame, his head tilted slightly as he regards the person taking their order. As of yet, he has not spoken to anyone outside of their small… grouping, but this person leaves very little in the way of conversation, merely writing down what Martin tells them with a polite smile.

"And you have to do this three times a day? How... Exhausting."

\---

"Not like this. Sometimes you can do it yourself and not have to talk to anyone, or, or go anywhere, it's like..." Martin sighs. "Once we get a house, I want to learn how to cook. Um, things that actually taste good? Ugh. Shoot. I should've ordered coffee. Sorry."

\---

"Ah, yes. Your house. I think it is a marvelous idea. The institute is so clogged with years of Elias Bouchard's hubris. I far prefer our own beacon of channeling the Eye." He smiles. "You can.... Request it of the restaurant's servant when they come back.."

\---

“So you don’t like him, either? You haven’t— You haven’t talked to him, have you?” Martin doesn’t bother to hide the pleased little look on his face. “Does he know?”

\---

"I have not. But I know  _ him. _ How can the Eye not? He has gifts, for he wants what we want. But he misunderstands his place. He will, perhaps, fare better than those unaffiliated with us. And perhaps the greater Eye likes him more than..." He pauses for a moment, squinting as he feels out this thought."... Me. He knows I am here, though."

\---

“I hope not. The _ liking _ him part. But I don’t think he really has any friends, so, I mean— Maybe he’s lonely.” Martin shakes his head. The waiter brings their drinks by, and Martin hurriedly asks for two coffees as he pulls the orange juice close to them both. “Thank you— Um, here. Try it?”

\---

"Elias Bouchard is not the Lonely companion," the Archivist says around a smile, and then pulls the drink towards him, squinting at the contents of the glass for a long, long moment, and lifts it to his lips. He pulls in the smallest amount, and jerks a little at the sour taste that coats his tongue, sour and sweet and citrusy in a way that almost, almost registers as pain. He tastes it, and then he lets it fall out of his mouth onto the table, his jaw dropping open.

\---

Martin is about to ask him about that, but— “Okay, that’s a no, then. D— Next time, don’t— The  _ table?” _ He hurries for some of the napkins in the holder and pulls them out to soak up the mess. “At least get it in the  _ glass?” _

\---

"It wasn't unpleasant, merely... Surprising? The taste. T-- tart?" He sits back to contemplate it, and does not care he made a mess, not really. His mind is otherwise occupied right now. "I did not want to contaminate the glass."

\---

“Oh. I thought you _ hated _ it! Um. Wait.” Martin shakes his head. “What did you mean by Lonely companion?”

\---

"His...hm. Partner? Sometimes. Acquaintance? Bank? A powerful avatar of the Lonely. The Lukas family always is, that. Powerful." He pauses. "I don't know if I hate it." He brings the glass back to his lips and winces a little as he sniffs it, and then takes another cursory sip, a shiver running through him at the tartness.

\---

“...Elias is friends with Peter Lukas?” Martin frowns, glancing sharply down. “What is it with the Eye having weird side pieces?”

\---

He swallows the juice with great effort and then slowly pushes it away from him. "The avatars often reflect our nature. I suppose... The avatars of the Eye, too, prefer to let others interfere for them. I don't know if 'friends' is the correct term here."

\---

“Right. Not friends. Hmm. Errand runners? Butlers?  _ Messengers?  _ You’re such a prissy fear. No wonder Jon fits right in.”

\---

The Archivist narrows his eyes. "I am not...  _ prissy,  _ Martin Blackwood. Mind yourself. Everything merely has its place."

\---

“My place is next to you, and  _ someone  _ needs to tell you the truth. If everyone’s too scared to, they’ll just tell me. It’s like—“ Martin laughs. “—a first mate situation.”

\---

"A first mate. As though a ship captain." The scowl doesn't diminish from his face, but it's slightly less severe. "Though I appreciate the truth, you do not need to-- I am not prissy, that is not a fact!"

\---

Martin says nothing, just smiles serenely and keeps the truth to himself. “I only tell you the truth.” 

The waiter brings out their coffee with an arrangement of creamers tossed into a bowl. The sugar packets are already there, so. Options. “Now you get to decide if you want coffee black or— Anything else.”

\---

"Not how the juice tasted. Sour. Something else." He pushes the coffee towards Martin. "Do it for me."

\---

Right. Okay. No sour. The world depends on this. Martin mixes in one cream and two sugars, then mixes it up with a spoon. “Just wait for it to cool down a little. You don’t want it to burn your mouth.”

He props his elbow on the table so he can hold his own cheek in his palm and look. At Sirius, not the rest of the room.

\---

He does not wait, but it doesn't matter. The Archivist enjoys the heat, he thinks. And this body is stronger than a normal human's. He will be fine.

He wrinkles his nose when he tastes it, and pushes it back. "Bitter. More sugar."

\---

Martin reaches for more without a second thought, unwrapping two more and trying again. “How’s this?”

\---

"Better," He says after tasting it. "... Sweet. I think I like sweet."

\---

“There’s one for sweet. Great! Found your preferences. One down. A countless million more to go.” Martin is finding himself very excited about this. “You might be a fan of syrup, then. Pancakes. I think they’re good.”

\---

"Hm." He cocks his head and thinks about it for a moment. "They seem... Appetizing. Yes." He smiles and takes another sip of his coffee. "I am enjoying this."

\---

Martin tends to his own coffee without another word, but his tiny, self-satisfied smile says it all. 

Their food doesn’t take long, given that he ordered sides of pretty much everything he could think of on a moment’s notice, not entire plates. He rests his head in his palm again and waits for Sirius to start. Order of things.

\---

The Archivist's eyes widen dramatically at all the plates, and he looks from the food to the person bringing it to them, blinking rapidly. It smells divine, but it's overwhelming. How to start? Is there an order? First, second, third? Should a food be eaten last?

"You did not need to bring this much to our table," He says solemnly at them, scowling a little, as though it wasn't Martin who ordered all of this, but a feast brought unknowingly to the two of them.

\---

“Just eat on impulse, don’t worry about it. If you get caught up in saving best for last you won’t enjoy anything.” Martin pulls one plate off to the side to start divvying up what he knows he likes. “If you hate something, I’ll eat it. I can— Um, I can eat a lot, when I’m hungry. So.”

\---

"I am not impulsive." It hurts his throat a little to say, a scar tightening where a lie has wound itself through his voice. He did not mean to lie, but he did not know it was one until it was spoken.

Perhaps he has been impulsive in some of his decision making. That isn't a wonderful revelation, by far, but it is the truth, and he scowls at the plates of food as though they hurt his throat, and he pulls the closest one towards him.

Meat. The smell is greasy, and heavy, and lovely, but when he pokes a delicate pinky finger at it, he does not like how the texture is simultaneously gelatinous and crispy, hardened and softened by fat all at once. Bacon, it must be. He pulls a strip to his mouth and takes a small bite, and then shakes his head, putting the remainder back down on the plate. "Sodium. Fat. The pain of this animal is not even sweet."

\---

“I don’t like bacon much, either. But I’ll take it. No waste--” Martin tries to be stealthy about shoving almost a whole sausage into his mouth and proceeding to swallow it after barely chewing. “Narrowing it down will help you order things on your own later.”

\---

He squints and then takes a sausage from the plate that Martin just touched. Much the same; a cursory bite, and then he puts it back down, wrinkling his nose. The meat starts to smell foul, in its own right.

He chooses the pancakes next. Martin said he might like it, and it does not look like it will taste of rot. The smile that crosses his face upon the first taste is much nicer than his scowls at the meat. "I like this," He says, around a second mouthful as he contemplatively chews.

\---

“Not a fan of meat, then. Good to know! I feel like I remember you having some vaguely negative things to say about the Flesh.” Martin decides to leave the pancakes to him in their entirety. “Sirius Moonchild loves pancakes. It works.”

\---

"You are very enamored with this name you have created," He says, and can't help the smile that crosses his features again as he cuts into the pancakes for another bite. "I do. I like them."

\---

_ “You  _ helped me create it. Group project. And— Of course I am. It— It gave me a vision! Which I was upset about. But now I’m not.” 

Martin moves to smear cream cheese over his half of the bagel. “If we’re going by rules of not being negative about your plans, I’ll just... I’ll stop having a filter about things that I sort of like.”

\---

"I find it odd how human you want me to be. I don't... I don't understand this desire." He shoves another bite into his mouth and chews as he contemplates. "Even if I do become more... Human, in mind, it will just cause me duress when the time comes to destroy the world."

\---

“It’s not like you’ll be destroying  _ everything.  _ People will... People will remember. What it was like before? Enough people will, I’m guessing. I— I’d assume you won’t...”

No. He won’t feel guilty for this. 

“It’s important to know what it feels like to be what you’re feeding off. Then you know if it’s really worth all of that.”

\---

"Of course it is." He gestures to the food in front of them. "A man must eat, Martin. And the Eye cannot subsist off this alone. Jonathan himself barely needs real sustenance, anymore. And even so, he half-starves himself where he could fill up."

He cocks his head. "Is that so, even? You eat this sausage. This meat, and you do not feel the soul of the animal. You have not lived as a pig, or a bovine, or fowl. You do not know what it feels like to live as wheat, or the fruit of trees. Yet feed on them you do."

\---

“Okay. Flipping  _ that _ around. It’s people on people. I’m not eating people. But I’m a person, humanity or otherwise. And I know what other people feel like. I even— I even know that literally! Getting all these marks has just made me more human.” Martin pauses. Oh, he didn’t know he thought that. “If I could get statements from dogs, I would.”

\---

"Perhaps you can. Dogs don't hold on to fear in the same way humans do. It is just different?" His voice uptilts on the end, confused. 

"I am not a _ person,  _ Martin. Your point is moot." And he stabs his fork into another bite of pancake.

\---

“You are today. That’s the deal.” 

Martin leans into his space, resting his temple against Sirius’ shoulder. “Why don’t I get sick the way Jon does if he doesn’t read statements?”

\---

"I am... Unsure." He turns his head to look at him a little, his brow furrowing as he feels the weight of Martin on him. He doesn't dislike it, which confuses him more.

He'll play this person. This human game. But this question... "It... Confuses me. It is not just that you are Marked by the others. Something else is afoot. Perhaps your closeness with Jonathan. Jonathan is directly part of us, now. You... Not to the same level. But-- something unique lives within your soul."

\---

Martin tilts his head up to watch him right back. “You could always look and find out what it is. Or—“ He frowns. Maybe that’s not the best idea. “Nobody ever really talks about the time travel thing. What that  _ did. _ How that... Sometimes, people know things they shouldn’t know, this time around. Things that didn’t happen. Won’t happen, this time. It’s all weird. And confusing.”

\---

He smiles. "It was the best the Eye could think of. To make everything all the more potent. I don't-- I don't know if I was intended to squeeze through, at that lake. But I know it would not, could not have happened where Jonathan originally was. His death was potent, at the height of the Unknowing, but this time it was..." He sucks in a breath. "A new ritual, for the Watcher. Those are. Hm.  _ Were _ hard to come by. You keep making new ones."

\---

“Don’t you see it? I think I get it.” Martin sits up straight. Possessed. “All of them involve summoning something and making it human. Summon the Spiral, make pinky promises, graduate up to making it human. Summoning the book, helping Gerry, I count that— Summoning... Well, it’s a stretch, but the Hunt— That’s not human, but I said yes  _ because _ I’m human,  _ for _ humanity, and I...  _ You’ve _ never been in a body, before, until the lake. So it...” 

Martin realizes he thinks he’s talking nonsense, and he’s also been talking for way too long, so he brushes a hand over his mouth to stop it. Stream-of-consciousness.

\---

_ "Devious," _ the Archivist spits, and his expression tenses up as he thinks it through. "My Messenger, who so wishes to do nothing more than squander, and ruin, and degrade and devolve those that have power. That are more. That are--"

Oh, now he's upset. He pushes the plate away from him with a heavy huff, and scooches closer to the corner. Were he still touching him, he'd push him off.

"Insolence. You are  _ ruining _ me." And then he snaps his mouth shut, because he had not intended to say that, to speak any truth to his fears of his waning connection, to the fact that he is-- is.  _ Is _ becoming too comfortable in his body.

"Is all this-- this food? Just a ploy for yet another ritual? No wonder the Spider plays favors with  _ you." _

\---

Martin winces, and then winces again, a third, and a fourth time for good measure, every punctuated word hitting at a deep point in his chest he wasn’t sure existed until now. 

“No, I don’t... I...” 

He holds completely still, suddenly afraid to move. Like that would set him off some more. Instead, he just looks down. Down to the cushioned booth beneath them, to the dark floor lower than that. Still, silence is not an option in the realm of truth where silence is not the answer. “I-I don’t do them on purpose. I just do them by loving things.”

\---

"Then your love for me intends to ruin me." He pulls in a deep breath, and for good measure, he crosses his arms and looks away, to where the window looks outwards onto the street.

"I will play your game today. A wager is a wager. But we will have a meeting when this is done, and you will understand what we're doing if I have to pry it from your brain. The world will end, Messenger, and I want you there, but I will remove you if-- if you continue these ruses!"

\---

“I just don’t think you should write off _ this _ world without seeing it up close,” Martin says quietly to the crumbs on the floor. “I just want you to see it.”

He doesn’t want to be removed. He wants to live. If the Eye didn’t want that, it shouldn’t have sent a man that was in love with him back in time long enough for Martin to look back. 

He doesn’t say that, though. Instead, he slumps forward on the table, chin resting over the crook of his elbow. “You should... just eat. Otherwise you’ll hate it more than you already do. I wrote you a story, too, I’ll just... show you later.”

\---

"A story of what? Tell me." His jaw is tight, fury in his features, but curiosity wins it out.

\---

“It’s just a long poem, sort of.” Martin angles his head to face the café, not the Archivist. Distantly, he wonders whether the tone of his that Jon hates is a sentiment shared by his second party. “It doesn’t matter that much.”

\---

"I have given you the day," The Archivist says, bristling. "If this poem-story is part of it, then I will listen. That is part of our deal. Sirius Moonchild, for the day. I merely want you to understand I am not that name, on other days."

\---

“You’re the one who wanted it in the first place,” Martin pouts against the table. “You’re the one taking it out on me and - and making it out like I trapped you here. I didn’t do that. I didn’t do any of that. I’m not ruining you. Or tricking you. I’m being honest and trying to - to find answers.”

\---

He glares at Martin, and it looks childish, petty and frustrated, and he pulls his coffee close to him to take another drink from it. "I am not stupid. I know you want me to be human past this day. Oh, well. You will learn."

\---

“What happens will happen, I’m not forcing anything to happen to you. I’m just— I’m just trying to bond with you!”

\---

"I.. See. I suppose..." He deflates some. "I suppose I just don't understand your motives."

\---

Martin shrugs hopelessly. “It makes me happy? When I get to show you something you’ve never seen before, that - that you can’t just get by Knowing. That’s it.”

\---

That makes him snort, despite himself. "A Messenger and a Chauffeur. You are the most interesting man I know."

\---

“Don’t you have pancakes you’re supposed to be eating right now?”

\---

He glares at Martin, and his jaw tightens. Cutting into another bite of pancake, he says, "If I were not playing your game right now, I would pull something from you to feed on that instead of this breakfast food. Rude. Very rude." And then he shoves it into his mouth and looks very obviously pleased with the flavor.

\---

“Yeah. Yeah, sure. I know you would.  _ Thank you _ for not doing that right here at the table!” Martin isn’t hungry now, but he tries to make a solid effort to eat his bagel. “And I was going to tell you about whipped cream next.”

\---

"Tell me." He gives him a severe look. "Do not withhold information from me."

\---

Martin buckles down. "Why don't you ask the waiter for it yourself?"

\---

He narrows his eyes, and then sits up straight, prim, perfect, and raises his hand to flag down the waiter, his expression stern. "I will." He says to Martin, like it means he's won something.

\---

Oh. Okay. He really is. Martin sinks into the booth to make himself functionally invisible, preparing for the worst to come. 

The waiter arrives, a softly polite smile on his face as he asks the dreaded question, ”How can I help you?”

\---

"I would like your..." His eyes shift from staring intensely at the waiter to Martin, making sure he has the verbiage, and then he flicks back to the waiter. "Whipped cream. Now. He will not tell me what it is."

\---

“Oh, can do. I’ll be right back with that for you!” He seems to be in a hurry with the morning rush, so he ignores the comment either from lack of time or a practiced filter for bizarre conversation. 

Martin rolls his eyes now that the danger has passed. “Wow. Blaming it on me, when you can know everything. Good job.”

\---

"You are the one who informed me you're to bring me truth. And yet you withheld information to be... petty and insolent." He raises his chin, his jaw tight.

\---

“Says you! You do the same thing, except— Except you’re an actual god, and I’m just— Martin Blackwood!” Martin scoffs, loudly, and goes back to shoving his face full of bagel.

\---

"Yes. I am at liberty to withhold, especially when you choose to defy my future." He gives a frustrated little pout. "I will refrain from talking about it further. I do not want to ruin your aquarium."

\---

_ “Our _ aquarium. It’s our trip. Ours, not mine, not yours, it’s for both of us. Okay?”

\---

"You are so peculiar about the ownership of things." But... It's curious enough to think about that he's not outright scowling anymore, so there's that.

\---

“I think it’s important to say when things are owned by, um, collective— When it’s both of us. And when things are mine. But they’re usually ours. Co-ownership.”

\---

"Hm." He squints. "I suppose. I'll concede for today. At least for now."

\---

The waiter comes back with some whipped cream, the kind you dole out yourself from a small cup. He asks if they need anything else, which Martin is quick to say no to, and—

Well, now he’s content to forgive and forget. And just watch. “You’re about to have an epiphany about whipped cream on pancakes.”

\---

"... It goes on the pancakes? Alright." He takes the cup and upends it onto his plate of half eaten food, watching as it slowly slides out and on them. He looks at it for a few moments, his head tilted in curiosity, and then picks up his fork and doles out another bite, piled high with the whipped cream.

An epiphany, indeed. His expression lights up from the explosion of sugar and texture, and doesn't even notice that some of the whipped cream gets caught on his mustache, which gives his smile all the brighter of an appearance.

\---

“Told you.” Martin reaches forward to brush away the whipped cream. It’s not that he forgets he isn’t Jon, but rather... he can’t deny he’s attached to them both in a very literal sense. He won’t stop himself from his first instinct in this space, doesn’t think he really can, as it just seems to happen.

\---

"... Thank you," He says, and the smile stays plastered on his face, and he stays leaned close in Martin's space after his face is wiped clean. His fit has been utterly forgotten in the wake of this.

\---

“You’re welcome?” Martin tilts his head and backs away first, to a reasonable distance. “You should finish eating. I won’t interrupt unless you— Unless you have questions.”

\---

"How much does this body need? It can't be much. We are hardly human." Still. He is very much going to finish the pancakes at the very least, and proceeds to work on that.

\---

“When you stop feeling hungry, just stop eating.” Okay. It’s not usually that simple, especially with how Jon eats, but for today it’s a good enough crash course.

\---

"I'm not hungry anymore," He says through a mouth of pancake, and once he swallows, he says, "I can stop. I want more of the whipped cream."

\---

“I can buy some next time I’m out, it’s cheap? Comes in a whole can. You can shake it and pour it right into your mouth that way. I did that, um, a lot as a kid.” He pauses, mind traveling along random threads. “Dogs love it.”

\---

"I don't want a dog to steal my whipped cream." He pauses, thinking. "Perhaps if they earn it. Get a dog, next time, for when I come to this plane."

\---

“What... permanently? I-I think we need a house first. We still haven’t gotten a house.” Martin sighs. “We keep putting it off until the Unknowing is over. I think I want a dog.” He smiles deviously. “One that knows how to open fridge doors.”

\---

"I believe that would upset Jonathan," the Archivist says, and slowly pushes the plate away from him, moving to finish the last dredges of his coffee. He swallows, and says, "I won't allow you to become a Hunt-beast, do not worry."

\---

“I’m talking about normal dogs! Not me-dogs! There are some dogs that can open doors. You just tie something to the handle so they can open it!”

\---

"Why would you want that?" The Archivist squints. "It will eat the-- the food?"

\---

“No, it’ll bring you things. Like whipped cream. Or soda. Usually people teach them that to get beer. I think.” Martin shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. I can’t get a dog, anyway.”

\---

"Perhaps a cat. They are quieter, I believe? If it is the noise that concerns you."

\---

“It’s not the noise. It’s the...” The world ending, mostly. He has the time. He has the desire. But the world is ending. And that would be a purely selfish endeavor. “It’s not practical. I’ve never even trained a dog.”

\---

"The knowledge is simple." He puts his mug down and stands. "We're done here. I want to see the fish."

\---

“Okay.” Martin pulls some cash out of his wallet and sets it down on the table. He ate enough, so he’ll be fine, at least until lunch. “It’s more than fish, I’m sure. Crustaceans. Um, whatever jellyfish are. I don’t think they’re fish. They might have some birds, if it’s big enough.”

\---

"They are Cnidarians. Medusozoa. Animals. Simple animals, much like corals and sponges, but very old. Perhaps older than the Spiral. Much older than the Slaughter."

\---

“Medusozoa? I’ve never heard that word before in my life. Dinosaur fish.” Martin snorts as he moves to stand up. “You’d be the best at running tours. Get paid to tell people facts and be really good at it.”

\---

"I don't need money," The Archivist says, and follows behind him, trailing close. "I do enjoy... I enjoy telling facts."

\---

“Then that’s all you need. You could get so many degrees. Imagine knowing all that stuff.” Martin hums. “I would’ve liked going to school, if I could know maybe two percent of what you know.”

\---

"Perhaps you'll be able to begin Knowing, with some more time. Drawing upon the greater Eye as I can." He tilts his head. "I think perhaps you would actually have to try to hone your affiliation to me, though. Rather than just... By proxy through me."

\---

“It happens... more frequently, now. But it was— I think it’s been helping me since at least the Hunt, the Eye, I mean— I’ve been reading statements for a long time, and the other night, I shouldn’t have known...” 

Martin grabs for his hand as they approach the bus stop. “It might be nice try learning to use it for... helpful things.”

\---

"Gerard used it for that, when he was alive. Subtle, but helpful, for his hunts." The Archivist goes willingly, taking hold of his hand with no protest. He stares up at the bus, his eyes wide as he takes it in. "This smells foul."

\---

“Oh. He did.” Martin wonders where that road leads, for him. 

He doesn’t want to wonder too hard. “I know. Just ignore it, yeah? Here—“ He unzips the bag and pulls out a pair of earbuds. “I’ll show you the world of music. Or, my music taste, at least.”

\---

"I enjoy the concept of music!" He takes one of the earbuds and inspects it up close for a long moment, figuring out the mechanics of it, before putting it into his ear very, very, very gently. "The Slaughter enjoys music. I imagine the Spiral does, too."

\---

“Everyone likes music. Brings them all together.” Kumbaya, and all that. Martin whips out his phone to start up a queue, and figures whatever happens... happens. Start easy. They already talked about Stevie Nicks, so— Fleetwood Mac it is. Maybe she’s Eye aligned. Who knows.

\---

The moment the song kicks in, the Archivist stops in his tracks, the beat in his ear so overwhelming for a moment that it's all that he can listen to. It doesn't help that too much information trickles into his mind, history and musical history and art history and the history of the people therein, and all of it swirls simultaneously to a pulsating beat in his ear and he has to push it down, push down all that openness to Fact, because his head is throbbing with the concepts.

Once he blocks it out, though, the first time he willingly has done so, it becomes easier. Easier to pay attention.

\---

Martin waits patiently for him to work through the stimulus. There comes a point where he can visually see the gears stop working in overtime, and that’s when he finally smiles. “Oh, she’s got you, hasn’t she?”

\---

".... She  _ has _ me? She-- is this a ritual? A spell?" He starts to take the earbuds from his ear frantically.

\---

“No! No, no, I mean you like her, not—“ He tries to gently hold the earbuds back up for him to take. “Nothing like that. She’s not... She’s not even a witch. I promise. I think she said that in an interview, o-or something.”

\---

"..." He slowly takes it back, looking skeptical. He does like her voice, though. And the man's voice. And the way the instruments collide. "I hope not. Or-- I don't mind witches. I do not want to be cursed or lulled under her sway. I like her. Stevie Nicks."

\---

“Yes. She won’t curse you. Or lull you into anything but being... happy? Enjoying it? Passing time? People listen to music for a lot of reasons.” Martin swallows. “Sometimes music can hurt you, though. If you’re looking for music that makes you feel bad, or makes you remember things you associate with it.”

\---

"If you aren't feeding from it, why would you look for that? What is the point?" His voice is quiet; he doesn't want to speak over her voice.

\---

“Sometimes people get depressed and they hurt themselves about it. Like— Lying down in bed and listening to Crywank with your eyes shut and feeling like you deserve to be sad?” Martin frowns deeply, afraid he’s about to find out that isn’t universal. “Maybe it’s just a Lonely thing.”

\---

"Cry....wank." He wrinkles his nose. A lot of associations with those words. He chooses to ignore them for the time being. "I doubt it is just the Lonely. I have just never... Been depressed? Such a sad fear to feed from."

\---

“Yeah. Yep.” Martin tries to will their bus into appearing. “Sure is. Not fun at all. I lived in it for a long time. Not even the Entity sort. The stupid, lame kind.”

\---

"Jonathan has been depressed. I know what it is, I just have not felt it, as I have not tasted most foods." He pauses, long enough to feel the bass that hits in the song deep, deep in his soul, and it feels good, and he says, "Chemicals are not stupid. And your circumstances are not stupid."

\---

“What circumstances? I mean— I mean that it was pathetic?” Martin lifts both hands in an open-palmed shrug. “Not powerful or feeding anything. Just aimless.”

\---

"...That seems... Normal? For humans, at least. Not--" The Archivist cocks his head. "You only feed that which now lives with you. You did not always live with me. Or the institute. Or the Marks that hound you."

\---

“That which... now lives with me? What does that mean?” The bus comes, and Martin grips one of the Archivist’s hands to help him up into it. If any of the Europeans in this server say a single word about busses, Jack is blocking you from seeing this channel. “Hm. Maybe I’ve always been feeding one of them.”

\---

"You feed me. You've fed Michael. You've fed Jonathan. Your pain has nourished us all." He is slow to follow, cautious in the way he steps, avoiding touching any railings of the bus itself, his expression thin as he takes in everything so... metallic and smelly, and foul. And loud, when he steps into its belly.

\---

“I— Okay, I know that, you just— Never mind.” Not in a great place to start picking his words apart for meaning. “It’s really hard coming up with music for someone with zero experience. Have you ever actually listened to classical music? At all?”

\---

"I know of it. I know of all music." He shakes his head. "I have not... heard it. I have never had... Ears? Before now."

\---

“Ohhh.” Martin pulls them off to two connected seats and sits down. Moonlight Sonata. Oh, God, he’s never listened to any of the classics. “Just listen.”

\---

It is, in a sense, much simpler than the Fleetwood Mac song. But there is something deep, heavy, old in it, and even as he pushes down some of the facts bubbling up about the construction of the song, it still hits, and he goes silent, his eyes falling shut to better focus on nothing but the music. He smiles, as he listens, though the smile grows slightly more complicated as the song progresses, a small furrow in his brow. 

What a strange experience. Such brevity without words, and yet so very heavy, with mere strokes of the piano. His hand tightens in Martin's.

\---

Martin squeezes back instinctively. He opts to say nothing, instead carefully maneuvering his phone to set up a few songs after this. Maybe he’ll like Celtic Woman. Something else, something with violin. More classics. It’ll keep him occupied, for sure.

\---

Occupied, indeed. It almost seems to lull him into some sense of relaxation, less than sleep, but more than the wide-eyed intensity that often seems to keep hold of him when he inhabits Jon's body, and by the time the bus carries on a significant way through their journey, he finds himself leaning against Martin's shoulder, his eyes closed and fingers almost plucking through whatever notes happen to play through the small speakers. 

This he likes. He very much likes this. Maybe Martin was right. Maybe a day like this was something he needed. Or-- didn't need, but wanted. Deep down. The joys of humanity are... They send strange sensations down his spine.

\---

Martin is cataloguing it all. So deeply touched by the Eye, all he wants to do is  _ see.  _ See the creases in Sirius’ expression shift as time goes on, passing between looking down at what time he’s at and back to his companion. 

But it isn’t just the Eye. It doesn’t all come down to fear. He just likes to see people he likes happy. The Archivist counts. They can give ‘happy’ a new set of boundaries. Or at least add to it. 

When they arrive, Martin moves his shoulder just enough to get him to open his eyes. “We’re here, everything okay?”

\---

He jerks a little when Martin moves him, and his eyes fly open, a breath filling his chest heavily as he sits up. The music still plays, but the movement jostles the earbud out of his ear, and the silence is surprising enough to jolt him from his reverie, enough to actually hear what Martin is saying. 

"Yes, yes, it-- I could do that for millennia," He says quietly, and leans close to the window of the bus to look out, trying to gauge where they're at. He has no idea, and doesn't feel the need to search for it, to Know. The Aquarium is all he knows, and that is enough, at this moment. 

What a strange day, thus far. And he hasn't even seen fish yet.

\---

He’ll take ‘handy things to postpone the apocalypse with’ for eight hundred. 

Martin stands before the columned building and peers up. It’s a grand building, but strange in the way it leaves everything in its contents up to the imagination. Aside from the gold-lettered  _ Aquarium,  _ he could hardly guess it was an Aquarium at all. Gorgeous building either way. 

It’s a weekday, and still early, so they’ve lucked out in the population density department. Comfortably quiet with breathing room for them both. He winds his fingers between J— Sirius’ and starts to head towards the entrance.

\---

The Archivist cranes his neck up as they walk, his expression solemn and serious as he takes in the building. Not out of any sense of any graveness, just marveling at the building. Humans really can build, he'll give them that.

His grip in Martin's is tight. He's not letting go anytime soon.

\---

Martin bought their tickets in advance, so entering is simple enough. Humans really can build. 

Just inside, there are several windows laced with fake rock sculptures that connect to a larger tank; he can just barely make out the underwater walkway people are passing through somewhere deep in the blue. 

He can’t remember if he’s ever been to an aquarium, for sure, ever seen anything like this before, but it feels magical— turtles and schools of fish forming patterns and waves of motion as they pass through manufactured habitats. He thinks the bones are fake, at the bottom. They must be.  _ “Wow.” _

\---

_ "Oh," _ the Archivist breathes, and it's a lot, all at once. So much to see, hear, smell, take in. His hand tightens more, and he straightens, so ramrod straight it must hurt his spine. He doesn't care. There isn't much pain here. And that feels alright.

The movement of fish is mesmerizing, a dance unto their own biology, and he pulls for them to get closer to the tanks, nearly nose to glass, so he can see them closer.

"I would like to visit an ocean, I think," He says quietly, his eyes tracking the movement of a large, almost larger than him, fish gulping and moving lethargically, no rush, through the water.

\---

Well. That... is certainly a development he wasn’t aware was within the Archivist’s toolbox. He can’t find it in him to complain or call it out, though, too mesmerized with his eyes just as wide. He speaks quietly, afraid he might disturb the peace. “We can manage that. It’s not hard to find an ocean.”

\---

"Yes. I suppose we are on an island." He, too, moves slowly, walking as though in a daze, following the movement of fish more than anything else. A shark swims by, and he grins, wide and sharp, at it. "This was a good decision, Martin."

\---

“I’m glad you think so. Come on.” He tugs Sirius gently along, into the first tunnel. It’s overwhelming, deep below the tanks that feel like they should crush him beneath their weight, that make him feel like he has to hold his breath to survive. More sharks swim by, lazy and calm in their random routes. “This is just the start.”

\---

The tunnel makes him feel small.

It's Sirius's first thought once they reach the belly of it, both sides stretching on in such an illusory way that one could easily imagine them stretching on forever, and ever, and ever. A Vast ocean landscape that houses entire worlds, the weight of the water above them magically lifted to keep them safe.

Something thick clogs his throat, a lump of some sort, as though he's swallowed something that his body does not want. It doesn't feel bad, just... Overwhelming. There is so much life in these tanks, above, around, surrounding them, and not just in the mundanity of human creatures who mill about and look starstruck like him-- precious in their uniqueness in their own right-- but the weight of these creatures themselves.

He drifts to the side, where a cluster of rocks have produced porous holes, and he watches a fat moray eel finish its journey around the tank, retreating to the deep hole it has claimed as its own, its milky eyes unblinking when it regards him with mouth full of sharp teeth. He presses his hands to the glass, pressing himself closer, as though to merge into the tank itself. It's cold, but he rather likes that.

\---

Martin follows after him. Secretarial, dogged silence as Sirius leads the way, following his eyes and his movement and his course of action. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for him, to give another living person the experience of life. A whole new existence, new, new, new. Fresh eyes. 

Bright eyes. Opaline crystal balls, his favorite thing to observe, reflecting the deepest of blues all around them. 

It gives him hope. 

He wants hope. 

Instead of speaking, he winds his fingers up into the soft hair at the back of Sirius' neck and holds them there, gentle and light and impulsive in the way that feels completely natural.

\---

Something instinctual kicks in and he presses back against Martin's hand, not trying to get him to stop, but trying to give him more access. All of this, all of this sensory information all at once is too much, and he can't speak. He isn't even breathing, his attention so wrapped up in seeing and feeling.

And with the touch, he does what he did earlier; he gives Martin access to his Eyes, lets him see the flicking, moving souls within the fish. No smaller than human souls, just as rich and complicated and unique as the people on the street. It dazzles the water, they dazzle the scales reflecting from the bodies. He hopes Martin likes this.

\---

Martin hadn't really believed in souls until that night on the beach, when he effectively handed Jon his own on a silver platter. But it had always been there, had always existed, had always been real whether he knew it or not. 

He sucks in a breath, and knows immediately in the wavering, frantic pitch of it that he's suddenly about to cry. There is no warning, and it is neither loud nor catastrophic, but there are still tears, and there is still a desperate attempt at controlling his breaths as he looks on at what he sees. His hand tightens at the back of the Archivist's neck to anchor himself here. Here, physically, feet to the ground in a world he is part of. 

"I don't want the world to end," he says openly, without filter, because his filter was taken from him. The circle that forms around Sirius, the circle of Eyes always listening and always begging for the truth to reveal itself, it tells him he has to say what comes to his mind, and there is no option in it, no option to even regret having said it.

\---

"I know," Sirius says, and he doesn't look at Martin, but he knows there are tears on his face, knows what his face looks like, knows what this is. A slow-moving manta ray glides past their portion of the tank, his wingspan at least five or six feet, blocking their view for just a moment. His belly shines a dazzling array of pink and red and yellow and blue and he must be a kind creature. That's what it says. Kindness.

"I know you don't." Sirius doesn't know why the lump in his throat is getting tighter. Like he can't swallow, and his chest feels hot. He doesn't want to address it. He wants to take everything in, before it's gone, forever. Before the Eye takes this, too.

\---

“Look at that one,” Martin says quietly, pointing to a large turtle off a short distance above them to dull the pain that aches inside him. It’s old, Martin can sense that well enough beyond any background of turtle knowledge, old, vibrantly green with its wisdom. A dim red glow hovers at the very edges, and as he watches the other fish skate around it to stay out of its path and leave it to its cranky, independent business, he smiles. 

“That one’s Gerry.”

\---

He tilts his head as he thinks that through, and then a small smile graces his lips once more. "Cantankerous. Stubborn. Gentle."

\---

Martin smiles. They can still enjoy this moment. “I wonder if they have mantis shrimp. You’ll have to see one, I’ve only seen pictures, that’s Michael. Without a doubt.”

\---

"So small to be Michael, isn't it? I can't imagine him being... little." His smile turns into the smallest of laughs.

\---

“I think— I think that’s part of why it’s so funny. Come on— No use getting stuck in shark tunnel #1. We have to get to everything before the end of the day.” He swallows down the rest of his tears with a sniffle and starts to tug them back along the path.

\---

Sirius goes with him, but it's with a reluctant slowness. He could stay here forever, really. "All of it. There's so much in here," he breathes.

\---

Martin tugs them along a few stylized portholes, brushing the fingers on his free hand across the textured surface of the wall. The wooden floor creaks pleasantly below him and Martin is lost in the sensations; perhaps Sirius forgot to cut him loose from their connection, or he's unwilling to let go, but--

They pass another long wall of sharks, which Martin bypasses to get lost in a small tank of clownfish. "I've never seen these before. They're--" Swirling kaleidoscopes exposing the secret ecosystem at play, a hundred personalities winding into an incomprehensible collective school. Martin has nothing else to say, there's nothing to say, nothing he can say that could add to it.

\---

"Coated in the love of their sea anemones. Without them, they would perish and be marked for predators." He stops with Martin, of course he does, watching the orange and white fish bob in and out of their homes. He sucks in a deep breath and presses his face closer to the glass. "How small they are. If they left, they are certain to die."

\---

“You’re a positive one, aren’t you?” Martin pulls at him, deciding they might find better facts at another tank. “Where do all the fish go, in the Eye’s world?”

\---

"I suppose... I am unsure. No doubt, areas of the world would be scorned, and the habitats would die. But human fear is much more profitable, digestible, potent, than that of a fish." He hums as he thinks. "I believe some would be alright. The Vast enjoys the ocean as it enjoys the Sky. We must give it something in the new world."

\---

“I don’t get why the Eye would like destroying millions of years’ worth of knowledge just to watch whatever’s left after the carnage.” 

Martin stops at one of the hands-on exhibits, too caught up in the tactile wonder of everything to wait before touching. Speaking of anemones.

\---

"It does not always know what it knows. It has not lived here," Sirius says, and it's quiet, contemplative, that single sentence confusing him for a moment, before he steps up to the risen glass that keeps the exhibit penned in. He watches Martin for a moment and then pulls away from him, shoving the sleeves of his sweater up to his elbows and crouching down to push the entirety of his forearms into the water. 

The water is cold, and where Jon has bitten the corners of his nails short, it stings, saltwater infecting fragile skin. His hand brushes over a starfish, and after a moment of contemplation, he picks it up and out of the water to inspect it closer.

\---

“Careful,” Martin warns with an oddly protective growl, moving over to hover around Sirius as he inspects things. “I barely know anything, and I’ve lived here a long time. Just at the surface.”

\---

"If the Eye was here, it would know everything, even the little, insignificant things it does not know it currently knows." He turns the creature around to look at its belly, poking his finger where its mouth and stomach lie. Curious. He enjoys its texture. "If you knew everything, you would not seek out all information at once, but rather utilize what is necessary to apply. And thus; there are things that fall through the cracks. I may know everything, but if it is not presented, why think of it? There are better scenes to watch."

\---

Martin blinks. “I mean _ experiencing. _ You can have all the knowledge in your head without knowing any of it at all, not really. I know what a - a whale looks like, but I’ve never experienced one. I think it must be much cooler than just seeing a picture.” 

Martin sees fit to nudge them along again, nuzzling the top of the Archivist’s head at one side like that’s the most reasonable way to get them moving.

\---

He very carefully puts the starfish back down, pushing some of the sand back over it so it will feel a little more protected in its buried preferences. With that, he follows, pulling his hands from the water and shaking them violently to get the droplets off of him. 

"I... Am learning that, yes," He says.

\---

“You’re learning! It’s amazing. And frustrating, sometimes! But still amazing.” Martin stretches out both arms to face Sirius head-on in front of a massive tank that spans a large section of the wall. His silhouette has a soft blue glow from the glass behind him. “I love showing you.”

\---

His gaze stays on Martin for a long moment, and a small smile grows on his face as he regards him; fish swim behind him, unaware or uncaring, but it does not matter. Their backdrop just makes Martin seem all the more alive, alive in ways that confound and confuse and, yes, frustrate Sirius. 

"These tanks make me not want to give Jon back." It's... A joke? He believes. Hard to say how humor translates, or if he even knows how to use it correctly. But it's said with the same flat tone as everything else.

\---

Martin laughs, because he knows. He knows that it’s a joke, and he knows that if that were the case he’d have to be the one to kill him. It’s all very funny. “I like being your messenger. I think I found my calling. I’m just Gabriel’s horn. They call him the left hand of God. Did you know I’m left-handed?” 

Martin swivels around, both hands on his hips as he looks up. Up, up, up. Into the water. Into the tanks. Words and knowledge he doesn’t have coming out in babbled sentences. “He blows the horn on judgment day. I guess that’s what the end of the world is. Maybe I’m even a  _ Hermes. _ I’ll have to come up with a better name than Martin. It’s such a small name.”

\---

"Names always begin small. The power grows with their inhabitants. Even Gabriel was once just a mere angel." His smile grows, and he stays standing behind him, watching him, more than the water, than the fish, the creatures. Just Martin. Just his Messenger.

\---

Something is swelling within him. All this bouncing around today has left him overcharged in a way he’d like to not put away. A way he doesn’t want to put away. Important, Martin Blackwood. Loved, Martin Blackwood. Owned, Martin Blackwood. 

“It’s a story about the moon. And the sun. And a satellite. And a planet. And all the stars they can see around them. The one I’ve been writing. I’m not afraid right now. I think I’m okay.”

\---

"You shouldn't be afraid. You are safe with me." He steps closer, and after a long moment of deliberation, he steps up beside him at the tank and takes hold of his hand, finger slotting neatly with Martin's. It just feels right. It feels good. And he has enjoyed the contact Martin's been giving him today. 

Maybe he shouldn't. It's hard to deny himself, though, right now.

\---

“It’s hard to wrap my head around being special enough for that. That it’s not just some fluke. That it couldn’t just be anyone. There are billions of people in this world. I don’t even know what a million looks like in one space.” 

Martin grips him tightly and uses that to spur himself mentally onward. His free hand trails the walls, following a bluefin that has decided to keep pace with them. “I think I want to talk to all of them, if I can. I want to find out who they are. All the fears. What they have to say. What they want to learn.”

\---

That earns Martin a huff. "You have not even truly met one. I am just a piece. Michael was just a piece. Meeting a drone and assuming you have met the queen, let alone the entire colony."

\---

Martin smiles down at him. “I don’t need to know everything. Or speak directly to the heart of them. I’m just here to pass the messages along.”

He inhales, turning down to look at the floor. They’ve stepped into a circular room, where the glass below shows an endless sea of bioluminescent jellyfish. His mouth just opens. “I was nice to the spider in the shed on that... my friend’s... I can’t even remember what they looked like, but the spider— I was nice to her, and she took a cow instead of me. Because I was nice to her. I’ve just been nice.”

\---

"Nice enough to save yourself. And those close to you. With expenses, I suppose." He stands stock still in the room, and after a moment, he gets down, crouching first, and then just down on his knees, so he can lower himself as close to the floor, to the glass, as he may, watching the jellyfish bounce about with an artificial current.

"I told you you would be a good Messenger. And look. How social you are. A better conduit to my siblings than I am."

\---

“I’m a social butterfly,” Martin says, only half-sarcastically. “Maybe your job isn’t to be a conduit. Maybe your job is to experience. We don’t have all the answers.” 

Martin joins him on the floor, knees over glass bent in supplication to his God-Companion and the moon jellyfish that surround them.

\---

"The ocean sunfish and the sea turtle eat these," The Archivist says quietly, his palms to the glass. "And the circles in their head are their genitals. They reproduce every day. There is a subspecies that ages in reverse. I think my job is changing."

\---

“Amazing animal facts that sort of disturb me! Maybe don’t do tours with kids.” Martin snorts, mimicking the gesture with his hands pressed to the floor. “What do you think it’s turning into?”

\---

"I don't know," He says, so quietly, like he's in a confessional booth and the jellies are his priest. But it's just Martin. He tracks one jelly to see if he can, if it'll just get lost in the crowd, his eyes moving with slowness, deliberate in the jelly's laissez-faire passivity.

He loses it when it floats under Martin's body, lost in the crowd. "That's the issue."

\---

“You’ll find out. You’re good at learning. And finding things. I don’t think you have to worry.” Martin moves to settle criss-cross over the floor. 

\---

"It's not supposed to change." He looks up for a moment, just a moment, his eyes reflecting the jellies below, making them look like they're glowing, almost. He looks back down. "There are more and more of the moon jellies each year. Their predators are dying. Over-fishing. It allows them to spread, take over, prosper."

\---

“Good news for the moon jellies,” Martin mutters, unsure if maybe he’s missing something. 

Or maybe Sirius is just comfortable doing what he knows best. “Do you want to keep walking?”

\---

Sirius is quiet for a moment, eyes still locked on the floor, but he eventually nods and pulls himself back to his feet, grunting a little from the effort. "Yes. We can. Why do you want a house so badly?"

\---

“I’ve never had a house. I want a place to call mine. With people I love.” Martin stands with him, a shy smile stuck to his face. “I want to wake up in the morning and never be allowed to forget that I’m loved, I guess. And have projects. Leave a mark on the world. Make a home.”

\---

He nods, back to standing straight and stiff as they walk, contemplating it. "I already told you I do like the idea. Jonathan will soon outgrow the Institute, regardless. It was a good first step to develop him, to pupate him, but he will need something grander to cocoon in later. I do not want him so bound and reliant upon the Institute."

\---

“Our furniture has outgrown the Institute.” Martin snorts, but the comical tone fizzles out. “What is he, a moth?”

\---

"Hm. It's an apt metaphor. He still has some growing to do, even as his dreams become... More vivid. I haven't felt the same progress from this body as I did at first."

\---

“Mm.” Martin reaches for his hand and brings them along the trail again, deciding that Jon’s growth isn’t exactly the best of conversational topics. “Do you think you’d prefer a play or a movie?”

\---

"They... Seem to be very different. A play, I suppose. One of humanity's first forms of art. Film is...Newer."

\---

“We could see a play,” Martin says, heavy on the  _ hypothetically. _ “We could go to a pier. We could go to a fair, with Ferris wheels, you’d like cotton candy, there’s— We can do a lot of things. I don’t know how Observatories work, but that might be fun.”

\---

Sirius smiles. "I would enjoy those, yes. Have you done these things? Before?"

\---

“I never had anyone to do them with. Not really. I’ve seen movies, I’ve eaten cotton candy, I’ve never had a telescope. I’ve sat on roofs before? We— I want to stargaze. But it’s cloudy. Maybe it’ll clear up by tonight.”

\---

Sirius follows dutifully, thinking about all the activities Martin just... Has in his mind. Maybe humans are rather busy. Busier than he assumed. So many little mundanities to fill their hours, and they all sound excellent to him. For him to experience. Not just Know. Not just See, but to be a part of. 

Something's wrong, that much is clear. But it's hard to pay attention to that, when it feels nice. When Martin stringing him along to experience feels delightful and novel. 

"Do you like your body, Martin?" He asks.

\---

“Um, depends on what you mean by ‘like’.” Martin shrugs. “I don’t hate it. Physically. It’s a— I mean, sort of a vessel to do things with. It works, that’s important! And I, I guess other people like looking at it. I don’t think about it much.” 

He looks down at Sirius with a tilt of his head. “Why?”

\---

His shoulders roll in an approximation of a shrug. "I don't know if I like this body." He looks down at himself. "But I don't dislike it. It becomes more comfortable every time I am privy to use it. I don't know how people regard their bodies."

\---

“I think most people are... okay? With their bodies? If they work. I-I don’t know. Everyone gets self-conscious. Jon needs to get better at taking care of himself. Well—“ Martin shrugs again. “It’s a group effort. It’s a weird feeling. Remembering you have a body. I can’t imagine it’s any easier for you.”

\---

"It's... peculiar." He flexes the fingers on his free hand, looking at the way they move. "Small. It makes me feel small. Microscopic."

\---

“Sometimes it’s nice to be small. There are worse things to be. And— And you can still do amazing things and be small.”

\---

"I don't mean small as bad, merely... Peculiar. It-- you can't understand how large, _ unending, _ a cosmos, I was part of." He turns his head up as they walk, his hand still tightly wound with Martin's. "I would return, at first. I haven't been. I've been staying in here." He presses his free hand to his chest.

\---

“Why? Is it better here?”

\---

"'Here' implies I was in a space before. I wasn't. Not really. It was nothing... Physical. Or even mental. Just energy. Just drive. Just hunger." He goes quiet for a moment, to the end of the hall and into the opening of the next exhibit room. 

"I... I don't know. I suppose I hadn't realized I was doing it, until now."

\---

“Have you and Jon been talking? In there? I still don’t know what you get up to, other than... dreams, but—“ Martin scrunches up his nose. “Do you go in mine?”

\---

"Not often. He still does not enjoy speaking to me. More than we once did, though. He will respond to me, now, at least. I merely... follow along." He shakes his head. "I haven't been, no. It is easier to follow Jon. And it is easier to pull truths from you, rather than dreams."

\---

“I guess they’re not usually that interesting anyway.” He doesn’t say it with disdain, but rather matter-of-factly, passing along through the exhibit halls without much else to say. “Would you... want more days like this?”

\---

"I think so. I think I shall start taking the mody more often, regardless. Jon can sleep."

\---

"That's something you both--" Martin tries not to tense up. It doesn't work. "If you both want-- If he wants, I mean, I--" 

Ugh. He hates this problem. "It's hard to balance loving him and wanting to help you."

\---

"Hm. Well. I will ask him. But sometimes I am not going to give him the choice. He has had a body for thirty consecutive years." He ignores the way Martin tenses, continuing to walk.

\---

"...Yes, but it's still... his, technically. However you both end up-- I just want to... I mean, it's not up to me, but I'd like to know what - what terms you're on, together, um, you know." He isn't sure he hates the air dragging words from his mouth. "I'm afraid of waking up one day and he's just gone forever."

\---

The Archivist shakes his head. "He won't be gone forever. I do... Not know everything the future brings. But he will not be erased entirely unless he wants that."

\---

"Good. That's good. Yay. I prefer the world with him in it! Just-- Just saying."


	75. Chapter 75

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're all very sorry that the 'Institute gym' joke became part of this story in any serious capacity.

The problem with saving and fighting and planning and dealing with entity after entity after entity is that Michael wakes up earlier than either Jon or Martin one morning, and realizes with a start that he hasn't gotten any gifts, and it's perilously close to Christmas.

A lapsed catholic he may be, and he's rather certain no one in the Archives is a Christian, but buying gifts isn't a sin, and, well, maybe it'll calm everyone down. Just a tad. Who doesn't want something nice near the longest, hardest, coldest night? Even the pagans like that.

So he grabs the locket-- he's not stupid, and as independent as he is, Gerry is good at keeping him on track, especially lately, and that might come in handy with gifts-- and moves to the main office, so as to not wake up the lovebirds.

He plants himself on the floor and begins to stretch, body always tight from sleeping curled up against Martin, and he calls forth Gerry, who arrives just as Michael is lighting up one of Jon's cigarettes. He pays no mind to Mike, but Gerry does, saying not a word to Michael in assumption that Mike needs assistance.

\---

Mike has barely gotten a chance to greet Michael - who seems lost in thought, besides - when Gerard appears. His own breaths are shallow and sporadic as his body relearns how to forget the need that isn’t, a trauma that is more physical than mental clearing from his system. 

He’s curled up impossibly small on one side of the couch they’ve given him. The feverish period has mostly passed, and now it’s about his internals healing to full capacity and gaining the stamina back. He is appreciative of their help, and prefers to see the situation as having been a combination of errors on all sides. That includes his. 

They are very open about their lives. Mike has seen enough that might give others with more nefarious plans pause, but he is not one for _ that _ nefarious planning. Mostly, he wants to go home, back to business as usual, but this isn’t something he can quite handle yet. On the mend. 

“Good morning, Gerard,” he says quietly from his corner, and makes no moves that say help me. “Michael.”

\---

"Hi. Feeling better? You're looking slightly better. Cat curled up on a bed, you are." Gerard greets, and rakes his eyes over Mike's body, specific attention to wounds that will soon not need such tight bandaging.

"Ugh. You've just woken up. Don't go all Nurse Keay now. I want to go _ shopping." _

"You want me to go shopping with you." that gives Gerry pause enough to look behind him, squinting a little, and then down at himself. Huh. Michael's made sure he has a coat on. Surprisingly kind and full of forethought, even if it is presumptuous.

"Christmas is soon."

\---

Mike makes no comment, since he can’t argue with the way he looks. Pillow tucked under his arm wrapped around it, knees up near his stomach, he barely takes up half the couch. 

“I feel... fine, but I also haven’t tried to move yet. We’ll see, I suppose. You celebrate holidays, here?”

\---

"No." Gerry says, and frowns. "Or, I mean, I don't. Never have. Michael, you're a Christian?"

"I dunno. Was. Grew up with it. Doesn't matter. I want to buy gifts. Mother Mary or no." He scowls at them both, like Mike's involved in whatever judgment Gerry is landing him, too.

"No Mother Mary, indeed." He looks to Mike conspiratorially. "Godhead and avatar of the Spiral, and he's worried about _ Christmas. _ I worry about him."

\---

Mike is not conspiring. “I... think it’s kind to think about doing that. Your friends seem very tense. I can’t imagine gifts will make them any more so. Will you have a tree?”

\---

"I've gotten away with a lot, but I doubt Elias would look kindly on me bringing a tree into the Institute." Michael frowns. He hadn't even thought of it.

\---

“...No tree, then.” Mike lifts his head, blinking a few times in rapid succession to clear the vertigo. “If you leave, would you— Would I be able to... join... you? I need—“ 

His eyes swivel down to the remnants of scarf he is still determined to keep around. “—A new scarf. And... a new coat.”

\---

Michael brightens immediately. "Yes! Yes. Absolutely. Yes. Nurse Keay, a prognosis?"

Gerry scowls a little at them both and then looks to Mike a little softer. "You think you can manage?"

\---

Mike smiles at Michael. Then he catches Gerard’s face and swallows it down. “I can try. In the event that I fail, I’m sure I could... take a cab back. If needed.” He starts to push his weight up, using the pillow to balance his good palm flat against. It’s slow, but steady. “I’ll just need a few minutes if you can spare them.”

\---

Michael snorts. "I haven't even dressed yet. Not all of us can manifest clothes like our lovely witch here. We've got time."

He leans a little closer, down farther than the stretch he's doing needs. "I think Martin's taking  _ him _ out today, too. Good day to get out."

Gerry gives Michael a thin-lipped look and nods. "Maybe so."

\---

Mike watches them talk, back and forth and back and forth, as he’s grown used to the past few days. There’s something rather grim about the topic suddenly at hand, and he isn’t sure he wants to involve himself in that subtle dread. 

Except now he definitely wants to leave. Unsure what that all means. He adds all that he can add. “It’s probably going to be very windy today.”

\---

"Ugh. I'll definitely need to wash my hair then. I'm not walking about in wind with my hair down." Michael slowly brings himself to stand, aching pops and creaks the finishing highlight to his impromptu yoga session.

\---

Mike does not want to acknowledge the current state of his hygiene. He lifts his arm, where fresh bandages wrap up to the shoulder. “When can I shower with... these? Without these?”

\---

"Can you even do it on your own? Are you going to need help?" Michael tilts his head at him.

Gerry purses his lips. "I'd rather he did get help. I don't want to deal with reopening wounds."

\---

“Am I...” Mike’s expression blanks out. “...Help? Sorry, what?”

\---

"I don't want you reopening your wounds. If rather you had some assistance in the shower."

Michael snorts. "Unless you wanna take a whore bath in the sink."

\---

“...Ah. Right.” Mike squints in Michael’s direction, head cocked into a messy-haired pout of some sort. It makes him look very young, for what he is. “I’d rather not, thank you. You have practice with this, do you, Gerard?”

\---

Gerry shrugs. "Guess so. Some. Mostly just what I've had happen to me and what I had to deal with on my own. If you can move fine, it's one thing, otherwise, it might just be easier."

\---

He tries to stand. It helps that he’s motivated, but that can only take him so far. His bad arm held close to his chest and his good one splayed out in front of him to hold balance, he looks like a fool. 

“Maybe we can start with just my hair. I can... I can wait, on the rest.”

\---

"Ugh. You were in a _ fire. _ You do know you stink, right?" Michael rolls his eyes. "Whatever you're good with."

\---

“I’m— Sorry, I’ve been preoccupied, with...” Mike looks gravely at the floor, shoulders hiked up defensively while trying not to seem defensive. “Is it that bad?”

\---

"Probably not. Don't let Michael's over exaggerations consume you. Seriously. He's an idiot." Gerry rolls his eyes. "Besides. We've all seen each other at our worst. Don't feel embarrassed."

Michael scoffs. "Says the freak ghost with no sense of smell!"

\---

“I don’t think I have seen you at your worst, but I’ll... take your word for it.” Mike moves a couple of steps and reaches out for the nearest chair, which he uses to hold the rest of his entire body up. “I might need help. I... don’t want to ask that of you, really.”

\---

"You're not. We're offering." Gerry rolls his eyes. "That politeness, while cute, will be the death of you. Lean on Michael if you need, on the way up to the showers."

\---

”Cute? It’s kept everyone away from me. My last brush with an open flame only ended well for that.” Mike sighs heavily, vaguely frustrated, looking back at Michael to visually beg him to do exactly that. “I know when I can’t use words anymore. I’m also exceptionally cautious, considering... my surroundings.”

\---

"Yeah. It's okay, it's just--" Michael tilts his head. "Unexpected? Don't think I'm used to politeness. Past the fake shit I had to act like as a kid. 'Now Michael, be a good lass, use your manners.' That shit. And Gerry's an asshole. Just unused to it!"

\---

“I don’t... know if I was a polite kid. A... A bit of a thrill-seeker, but not at all, really.” His voice is mostly flat as he speaks. “No one ever made me act anything. They asked the same questions, and nothing else about me mattered much. You’ve been... very kind, to me.”

\---

"Depressing. The same questions? Hello? And you're easy to be nice to." Michael shrugs. "You got it? Walking? Or you need help?"

\---

“The scars, the... phobia, that was about all anyone could ask about. Books were the only thing I really had, honestly. I could talk about books.” Mike takes a few steps towards the door, seemingly forgetting what he was talking about. Slow, painstaking, single-tracking wolf. “I don’t know where your shower is.”

\---

"Gym on the first floor," Michael says. "It's awful. I want a house so bad, if only to have a bathtub."

Gerry follows behind Mike slowly, just in case he falls. "Least we always have our books."

\---

“Yes, we do. Until they turn on you, hm?” Mike uses the wall to walk, again, which only makes the feelings of suffocation worse, but it’s doable. “They... well, I suppose they always turn on you, with  _ these _ books. I can only think of one that didn’t, and only because I knew what I was doing.”

\---

"The entities can be kind for a while after you give yourself to them, I suppose," Gerry says, and snorts. "And I guess yours is... Appropriately distant."

\---

“Distant and not. Distance is all around you. My rapture of choice is in everything around us, it  _ is _ the everything around us. Walls are only helpful for pretending it isn’t.” 

Mike pauses in his walk, realizing he was rambling. He was rambling, and it had felt... good? Odd.

\---

"Well at least you're _ passionate.  _ Our gaggle of Eye-touched freaks are definitely more reluctant than you are. So kudos to that." Gerry pauses with him, eyes raking over his bandages again, afraid he pulled something.

\---

Mike continues along his careful walk, desperate for the refuge of the elevator up ahead. “I... don’t have clothes to change into.”

\---

"You're probably Jon's size, thereabouts. He's not much taller than you. Can just borrow something of his. And then we can grab some clothes when you're out... scarf shopping." Michael jabs the elevator button.

\---

“If that’s alright, yes.” Mike immediately presses his back against one of the corners to take the work out of holding himself up. “You can still get cold up there. Not  _ as  _ cold, but still cold. Scarves are about as much as I need.”

\---

"All you need-- that--" Michael giggles. "Now I'm picturing you ass naked with just a scarf covering you. Watch out! The fearsome Vast avatar! Tits to the wind!"

\---

“No, I-I don’t mean that way, a light coat, a scarf, pants, not always shoes, but I don’t...” He’s trying not to smile, but it slips out anyway. “It’s not like anyone can see you up there.”

\---

"Aha! More evidence to suggest you've at least tried it. Right Gerry?"

"Is this just some elaborate ploy to justify you running around your Hallways naked?"

"No. Of course I did that. But I wasn't a-a a pervert who only wore a scarf!" He's grinning.

\---

“I told you I didn’t!” Mike laughs, a small and weak but genuine laugh. “But I have thought about it.”

\---

Michael laughs, too, high and giggly. "Hysterical. How fearsome." the elevator lands on the right floor, and Gerry steps out, followed by Michael. It's the first floor, but they used an elevator deeper into the Institute so they wouldn't have to run about the lobby, closer to the showers in the gym room.

\---

Mike waits until the other two are clear of the elevator to join them. He hesitantly reaches for Michael’s arm to stabilize the rest of the journey, his body trying to figure out where exactly to pump blood with all the upright motions he’s been making. “This is a strange building.”

\---

Michael holds his arm out amicably, and then nods. "I suppose that's what happens with two hundred years of nepotism in action."

\---

“...Yes. I suppose.” He watches Gerard and Michael to figure out what the protocol is for this place, having never been anywhere like this. He barely spends time in his own flat, let alone at a gym, or any public space that has... an amount of people in it.

\---

Gerry opens the door to the gym for them and Michael marches them to the showers. "I'd love to be able to shower on my own floor, but this place is a nightmare, so we make do."

And indeed, more of those caddies they've filed away. Not many employees use this space. Michael wonders if it's the bygone Era of a health kick their illustrious Mr. Magnus went through.

\---

“Is there... a reason, you live here and not a house? I would assume, but— There are quite a few of you.”

\---

"Hah! It's--"

"I guess we're working on it," Gerry says, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms.

"Jon's from the future and he got all paranoid and stays here. And then Martin got all paranoid from an incident with the Corruption-- ugh, disgusting-- and stayed here, and Gerry's a spirit so he hardly counts with the space of things, and I, uh, have been legally dead since 2011 and had nowhere to go." Michael blinks. "We're working on getting a house."

\---

Mike blinks back. A little pocket mirror. “Oh. I hope that goes well.” 

He steps back from Michael and stands awkwardly between them both. With his good hand, he starts to shrug off the rest of his coat, letting it pool around him at the floor. “How... How is this going to work?”

\---

Michael shrugs. "We could just shower together. Be easiest. Or you could just do what you can and me or Gerry can help where you need it."

\---

“I...” That is quite the offer. Not really, not in the grand scheme of things, and he would rather feel better after a bit of awkwardness than continue to suffer, but. “Is that not weird for you? I would think that’s something most people wouldn’t... offer, to strangers. Save those in a genuine medical field.”

He pauses just long enough that the awkwardness comes not from the situation but from the way he speaks. “I don’t talk to many people.”

\---

Michael tilts his head as he thinks. "Sure it's weird. I mean-- doesn't matter much, to me. I was an avatar of sheer madness. But- but I mean beyond that, it's-- it just doesn't matter much to me? It's just helping out. And it's just nudity."

\---

“Nudity has been spoiled for me. Just... don’t, don’t say anything.” 

He steps away from the coat, and with enough of his mobility restored he can remove his shirt. The fractal pattern arcs, mostly down his spine, but certain portions of raised skin reflect with bright colors along his chest. Not two neat cuts that betray a surgical precision, but veins lit up from electrical energy blending into something cut and morphed. They all connect into one visual highway of lines beneath the skin. 

He has a tougher time with his pants, loose enough not to hug his body but still buttoned, and buttons... don’t mesh well with single-handed efforts. Especially not when said hand shakes.

\---

Well, Michael certainly thinks he looks beautiful, but he's being good, and Mike asked him not to say anything, and so he doesn't, just gives him a cursory look over he can't help, a small smile playing on his lips. 

"Do you need help?" He asks instead.

\---

Mike shakes his head at first, tiny and almost imperceptible as a gesture. But he still struggles, and perseverance doesn’t pay off. In fact, the longer it takes, the worse he feels. 

“Yes,” he sighs, pulling his hand away.

\---

"No worries," Michael says, and steps closer. He doesn't draw it out. Clinical. Platonic, as unbuttoning another man's trousers can be. "Had surgery once. Could barely do anything for like, weeks. Partially the meds, honestly. It's frustrating. But helps to have someone there. I didn't, really."

\---

“Thank you.” Mike hesitates once down to his briefs, covering his chest by habit as he stands there nearly naked in front of both of them. “I don’t trust myself to not get the bandages wet. I’m not opposed to help. It would... also waste less water?”

\---

"Mike Crew, I don't think you're one to start professing to the sanctity of resources and life on this planet," Gerry says, snorting.

Michael's already pulling his shirt off, far less reservation than his namesake counterpart. "Yeah, yeah, we can just shower together, it'll be quick. Gerry should probably still change 'em when we're done here."

\---

“I’ve powered a few wind turbines. Like I’ve mentioned, I do enjoy this planet. There is little point in harnessing the weather if it’s all acid rain, air pollution, and acrid clouds.”

\---

Gerry wriggles his fingers as spooky as he can. "That's for the Extinction. Watch out!"

\---

“Yes. I’m not too worried about the Extinction.” Mike holds his thumb just beneath his briefs, waiting on Michael and pointedly not looking too hard in his direction. Oh, what physical pain has done to him.

\---

Michael notices, though, and it makes him laugh. He steps close again, his shirt abandoned to the floor, and says, "Need more help? Wow, you're running past all the bases, and with very little of the rewards." That earns an exasperated huff from Gerry.

\---

“Ah. No, I’m just— I’m waiting. The water. And... sorry.” He gives an odd, confused smile with Michael so close. “I think the reward of not being caked in my own sweat is... is good, for me.”

\---

"Oh! Okay. You can just-- it's not rude to just tell me what you need, you know." He steps back and leans into the shower stall to start the water, waiting for it to warm up before he even attempts to step in.

\---

“Oh, no, I know. It’s—“ Mike puts a stopper on the stammer. “More that I don’t know... how, exactly. This is a very confusing experience.”

\---

"No doubt." He steps into the stall after pulling his sleep pants off, and pulls his head out long enough to give him a little grin. "Spiral a little, it'll get easier." He switches his attention to Gerry. "Geerrrrry, go get us  _ clooothes _ since you're just standing there being a creepy goth as per usual."

He tests the water-- it's fine-- and then tries to splash Gerry in the face by flocking his fingers at him, to no avail. The ghost just sighs and says, "Don't get into trouble."

\---

Mike goes silent until they finish their dialogue, stuck in the expanse of his own head. 

He, unfortunately, does not share any positive connotations. “No. I think I’ve had enough of the Spiral to last a lifetime.” He does remove his briefs, after that, and keeps to the corner of the stall, unsure of where to go from here.

\---

"Mm," Michael hums as he wets his hair, all the volume and curls running rivulets of water down his back and shoulders. "Me too, probably. But old habits die hard. I didn't choose to be an avatar."

He steps aside to start shampooing, and gestures for Mike to take his place, do what he can on his own.

\---

“But you still... chose, didn’t you? In a way. I’m not very familiar with... that aspect of the Spiral.” 

Mike takes his place, starting on his good side. He stands there for... a long time, under the warmth of the water, and soon he’s holding his face and his breath beneath it with his eyes shut. No thoughts. Head empty.

\---

"No, not really," Michael says, piling sudsy hair on top of his head. "I suppose it fit, in a way, but I was sacrificed to-- to it. Eaten. Became it." He shrugs. "I didn't get to say yes."

\---

Mike cracks an eye open, speaking around the downpour. “But you... are now here. I was under the impression it could only be rescinded with death?”

\---

"Our Martin is very adept at... Rituals." He cocks his head. "I was dead, for all intents and purposes. I think--" He expression gets a little lost; it's hard to think about. Existential. "I think he recreated my body. He pulled me from the Distortion. And now someone else is it."

\---

“Oh. Interesting.” Going to take a while to absorb that, isn’t it? He steps with his back to the water, still under the spray, to find the shampoo. Ah. One hand. He points to the bottle and opens up his palm. “Please?”

\---

Michael dips his head and does as he asks, squeezing a dollop into his hand, stepping close as he does so to try and take his spot under the spray. "Switch with me so I can rinse mine out.”

\---

“...Okay.” Heavy on the hesitation to get back out into the cold. He runs the hand through his hair and revels in how easily it cleans up, something you can only sense after the crud and gunk is scrubbed away. “Thank you, again. For... everything. I’m sure I owe you a great deal.”

\---

"Eh. Maybe. Doubt anyone cares much. Better than leaving you to die." He's quiet for a moment, scrubbing at his place eyes to open then without threat of getting soap in them. "Insane as they are, Martin and Jon are... Kind. They try to help, even if they mess up."

\---

“All I understood of them was that they weren’t keen on strangers. At least— That, I understand, from... Martin? And apparently knowing that I... tried to kill one of them, in... I don’t know why I would do that.” Mike frowns. “As he is now, I don’t think it would be very wise to confront him. A very potent air about that.”

\---

Michael clicks his tongue. "Martin's just all jealous cause the Hunt'a got him. And Jon's like, like one of those dogs you adopt but it probably should have just been put down cause it's just too damn nervous." He's joking, obviously. Trust him. "Maybe he'll calm down, after today. Who knows."

\---

“Why today? Your gifts?”

\---

Michael shrugs. "He's going out. Dunno what exactly. But he's been excited for it. Just depends." He strings out the rest of his hair and steps out of the spray, beckoning for Mike to take it over again. He pulls the conditioner bottle out next. "Sometimes Jon's got a mean part."

\---

“I... will keep that in mind.” Mike gladly returns to the spray, openly smiling at the comfort it brings. “I can see it on him, in a sense. Death with no decay. Eyes in every direction.”

\---

Michael nods. "He died in a far more literal way than either of us. I saw it. From afar, of course, deep within my own belly, but I saw it. He houses a lot."

\---

“Ah. Yes.” Mike squints down to the tile below. “I never died. But I stopped... being alive, I believe. My body never hit the ground. I’ve never had anyone to tell this. Your company is unusual to me. This— That isn’t a bad thing.”

\---

"Nice to be around fellow freaks of nature, sometimes," Michael says around a smile, stringing his fingers through the locks of hair to ensure the conditioner gets through it all. "Jon was murdered. You ascended, I guess, quite literally. I unspooled."

\---

“Freaks of nature.” He repeats the tone, positive and not lobbed as insult. How nice. “Grand. We’re an eclectic bunch, us avatars. Maybe I ought to invite him out for tea to clear the tension.”

\---

"He's quite like that, I think. Hm... Yes, I think so. He goes on tea dates with another avatar, sometimes." Michael rolls his eyes. "It's sickeningly British, I must say, but who am I to talk! I had a mad hatter tea party with Martin in my guts!"

\---

“...”

“......”

“...Ah. Well, it seems to have— To have worked out for you.” 

Water is flowing into his face, but Mike doesn’t particularly care. He is naked in a shower with a near-stranger and Ex-Spiral and he would like to stop conjuring images of whatever that could possibly mean. “...Could I have the conditioner?”

\---

"If you switch with me, dear," Michael says, and flourishes the bottle over to him and attempts to do just that, wanting to clean the rest of his hair. He'll have to braid it, so the dampness in the cold isn't too bad.

\---

Mike takes some and switches back out, faster this time. Michael is a very odd person. He would like to no longer be naked. Not because of anything Michael did, but he’s rarely ever naked to begin with. Not much for nudity. Walking around their Institute without his shoes on is already strange enough. 

Some of the water has gotten on the bandages, but he’s been careful. His shoulder is sore with the effort to hold it at so many odd angles, but it’s better for him in the long run— No more run-ins with the angry nurse, thank you very much.

\---

Michael rinses everything from his hair quickly, and then washes his body with the same swiftness, wanting to give the rest of the hot water before it goes cold to Mike. He's rather surprised with how amicable the little Vast is, but he isn't complaining.

He has scarcely talked to anyone not in his own little troupe of merry men since he died and was reborn. It feels nice. And it's not like he can talk to many normal folk without them reading him as.... As too fucked up to function.

\---

Mike figures he can wait until he’s... free, or mobile enough to do more than a cursory remove-soot-dust-scorch across his body. This is, somehow, an overall good experience for him. 

The hot water does definitely keep him tame. He likes it very much. He also refuses to leave it until Gerard returns with clothes.

\---

Gerard doesn't come until Michael's getting ready to towel off, having taken the silence as a chance to hum under his breath. The ghost arrives with clothes thrown into a bag, so he didn't have to shoulder all the loose clothes and weight himself, dumping it onto the counter.

"Assumed you wouldn't mind a sweater and some trousers," He announces to Mike, and tosses jeans and a shirt to Michael as he steps out of the stall.

\---

“No, I don’t mind.” He finds a towel and quickly realizes how terribly he’s about to dry himself off as he... does just that. He can manage it, somewhat awkwardly, and standing up for so long has helped his blood circulate, but—

He still does his best. He doesn’t dry his hair completely, and his struggle to put on clothes is just that, a struggle, but it could absolutely be worse. He pauses before the sweater. “Bandages?”

\---

"We should probably replace them. Especially if you're gonna be out with us all day." Gerry nods, and pulls out a spool of gauze and neosporin from the bag. "C'mere. I'll help you take them off."

\---

Mike finds one of the benches and settles in. It feels depressingly good to get off his feet after a short time. Holding out his arm is basically muscle memory now, and he does so with little fanfare and a little yet notably not absent sense of pride at being easy to take care of.

\---

Feel all the pride you want, Mike, because Gerry certainly appreciates it. Enough so that he smiles as he unwraps the bandages, and says, "For a being that inherently makes selfish choices, you might just be the most unselfish man I've met in a long time, Mike."

He lets the wrappings fall to the ground, his gaze immediately on the wounds to watch how they're healing. The nice thing about being a ghost is he can poke and prod without any sensation, or very little, to fully see what's happening. They're healing well.

\---

Mike smiles. Neutral. Curt. “You’ve seen very little of me, Gerard. I’d like to believe I’m as selfish as a man searching for his own means of safety needs to be on a good day.”He hums. “And, perhaps you’ve met many selfish people.”

\---

Gerry dips his head in admission. "Got me there. I've been in this life since I was born. Not too many philanthropists running around while they're worshipping entities."

\---

“Mm. It starts with one. Remember, Gerard? You’re a future novelist.”

\---

"Oh, yeah." He says, but there's a twinkling smile in his eyes. "Forgot about my newest passion." He covers the wounds in ointment, giving him another look-over. "You sure you have the strength to go out?"

\---

“No,” Mike confesses. “But I won’t know if I don’t try. And I would like to prove I’m on the mend well enough to go home. The air will help.”

\---

Gerard shrugs. "Alright." He'll extend his trust. He starts wrapping him back up.

\---

It works out for all of them that the creature they’ve set loose in their wolf’s den is not one who would like to destroy them from the inside. 

Mike waits until he’s released to start working on the sweater, ignorant of how extremely ridiculous he looks while doing it. But it ends up over his head, and that’s what matters. “How does it look?”

\---

"Like a sweater," Gerard says, and steps back from him, nodding in satisfaction. Clean patient, clean Michael, job well-done. "Good enough?"

\---

“Yes. Though I will admit I hope I find something more my speed while we’re out today.” Mike glances to Michael, aiming a smile in his direction. “I’m... I’m ready to leave.”

\---

Michael beams at him, but he has to run upstairs first, since their lovely resident ghost didn't think to grab his wallet or his coat or his shoes when he was being so kind as to bring their clothes for them. He meets them back downstairs, tugging on his coat a little frantically as he reaches them.

"Okay! Mission: find Mike a scarf, and find _ gifts. _ Easy."


	76. Chapter 76

Logically, the next step over from an aquarium is the real thing. Choppy, frigid waves, an obscuring fog stretched miles from the shore clinging to the edges of the wooden walkway. No grand fish to be seen above the water, but water nonetheless, and beautiful in its own sort of way. 

Martin can appreciate the gloom. Once, he might have loved it, walked deep into the mist never to be spat back out, but he’s a different person now. 

One who thinks that beauty is best seen in the grim reality of his lover’s body being shared by a god that seems to trust his judgment. 

There are boats tethered to poles and some out at a distance, lights just bright enough to betray their presence as they bob along the surface. Their own collection of earthbound stars. Gulls pass overhead with curious glances that soon turn disinterested at the first sign of nothing to steal. 

“What do you think?” The planet asks the moon.

\---

Sirius drinks in the horizon, his chest expanding in a great deep breath to pull in the sea air. His gaze drifts up, and then down to the water, and his arms shiver in goosebumps. Oh, how Jon's baptism was his birth cradle.

"It's nice," He says, distant, his eyes trained to capture everything. Anything. "Water is sacred."

\---

_ “‘It’s nice’,”  _ Martin scoffs. “There’s a whole  _ world _ under there. We don’t even know what’s down there in - in so many places. New animals and old wrecks and whole cities just... just waiting.”

\---

"I can know them, if I choose." Sirius finally turns to look at Martin, and he smiles. "Yes, it's nice. And they are unaware of us all."

\---

“I think it’s nicer if we find them on our own. Otherwise there’s— There’s no point, right? To doing all of this. Imagine being the first person to discover something. And getting to share that.”

\---

Sirius hums. "I know plenty that others don't. I could share... Quite a lot that humans have no capacity to know. I suppose it will be... Nice... To share that knowledge with the world at large."

\---

“They have the capacity to know it, I think. You’d be surprised. I mean, there’s billions of us, so— Chances are, you’ll find someone who might get it. Or something.”

\---

He goes quiet as he thinks, looking over the water. The breeze plays at his hair, and then he slowly lowers himself to sit on the ground. The lump in his throat is back.

"Sit with me."

\---

Martin follows Sirius to the floor, damp wooden planks for yards and yards and yards. Just enough space between them to peer down to the water below, the barnacles clustered around old columns as choppy water slams against them at all sides. 

He sits across from him and waits.

\---

"You have been kind to me," He says at length, keeping his eyes on the water. "Not just today. From the beginning. I came to this world, and immediately, I believe a small part of me belonged to you. And you mine."

He goes quiet for a long beat. "I am afraid of and for the future."

\---

“It’s okay to be afraid. You have a voice now, and - and you can use it. You’re safe with us, to...” 

Martin gestures vaguely at the wide expanse around them. “...figure it all out.”

\---

"I'm unsure what I'm figuring out. There should be nothing! Nothing but resolute and confident Truth. And yet something is wavering." He presses a hand to his chest and leans forward, scowling out at the water. His voice is thick. "I've felt wrong, all day."

\---

“You have time. And— I’m really not trying to deceive you. I want you to see it, and... and sometimes feeling wrong can lead you to learning what feels right.”

Martin smiles. “The world is bigger than you thought.”

\---

"Smaller, actually. Big is easy to lose the details." He watches as a wave crests larger than the rest, tumultuous in its return to the sea. "Blurring everything into inconsequentials, generalities. Small is..."

He looks to Martin, wide eyes reflecting him in two twin mirror images. "Intimate."

\---

“Consequential _ and _ unique. That’s life, Sirius. And I don’t mean that as a negative. It’s...” 

Martin cocks his head to the side. “Intimate?”

\---

He nods. "Knowing the characters of a story, the beats to a narrative, it's thematic potential and follow-through... It all becomes different when you know, up close, the key characters."

He tenses and untenses his hands. "I am no longer a mere voyeur. My hand can shift the sand."

\---

“It does. And you do. I want to show you what there is in the world so I— So I can ask you what you want to do, or - or change, and you can give me an answer.”

Martin scoots across the ground so he can sit by his side. “You’re doing really good so far.”

\---

"How would you know? How do you? How would you know what's good or bad?"

\---

“I— I don’t know, it’s just a feeling. Good to me is you looking for things and trying. Just - Trying?  _ Engaging. _ You’re engaged.”

\---

He blinks, and his voice is halting, slow, but snorted around a smile. "You should... Perhaps... Tell Jon that. I'm not sure he knows you're engaged to another."

\---

“Really? That was bad.” Why is he grinning like an idiot, then? “You know exactly what I mean.”

\---

"Maybe." He's still smiling. "Maybe I do. But I think I enjoy making you smile."

\---

“You’re smooth for an incomprehensible god of fear. Where on earth did you learn that from?”

\---

"Smooth? Martin, I am clearly not smooth. Jonathan does not shave." His smile slips.

\---

_ “Smooth. _ As in, good at complimenting me. Or just saying the right things. At the right times. Not literally.” 

Martin checks to make sure no one is coming along, and lies down next to Sirius. It isn’t the most comfortable position imaginable, but... It could be worse.

\---

"Ah." He nods, and twists a little so he can look down at Martin. "Then yes, I'm smooth. I only ever say that which is needed in the moment."

\---

“Maybe that’s what being smooth is.” 

Martin sighs. He closes his eyes. “I wish you didn’t have to share a body. I wish you could both have your own.”

\---

"Without Jonathan, I would not be here. He gave me his body. And I am gracious enough to allow him use of it."

\---

“And  _ he’s _ gracious enough to have told you  _ yes. _ He’s the reason I’ve fed the Eye at all. He’s why I worship anything. He has a lot worth thanking for.”

\---

Sirius cocks his head. "I can thank him for you, but that is all. He's so reluctant to-- to embrace himself. Utterly infuriating!"

\----

“Thanking him for me involves thanking him for a few other things that led to me being involved. It’s not isolated.” Martin hums. “It was easy for him to say yes, but hard to... Him, he always had the one. His ‘yes’ is more of... of knowing that it’s the one that fits better than all of them. It’s hard for me to say yes, in the— That specific way, not just a toolbox. I don’t know what happens when I reach the end of the line. I don’t know... I don’t know what comes last. But I think what it is, I’ll know by then.”

\---

Sirius cocks his head. "It... You make it sound simple. But perhaps I do not know what drives men into the waiting arms of me and my siblings."

\---

“Fear. Love. I think it comes down to love. But love doesn’t always mean something... something good. Or healthy. Just powerful enough to block everything else out. I’m not an expert. Love made me fear. I couldn’t have felt anything if I didn’t love first.”

\---

"Love made you fear." Sirius blinks. "It makes sense, I suppose. Obsessions, passion; you fear for Jonathan. You fear for your love of the world."

\---

“Yeah. And I’m afraid of losing it now because I love it. Same with everyone else I love. I was afraid of my mother, but now— Now it feels like nothing, compared to actual, real fear.”

\---

"It makes it more powerful. I can feel it. So much more. So much-- it is merely different. I do not know what my fear is."

\---

“I don’t know. You don’t have to go looking for it. You’ve spent your entire thousands of years of life being _ literally _ made of fear. You can dabble in - in other things?”

\---

"Everything comes back to fear," Sirius says. "Everything. Always."

\---

“And love.” Martin scoffs, cracking one eye open. “Don’t forget love.”

\---

"You said it yourself; even love." He blinks down at Martin, his hair falling over his shoulders as he leans over him to get a proper look. "Even your kindness is about your fear."

\---

“True. But that doesn’t make it any less genuine.” 

He tilts his chin up. Let him look. Jon already knows every piece of him, why not bare it plain? 

“We can see the stars tonight,” Martin lies, and doesn’t, all at once. “You’ve never been stargazing from down here.”

\---

"You can see them?" Sirius asks, and he squints a little, looking up, over the water again, up to the sky. Martin prone below him, and Sirius all but crouched over him.

\---

“Not right now, it’s too early. The clouds’ll clear by nightfall. ‘Cause I said so. That’s how it works today.” He sounds very confident for someone who isn’t at all.

\---

"I suppose of anyone able to will things into existence, it would be my Messenger," He smiles at him, amused.

\---

“I’ve willed a lot of things. Might as well start doing it on purpose.” Martin winks. “What’s next, then? It’s been a very  _ watery _ day.”

\---

Sirius regards him for a long, silent beat, his smile growing before he sits up all the way, looking back the way they came. "Clothes. You said I should have clothes."

\---

“Ah. _ Right.  _ You might have different taste than Jon. Good to have a wardrobe you can both find something in, f-for now. Okay!” 

Martin sits up, as well, hurrying to stand before Sirius makes a move to so he can hold a hand out to him. “It’ll be fun.”

\---

He takes Martin's hand happily, pulling himself lightly to his feet. "You have fun shopping?"

\---

“It’s fun if you  _ make _ it fun. Or if you let it. Depends on what it is. Or— Or what you’re looking for.” He loops their fingers together and tugs them along the dock, back through rows of boats bobbing quietly to the even rhythm of the waves. “So if you want it to be fun, sure.”

\---

Sirius nods. "Alright. Then it will be fun. I like this," He plucks at the fabric of the skirt. "Not as much this," He plucks at the fabric of his sweater. "It's rather heavy."

\---

“Jon likes heavy. You don’t have to. But, you do need to keep an eye on the elements. Otherwise you’ll get too cold or too hot. We’ll just start with the basics.” 

There are a few shops nearby, he knows that much. Start with thrift stores for an idea and go further than that. Strange, that he gets to do that now. Not just secondhand that doesn’t fit right.

\---

"The elements do not affect me like a human." Sirius frowns. "But alright. I will need your assistance."

\---

"Really? You-- You don't get cold?" Martin almost stops walking in surprise. "Ever?"

\---

"I can feel it. Right now, even. This cold air. But it does not harm the body." He shrugs.

\---

Martin mentally follows the warmth pressed flush against his palm, radiating from Sirius' own body heat. "Weird. At least you're not cold forever, like - like a vampire, or any of the other undead immortals walking around like they own the place." 

He veers them off to a row of shops along the water. "So, I'll take you into a secondhand place, first. You can start telling me your opinions."

\---

"A vampire." Sirius scoffs. "Animals. Less than animals. And I do own the place. If you mean this Earth." He doesn't have opinions on clothes yet, past that he thinks the whole affair of having a wardrobe is needless.

\---

“Do I get a share, at least? Martin Blackwood’s cottage spared in the apocalypse, hm?” Martin leans close as he hums out the question mark.

\---

"A queen's right hand man deserves more than a mere cottage, I would say," Sirius says, and shoots him a slow smile.

\---

“Oho, _ two _ cottages? Wow. Really thrown my lot in with the winner, there. Maybe I can even have a dog, then. Think you can get a dog that’s Watcher—“

Martin stops smiling. Bad time for Gerry’s voice to fill his ear, maybe. “Guard dogs. Those already exist.”

\---

"A dog would be lovely. Difficult to train, however. One would hate to have to put down a creature that does not listen."

\---

Martin goes very quiet. 

“...A-And, we’re here. Um.” He separates his hand from Sirius’ to handle the front door, and to wash that feeling off on his own. It isn’t much, just a regular thrift store— Not the sort that says it’s a thrift store and sells shirts for more than they were originally, sometimes, but a good and proper cheap bargain store that might have some gems, if they’re lucky. “...After you.”

\---

He steps through the threshold of the shop with a gracious dip to his head, and immediately straightens, barraged with so many things that are new to him, eyes lighthouse searching to drink everything in.

"This is daunting," He says at length.

\---

“Let’s see. We can start simple, something easy.” Martin leads them both to the jewelry rack; odd trinkets and weird accessories that have tossed hand after hand after hand. Some clearly cheap, some clearly not, or at least very well-loved at some point. “You strike me as a ring guy, honestly.”

\---

Sirius holds out his hands and inspects his fingers, squinting like this is the biggest decision he's ever had to make. "Why? I do enjoy the look. But why?"

\---

“It’s a feeling. Mostly I think you’d look good wearing them, and you’re eclectic, it just— It makes sense you’d have a lot of weird, gaudy rings. Antiques and stuff, right? Like you— Like you know your stuff.” Martin shrugs to hide his sheepishness. “Your hands look like they’d look good with rings. That’s all.”

\---

He hums in acknowledgement and begins sorting through the assortment, picking up a few rings to slide over his fingers. They do look nice; he has long, thin fingers, and the weight of them looks and feels nice upon the digits. He flexes his hands and smiles, nodding. "Yes. Yes, I do enjoy this."

\---

Martin leans with his chin propped up against Sirius’ shoulder, smiling down at his hands. “I can probably afford to get you a new one, or— Or a few. One that fits right.”

\---

Sirius turns, twisting his head enough to smile at Martin. "I would enjoy that. Does Jonathan not like rings?"

\---

"I..." Martin forgets to smile, not because he's upset, but too floored by his own surge of odd emotions to turn them into one coherent image. "...haven't asked. That feels... That feels serious."

\---

That earns him a confused blink. "Is this..." He flashes his own hand. "Serious?"

\---

"I mean-- Yes, o-obviously, but it's a different... Not 'Sirius' with an 'i'-- Serious, the word. Buying him a ring would be, um, different... feeling, I-I think? Maybe?"

\---

"Why."

\---

Okay. We're going straight to the point, then. "Like... like _ engaged." _

\---

Sirius goes quiet as he thinks, dredging up cultural rituals, to explain all... this, and eventually he nods, albeit with a furrow in his brow.

"Are we engaged? You just made me try rings on."

\---

_ "N-Noooo, _ I don't think so. Mmh. I'm just showing you, you know-- About the world. I know Jon's... h-hands."

\---

"And you and Jon... Aren't, either?" That earns Martin an even more confused look. "How odd, marriage is."

\---

"No? N-- Maybe? I don't--" Martin is not going to break down about something like this in a thrift store. He leans forward on the counter with one hand and sighs. "I feel like we already passed that. But-- Nothing we do is normal, like, like we spiritually connected all the way back... back with the worms, and-- And even before, I guess, I mean-- The beach. So it's, it's important in the cosmic way, but we haven't-- We're not."

\---

"But you want to, yes? You are bound in ways most humans cannot even attempt."

\---

"Wow. You know that's, that's a  _ huge _ question, right?" Martin stands motionless in the store, and he hopes to God no one is paying attention. Maybe that might will away any attention that existed before. make them invisible. He lowers his voice, nervous and quiet. "I'd have to find a good ring."

\---

"... I will help, if I am any use." He's quiet for a long moment, and then he grins, slowly pulling off a couple of the rings until his hands are bare. "What a powerful union, you two are."

\---

“He’s my person. I said yes to him. Over and - and over again, and I’ll keep saying yes, and that’s—“ He laughs, high and strained. “—My big reason for being hesitant about you. I don’t know what your world looks like, not really, but if it doesn’t have him in it I— I can’t.”

\---

Sirius shrugs and places the last ring back down. "He will be there. I just am unsure in what capacity. Part of this is up to him, you know. The Eye can guide, and lure, and suggest, but it can rarely Control."

\---

“I know.” Martin sighs again so he can turn back to the rest of the store and move on. “I just— I hope I’m enough for him to want to stay, I think.”

\---

Sirius cocks his head. "It's less you being enough, and more a question of if the Eye is enough." He purses his lips. "I think it is. Hatred of me, he may have, but he cannot deny his attraction to the greater Eye."

\---

“Well. The Eye can get him a Crown, and I’ll get him a ring. God, don’t tell him. About that. That was a bad joke. Really bad.” Martin does a half-turn on his heel to hold both arms out invitingly at a rack of shirts. “So, shirts?”

\---

"His Crown is hardly physical," Sirius laughs, and it's a cold laugh, too knowing. But then he cuts himself off and tilts his head. "Maybe it should be. Quite the imagery that strikes. I don't want sweaters."

\---

“No sweaters. You’re the oddball of the family. Okay. Loose, or— God, I’m not an expert. Long-sleeved, short-sleeved, different fabrics, d-different cuts, I used to only wear t-shirts. And then— Just jackets. Now sweaters. I’ve evolved.”

\---

"You have not. Evolution takes millions of years, Martin." He steps closer to the racks and starts to look through them, plucking idly at the feeling of fabric and cuts, a low hum under his breath when something seems to catch his eye. "I should think my arms should be free. No matter what."

\---

“Sh—Short-sleeved? Free like that? Not judging, just curious... why?”

\---

"Clothes seem quite unnecessary, in general. The easier to remove them, or-- not cover myself at all, that all seems better, in the long run."

\---

Martin giggles. “Oh, you and Michael would be awful scheming together. Okay. T-shirts, easy enough. Nothing too stifling. Something loose. We can manage that.”

\---

"I like this," He says, and lifts his sweater to show the tank top he put on below it, running his free hound down his stomach where the fabric hugs his form tightly. "But loose also seems acceptable. I do not like... heavy, I think."

\---

Martin follows his hand without a word, unsure why he’s doing that until his eyes snap back up to where they should be. “We haven’t even gotten into gender, yet. They separate clothes by gender, so— So you might want to ignore that.”

\---

"I do not have a gender, so I will ignore that." He plucks a few different styles of shirts; if he is experimenting, he should try on something tight, and something loose, and something in different fabrics. Each shirt he plucks from the rack he hands to Martin, to hold for him.

\---

Martin takes all of them, of course, slung carefully over his arm. “Good for you. There’s a conclusion I wish I could jump to the second I walked out the godhood door.”

\---

Sirius looks behind him at Martin, squinting and frowning in confusion. "Your... Gender?"

\---

“Uh—“ Martin opens his mouth. Just realizing what came out. “Yeah. Just letting it go. Easy. Just like that. That’s all. Harder when you grew up with it.”

\---

"I suppose." He turns back to the rack, but he's still thinking. "Maybe I don't understand it. Jonathan grew up with something different, too."

\---

“It’s sort of a thing in our world. Assigning people things and getting weird about putting on roles. It... doesn’t really leave much room for thought. Until you try and - and it goes bad. I’d be happier if I didn’t care, I think.” Martin smiles dumbly. “I’m working on it.”

\---

"You want... To remove your gender. But you think it will be... bad?" He scrunches up his face.

\---

“N... Mmh. No, it’s just— The expectations of being what you’re told you are, I don’t know. I really am  _ not _ the person to— You should... I think Gerry would be better at explaining it. So.” Martin shifts on his feet. “Pants?”

\---

"Ah. Yes. Gerard who is... A man and a woman. I enjoy Jonathan's looser, softer pants. I also enjoy this." He plucks at his skirt. "Nothing tighter."

\---

“That’s fine. Loose pants are good.” Martin cocks his head. “I don’t know how to explain what Gerry’s up to. But I like Oracle. A lot! But it’s just Gerry. Just... you know.” He winks, hoping that comes off how he’d like it to.

\---

"Yes. I know. Gerard but named Oracle." He nods. "Even more attuned the Eye than he normally is." He doesn't really know what any of that means, so he winks back, hoping he's assumed right.

\---

Martin smiles. “Exactly.” It’s all just names, at the end of the day. “I could just follow you around the store and you can pick up anything you think is interesting, if you want. No need to go in order. Not that there is one.”

\---

"I have an order." He gives a very self-important nod. "It seems each piece of clothing has different... Weights, and opinions that must be weighed. I want to do this correctly." He adds a pair of loose trousers, and then, veering to another rack, a skirt.

\---

“Ah. Of course.” Martin nods sagely. “I’ll leave you to it, then. And if you need me, ask me!”


	77. Chapter 77

They find a few things Sirius is willing to keep. Luckily for both of them, he seems to be very picky, for all his seemingly demanding nature begets for him. A skirt, some soft pants, a couple shirts and something loose and drapey that he insisted made him look like quite the winged beast, and of course, he makes Martin carry the bag as they vacate the dimly lit shop. 

He supposes it's Martin's day to cart him around the city, but a quick scan in his knowledge of the geography of this city makes him want to surprise Martin, and he veers off sharply to the right, in the middle of the street, narrowly avoiding some type of beastly vehicle as he does so. 

Sirius is playing human. And humans can be sweet. And he would like to show that to loyal, lovely humans such as Martin, he can be the sweetest figure imaginable.

\---

Martin is content with his lot, having spent very little for a whole lot that grounds Sirius to this world in one of a million new ways. Fine, even, with carrying his things and not having a complaint. But he’s always been that way. He’s the sort of person you can just hand something to and know it won’t touch the floor. 

He almost gets to think about that, until Sirius bursts forth with energy out of nowhere and nearly gets run over by a _ truck, _ and he barely has time to react at all. At first, all he manages is a horrified _ “Sir—“ _ because he gives up halfway through, figuring it won’t matter enough to stop him. He catches up, soon, worried and brushing shoulders, but they’ve both made it out unscathed. “Don’t _ do _ that! What— What’s the rush?”

\---

Sirius flashes him a big, beaming smile, his chest heaving from the unexpected way this body reacts to such quick energy. Tight chest. He will be having words with Jonathan in the landscape of his dreams about his nicotine consumption. And his normal, human food consumption. And his exercise. An avatar with advanced levels of strength he may be, but a human vessel he still has.

"I found our next location." He holds out a hand. "Come. And do not tell me what to do."

\---

Martin is compelled to follow, if only for that smile. It’s a very nice smile. A smile that tells him his best choice of all is to take the hand that’s offered and follow along. “You’re— Excited. You can slow down, i-it’s not going anywhere.”

\---

"There is exhilaration in pursuing the knowledge of something and being able to gift that knowledge to someone else, I am learning. You were right; I enjoy telling others of reality, and facts." He turns another corner, dragging Martin with him. 

It's not a long walk. Just a couple blocks, shortened significantly by his impromptu jay-walking session. He stops them a couple shops down. "You said you must buy Jonathan a ring. Yes?"

\---

Martin suddenly moves very, very slowly. An anchor catching against the bed of sand at the bottom of the sea. Eyes impossibly wide to look down at Sirius in disbelief. “Right...R-Right  _ now? _ It’s not— W-What?”

\---

"You said.... You said you must find a ring, no...?" He takes another step closer to the building and then stops, turning suddenly and as fast as he can, staring across the street.

_ Gerard _ has a hand wrapped around Michael's upper arm and points with his free hand, over to the two of them. Sirius stares, and Michael says, "Martin!" before jumping into the street to start crossing.

\---

Oh, for the love of God. 

Martin’s flustered expression vacates in favor of sheer surprise, but the warmth in his cheeks does not, and he’s so caught up in the overwhelming nature of this predicament he doesn’t even notice Mike with them. No protective urges, just pure Martin-standing-below-a-jeweler-horrified. 

“What... What are you all doing?”

\---

"Shopping! Uhm--" Michael jangles a couple bags off his wrist. "It's nearly Christmas? And Mike desperately needed a scarf, I suppose." He's all smiles as he takes Martin in, excitable as ever in the most puppyish way possible.

And then there's Gerard, who looks at Martin, then Sirius, his expression thinning, and then he looks up. Up at the storefront, and his eyes widen and his lips start to curl, and he says, "What are  _ you _ doing?"

\---

Martin holds his own bags in front of him with both hands as a shield. He isn’t doing himself any favors, here, but this isn’t his fault. “Um. N—Nothing? I was... I was getting him some clothes that— He doesn’t like some of Jon’s wardrobe, s-so I figured I could show him what options there were and - and... I don’t know. Now... Now we’re... here. On the street. Out...Outside.”

\---

"Right. Outside--" Gerard slowly points a finger up at the jeweler's shop.

Michael follows his finger and his eyes, too, widen, and he lets out a little scream, leaning forward to take Martin by the shoulders. "Wait until we have a  _ home _ and then you have my blessing."

\---

Martin makes a pitiful noise, something like an ‘eeee’ with the corners of his mouth curved up into a strained smile. “That’s not— No, stop— It’s not... not that. Not what—  _ Michael.” _

\---

"What? It's not what it looks like?"

Sirius clears his throat and frowns at Michael. "I took Martin here."

Michael makes another strangled noise. "You-- Martin--  _ him?" _

"Not for me. I can merely present a situation where Martin knows what ring looks best on his fingers."

\---

Martin blinks down at him, and something softens considerably behind his face. “You didn’t tell me that’s why you...” 

It makes sense, but it— Wow. Okay. Sweetheart god child. He’s going to forget he’s evil for a minute, isn’t he?

Martin starts to tear up. There isn’t any warning to it, one second he’s fine and the next his eyes are welling up and maybe it has something to do with moon cycles. “I didn’t think of that.”

Mike, from his position slightly behind and next to Gerry, snickers just loud enough to be audible to him.

\---

Gerry turns to glare at him a little, but it softens immediately. No need to get all protective of Martin. "Are you good? Martin?"

Sirius blinks. "Have I upset you?"

\---

“Good crying,” Martin whines. “I can find out what fits  _ and _ looks right.” 

He puts the bags on the floor and forgoes any other judgment before wrapping both arms around Sirius’ waist in a hug. He lifts him off the floor, just an inch; it’s astoundingly easy. “Thank you.”

\---

Sirius goes very still, and then starts to squirm, very, very much feeling patronized. "You are welcome.  _ Down. _ Put me down at once. At  _ once!" _ His voice is squeezed.

\---

Martin lowers him carefully back down to the ground with a shy _ “Sorry”.  _

And then he seems to catch up to the spectacle of it all, and retrieves the bags again. Then clears his throat. Professional. “You’re Christmas shopping?”

\---

"Yeah! It's soon, you know." Michael is still all grins, and he turns to look to Mike. "Can you believe them? I told you they're romantic."

\---

“Looks like it,” Mike says mischievously from behind his new scarf, thick and wrapped around the underside of his face and part of his mouth. 

Martin turns his gaze upon Mike, and he wouldn’t go so far as to say he was wretched, but he is apprehensive. “How long is he staying?”

\---

Gerry shrugs. "'Till he can be on his own. Don't be such an asshole."

The Archivist regards Mike slowly, and his mouth curls into a smile. "Quite a strong avatar. Quite haunted. How suitable he has found your lodgings."

\---

Mike squints up at Sirius, shielding his eyes from a bright light. “...I think you might be mistaking me for your ghost friend.”

\---

"Not haunting, Michael Crew. Haunted. Like everyone. It bleeds off you. Not just my Brother's mark."

\---

Mike turns up to Gerard for clarification. “What is he talking about?”

\---

Gerard sighs. "He's judging you. Probably looking at, what, your soul?"

The Archivist nods, slowly.

"Right. Your soul." He waves his hand in a dramatic flair. "Meet the Ceaseless Eye. Hurrah."

\---

“My soul isn’t haunted.” Mike lifts his good hand to give a polite wave. “Hi.”

\---

"Not by a Spirit, unlike myself and my ungrateful Gerard," Sirius scowls. "Residual. Emotional." He pauses. "Hello."

\---

“Ah. I see. Yes, well, I’ve had my fair share of encounters. It would make sense that they... linger,” Mike says blandly.

Martin, who had been completely silent at Gerard’s indirect command, changes his mind with a soft hum that’s more like a growl. “We should get back to it, then.”

\---

Sirius takes a long, solid look at Martin, and then huffs out a surprised little laugh, and nods. "Alright. We can leave. Though your guarding is unnecessary; I doubt this Vast avatar could do much to me."

\---

Martin shifts back to Sirius, quirking a brow. “What? I didn’t think he could. I’m not _ guarding.” _

\---

That earns him another long look, and then he turns to Michael. "Find a book, for Jonathan, from me, for your Christmas. Something he would like."

Michael snorts. "Really getting the vibes of a Catholic grandpa who makes his daughter buy all the grandchildren presents from him with his money, except you're not even giving me money." He giggles. "Okay!"

\---

“At least he’s not Catholic,” Martin says bitterly, though he is very happy about that development. And that now he remembers Christmas and they’re already out... “We’ll have to figure out a place to put gifts. Not much space left.”

\---

"I didn't think we'd get a tree. I'll probably give mine all out early anyways! I always cave on that stuff." Michael pouts. "Oh! Don't get Jon a gaudy ring. Please? I think it would, like,  _ really  _ suck if you guys had an ugly wedding."

\---

Martin flat-out growls at Michael. The butterfly nerves have left the building. “I’ll make sure to get him the worst ring I can find, Michael.”

\---

Michael sneers at the growl and leans in, wrinkling his nose. "Then you're just biting yourself in the foot,  _ puppy." _

\---

Martin growls louder and leans forward further into Michael’s space, enough that Mike takes another cautious step behind Gerry. 

And then, instead of lunging forward for any other reason, he pecks Michael quickly on the lips and moves back to a reasonable distance. “You know I won’t.”

\---

Michael bursts into laughter, and steps back when Martin does, blowing a quick kiss in his direction.  _ "Dangerous,  _ acting like that in public, dear!"

\---

“Save it,” Martin huffs, not to brush him off but a genuine request. That put him in a much better mood. “I’ll see you at home, um— Forget what you saw?”

\---

"I won't! And you know Gerry likes to watch things." He pauses and starts to walk back the way they came from, but he twists to say, "I'm excited, by the way. Very excited."

\---

Martin spares them nothing more than an indignant “About what!” before he moves along into the great unknown of jewelry with his companion.


	78. Chapter 78

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sky's blue. 
> 
> What?
> 
> [Gun cocking] Sky's blue.

“That was odd,” Mike pipes up after a few minutes of walking the opposite direction, soundly out of both sight and mind from the other two. Very glad to be, as well. 

He’s doing miraculously well, so far, and hasn’t needed to use one of them as a crutch since they left the first store. He likes to be bundled up. He likes the wind. He likes being above ground. He likes these people, he thinks. 

“I feel... I feel slightly better. Regardless.”

\---

"We weren't exactly expecting you to meet _ him," _ Gerry says, and fields him a genuinely apologetic look from where he's hunched into the collar of his coat. "There's that, though. Whole new man, walking about London with a new scarf."

\---

“I needed it.” Said scarf blows along a fresh gust, a solid soft grey with gold seams so subtle they only flash at a certain angle. “I think... I would like to push myself today.”

\---

Gerry nods. "Good day to try it, I suppose. You do seem to be doing better." He glances at Michael. "Want to take a break to play with the wind?"

Michael grins. "Duh."

\---

Mike smiles, tired but optimistic. “I’ll need an open space, o-or a tall building. I’d wager that the former is more feasible from here.”

\---

"Maybe. Michael. Ask me where the closest-- whatever Mike asked for, is."

Michael wrinkles his nose. "Demanding to be asked questions feels so... Weird, Gerard Keay." He squints. "Where's the closest-- Pavillion? Or-- field, I suppose?"

Gerry gives an appreciative hum and let's the question and subsequent Knowledge fall through him, and he starts walking.

\---

“Oh. That’s a neat trick. If the Eye weren’t such a snoop I might even be fond of it. But that’s... sort of the deal, isn’t it?” Mike follows along with renewed vigor. He never gets to show anyone anything, save for the few times he’s been forced to feed, and he has no desire to hurt these two, which comes with its own set of expectations. 

If only he knew how to flex this particular muscle after such profound damage. Suppose they’ll all see rather soon.

\---

"It's precisely the deal," Gerry says, and looks behind him at Mike. "And I can't turn it off. Dying made me into the Eye's encyclopedia."

\---

“But you... don’t know everything, unless it’s asked of you? So it _ is _ off a majority of the time? How do you...” Mike stares at him blankly. “How do you know which questions warrant tapping into that knowledge?”

\---

"It's mostly involuntary." He's quiet for a moment and then nods, talking quickly as he walks, the words pouring out. "The Eye has granted me it's Sight and Wisdom, allowing me to tap into its cloud of Knowing; a vessel for its powers." He shakes his head. "It's  _ annoying _ is what it is."

\---

“Hm. I feel like I’ve asked you questions before, and haven’t seen it. Well. At least death gave you something in exchange. That... is more than you could say for most people.”

\---

"Sometimes questions don't Need answers." Gerard throws his hands up. "Fuck if I know how it works. I've barely been awake four... Five? months. And this isn't a blessing. None of it. I'm a locket wrapped around a man's wrist."

\---

“...You, would rather be gone? I was under the impression you liked... which man?” Mike fields a look at Michael, like he might have the right answer, before figuring he won’t be getting any answers from him and turning back. “Sorry, am I prying?”

\---

"Normally Martin." Gerry gestures aimlessly at Michael, who does indeed have the locket wrapped around his arm in a jangly bracelet. "Today? Michael, it seems."

The other question is hard. "Duh, you're prying. But it's... Fine?" He cocks his head. "Hm. No. I’d rather be alive. But even that didn't work out very well, and it wasn't even a spectacular death, so... Limbo. I'm in limbo. As far as ghosts go, I've got it better than the rest."

\---

“Ah. Maybe... Not many ghosts can say they’ve experienced as much as you have. I’m sure we can add another experience today.”

\---

Gerry snorts. "You're deliriously sugary sweet, Mike. Glad we met now and not four months ago. Probably would have pissed you off."

\---

“I didn’t like you that night,” Mike confesses. “I thought you were arrogant and rude. Dismissive. Judgmental.”

\---

"Yeah, well, even that was me playing nice." He fields a look behind him to look at Mike for a moment. "To be fair, you were ruining my heist. By being a prick."

\---

“I did not. I warned you about walking away, and you insisted on touching it. And who faced the consequences? Me. My only mistake was following the wrong lead.”

\---

Gerry snorts. "Okay. Here, picture this from my perspective, Mike. Two seconds of your time. Right? You know and see the things I know and have seen and you're on a heist for an evil book and something, you don't know if they're a who yet, let alone a man, tries to stop you. Would you really just listen and walk away, buh-bye, thanks for the warning?"

\---

Mike blinks. “...Yes. The books themselves won’t give you a polite warning.”

\---

"I _ know. _ Do you not-- Do you not see my point even a little here?" Christ. "Michael, help me out here." 

Michael raises his hands and shakes his head. "I'm not the book hunter, here. Though... I'd like to think I'd appreciate someone heeding me a warning of what's to come, yeah... It rarely happens!"

\---

“Exactly. I thought I was being very clear. I’d probably acquiesce to whoever found it first. Which was me, I just—“ Mike shrugs nervously. “—didn’t say anything. I’m not good at it. I thought you might go away.”

\---

"Yeah, well, there's a fat chance in hell that I just give up when I'm on a book hunt." He takes them around a corner, and then another, and finally-- ah. A nice park, with a decent amount of open space at their behest. "This work?"

\---

“Mm.” Mike is content to drop the subject in favor of a real chance to do what he does best. Or, did. Will do. He can. “Yes. You might want to sit down.”

\---

Michael's smart, and does what he says, plopping down on the worn grass with his bags in his lap. Gerry stands next to him, and when Michael tries to tug him down, he just reaches out and pats Michael on the top of his head.

\---

Mike turns away from them to solidify his focus without pressure. He has been grounded, humiliated, stripped bare of what makes him teeter every day along the edge of life and death, always a moment away from slipping off either side. 

Back to the basics, then. He shuts his eyes, first; the wind doesn’t pick up, but the lack of visual sense allows everything to distort. Allows the wind to rise, to bite frigid against the exposed tips of his ears. 

With your eyes shut, it’s easy to lie. To imagine where you are is not the truth, that a fall is endless with a drop nowhere in sight. 

On the edge. Shoes hanging off, heels the only purchase that stops you from a world where up and down are meaningless until the very second - an undefined time, in the undefined future - they are the only thing that matter. 

Mike takes one step forward, and does not touch the ground. The world tumbles away, leaving only what he knows is there - a locket, a man who once lived in the very thing that brought him here - and the sky.

\---

It's impressive, to say the least. Of the gifts bestowed by the entities, Gerard can watch this display and know there's something very, very special about it. There's a playfulness in wind; he wonders if Mike realizes just how close to the Spiral this personality seems to play upon.

How tempting it must be; this gift is far more exciting than some of the other abilities granted.

"Sexy, Mike!" Michael calls from the ground. "Simply magnificent!"

\---

Mike turns over one shoulder, eyes opening to thin slits, veins lit up with fractal patterns that give him some subtle, spectral glow. He knows he isn’t touching the ground, but he isn’t flying, just carefully out of contact with the earth while he leans slightly back. 

It’s almost like floating in a massive pool, where his arm doesn’t hurt because there is no gravity to drag it down.

_ “...Sexy?”  _ He pauses, awkwardly, while the leaves kicks up around them. “I’m dropping you next.”

\---

"Yeah, sexy, gorgeous, beautiful?" Michael grins. "Just appreciating it all! You!"

\---

“I’m flattered,” Mike says breezily, lost in his own attempt to bridge concentration with communication. But the point is to be dropping off bridges. 

He focuses on Michael, or the approximation of Michael. Has been around him long enough to gauge his weight, how he carries himself, what it would take to push him off a steep drop, and all it takes is some mental math. Gravity does not exist in a vacuum, and knowing how much wind it takes to lift a body with bones not designed to hover along the current is important. 

The distance between Michael and the ground does not grow, but rather there is a growing awareness of the space already existing around them. The space that people forget about. The sort that reminds them they’re spinning on a ball in the middle of a Vast nothingness. He can take away the perception of ground, can remove the sense of safety in physical connection. The wind soundly moving is a simple byproduct of his own channeling. 

Mike shuts his eyes once more, and when he opens them again they all stand and sit exactly as they were— Michael, on the ground that is nowhere, a skybox of flatness with the ground out of sight. More of a mental projection, one the human brain is not exactly fit to reconcile. London is nowhere with a thick sheet of clouds below, but the sky is still above. The sun, hot and bright, an endless blue pure and untouched above pollution. 

“I’m doing it,” Mike says quietly, and loudly all at once, his hair betraying wind that exists down below blowing the wrong direction, higher than wind can truly reach.

\---

The moment Michael feels it, he clasps his hands over his eyes, a low groan falling from his lips at the sudden vertigo that washes over him. It's a familiar feeling, just tilted to the left; the drop of a mental cliff is not unlike the drop of one's stomach, in the clouds. 

He knows the feeling well, and it brings him, for a moment, back to the Hallways. To staring at his own body and watching it unravel, unspool, the moments where his own mind, as Michael Shelley was more at the forefront than the being of _ Michael. _ When concentrating on what he was meant understanding immediately what he was _ not, _ and how those two curl and twist and spin together in existential conquests of is and isn't and should and shouldn't and are, and can't. 

So too, the wind plays upon his senses. His breath comes out hard, puffy, cold in the sky, and he pulls his fingers down his face a little to look, to see, and immediately covers his face back up, fear striking him deep, deep into the pit of his stomach. He wonders if this is the fear Mike feeds from, and that's the thought that makes him risk bravery. 

He tries again, pulling his hands down his face, the jingling of the locket on his wrist giving him some stability and-- 

Oh. "You're doing it. Um, how high are we? Please? Tell me? Lovely stuff, lovely, but how many meters?"

\---

Mike lets his arms float at his sides, his own heartbeat blessedly silent and stopped. Breaths unnecessary, healing in a process that may have something to do with fear winding itself along with the wind, fear he knows the source of and offers up gladly to the thing that brought them here. 

“We’re still on the ground, Michael. But this... is roughly thirty thousand feet.”

\---

"Jesus, Mary, Joseph," He says quietly, and he tries to relax, tries, but it's hard. He knows what'll happen if he does. If he lets his mind float along the wind. He's not sure Mike wants to see that. The sensation itself is already enough to-- It's a lot. He pulls in a heavy breath and squeezes the locket, and--

Ah. Gerard's gone. Whoops. "Think-- Think your trick, um, confused the Skin Spirit, dear Mike. Think it might have-- hah! He can't handle it. He can't. Oh god, this could be such a fun experience, I'm trying."

\---

“Calm— Calm down, Michael. Please— It’s hard enough, concentrating.” Mike’s eyebrows knit together as he tries to hold the world steady. “Is Gerard alright?”

\---

"Well I-- I imagine he thought... Thought his locket was thirty thousand feet up, and that's... quite a longer distance than he can be away from it," Michael says, and then lets out a reedy laugh, and slowly lets out some of the tension in his body, slowly lets himself feel this, and it becomes easier, easier, of course it does, but it's also like a muscle memory. Careful not to activate the Spiral bone.

\---

Mike turns, confused, to face Michael head-on. “I do appreciate your fear, but it’s unnecessary. What are you so worried about?”

\---

"Unnecessary, he says," Michael laughs again, a little louder than the last, and slowly, slowly starts to lean back, to let the vertigo wash over him. "Reminds me-- Reminds me of the Spiral. Besides the... The normal h-human fear? Of falling? I feel like-- The Distortion."

\---

"The--" 

Stepping over the edge, gripping tight the lightning rod horror that stalks his nightmares and leaves sulfuric heat to suffocate his nostrils. Rolling clouds of humid death and pain so hot that to call it white is an understatement. 

"The Spiral?" 

Mike tries to step back, but the ground that sits below them and around them accounts for its own properties alone, uneven ground of rocks and grass and earth, earth, down to the earth and inescapable compact darkness tightly bound. 

He slips back, and  _ that _ fall has an end, a very real end, and when the back of his skull finds the park's start he has just enough conscious control to prevent Michael from hurtling back down with the force of thirty thousand feet. Just barely. A moment of genuine freefall between both of them. One that leaves Mike breathless on the ground, wheezy and scared, unexpectedly, suddenly, horrifically.

\---

Michael falls, and falls, and falls, and his tears are bright on his face. He can feel them, cold against his cheek, before he feels the earth below him. It should be a sudden reality check. It absolutely is not, and he sprawls backwards onto the grass, his gaze wide and panicked as he looks up at the sky. Too blue. Fuck blue. The Greeks didn't even have a word for blue, and blue is the color of the Blue Meanies and no one wants to be them, no, no, and-- 

He laughs through his tears, his heart pounding so mortally in his chest, the sound vibrating through his ears.

\---

Mike rolls to one side, and unfortunately this side crushes his arm beneath his own weight, and proportionally it's a terrible amount of weight for that arm to handle, so he can cover his ears with both palms. 

"Stop laughing," he mumbles, beneath a sky that is no longer cloudy with the sun burning through unhindered, a bright eye casting them both in a hot, inescapable spotlight. He repeats it twice for good measure, exhausted and scared and disoriented, he's _ disoriented. _

\---

"I can't!" Michael whines, loudly, and a few more giggles escape him, but he shoves his arm into his mouth, and says around his own flesh, "Jus' cry harder-- if-- If I do!"

\---

The laughter is foreign, but the cadence is not-- Translated, another language, crackling bursts of lightning that laugh, and laugh, and laugh while they chase without catching, let you know it can catch you and end it and show mercy but it won't--

"C-C-Call, your g-ghost."

\---

It takes him a bit, trying hard to clamp down on the laughter, trying hard to reconstitute himself, trying so, so damn hard not to just start talking and never, ever stop. What comes from his throat for a while, instead, is this quiet panting wheeze. Do Hyenas cry? Wait, no, of course he's not a hyena, silly Michael, silly silly boy, not you, never you, just follow along dear, lose yourself in the slipstream river of paint. 

Gerry'll be livid. This he knows. He'll have to clean up the mess and he won't like it, black rose paint running down his aura, and  _ oh _ won't Martin be upset. 

"F-fuck." He squeezes the locket, and mumbles, slurred so tightly together, "pleasecomeneedyounowbad," and for good measure tosses the locket a couple meters away so that he doesn't taint her with... With this.

Maybe she can hear the panic, because she comes a lot faster than usual, and with no name necessary to get her attention. It's just her, and maybe she's showing off, maybe she didn't realize it was going to go bad and wanted to be playful and beautiful and show off for Mike when it's her turn, and getting all the more comfortable and, oh God, are they all friends? Is this Friendly? 

Michael will have to kiss her later, when he can be in a place where her dark lipstick will smear across his face and he can thank her for it, but that's not what's important here, and oh God he can barely hold onto a thought, and so he just rolls over and looks up at her and tugs a loose hand on her tights and says, "Hi, Oracle." 

"Hi, Michael. This fucking sucks."

\---

The grass digs into the flesh of Mike's face, leaving surface-level indents of red where marks already occupy. Choked out and tethered, frightened and confused, but no longer filled to the brim with violent laughter that holds no mirth. 

He curls, pathetic sideways beetle pressed against a thing he would rather forget exists below him, but he is tapped out. Completely so. No fuel, no air, no wind, no clouds. But at least the clear sky contains no ominous portents of storm after storm after storm. 

The wounds under his chest are smothered by his ribcage, and he does not hear them, he only hears the lack of laughter, ears still ringing with bells while lightning bounces off the metal structure in his mind. Forks against plates. Seizure-inducing strobes between the trees. The pain does not help, but he can deal with it as he's dealt with every pain after that day, by comparing it. By living through that with space. Detachment. Far-away emptiness. 

He says nothing, and he doesn't even whine, not a noise from his broken lungs and not a tear in his eyes, shut. Shut, closed, quiet, dark, freezing bathtub with a blanket and the windows boarded while the thunder rolls, and rolls, and rolls, and rolls.

\---

Great. Oracle really should have known that this would happen. Not the specifics, of course not that, but that  _ something _ bad would happen. She walks solidly across the ground until she reaches Michael, pulling him up into a sitting position and pulling the fool's arm out of his mouth. There's bitemarks red against his skin, and she'd snap at him if she was sure he wouldn't spiral further. 

"You're fine," She says, and he clings to her, clearly trying not to make a sound, his expression shuttering, overwhelmed. Touching him seems to ground him some, and even if her body has little feeling, it's still solid right now, and he stays tight against her for a moment as he evens out his breathing. 

Really, she's rather pleased to see this. She's fairly certain he wouldn't have even attempted to stop spiraling, when he first came back. "Sky's blue," He mumbles against her, and Oracle hums in response and slowly steps away. She can trust Michael to work through such a devastating twisting. But Mike's prone, and on his bad arm, in ways she isn't pleased about. 

She steps in front of him and crouches. "Mike? You there?"

\---

Mike is there, of course, but not really all there. Porcelain rattling, a new idea skating across the synapses of his brain, electricity firing up through the wires. Oh, it's all inside of him. Oh, it never left. 

He turns his head to the ground, not to her. The dirt makes him sick, touching him, holding him close, refusing to let him go, in ways he isn't afraid of, but disgusted by. The great and cosmic horror of the expanse of space is one laden with respect, not a nauseous separation. 

How could he have known? How could he not? Evidence upon evidence of lingering truths or maybe lies, and Gerard sounds different, but he won't look. Connected to the earth. 

Spiraling, perhaps. 

"...What?"

\---

She blinks, and then slowly reaches out, trying to pull him up without jostling his wounds, or really much of him at all. Hand on one shoulder and the other awkwardly on his midriff, she pulls, holds him hostage in this position, and she tries to search his face. "Breathe."

\---

Mike allows her, moving with the dead weight of a useless ragdoll. Sitting up stings, and his eyes can't seem to get a grip on where to face, unfocused pupils tilting in their sockets. Trying to find something to hold on to. To catch their bearings. There are none. 

He pushed himself. He tried not to. He was excited. Michael was the Spiral. The thing he chose brushes shoulders against the thing he might fear just as much. 

He tries not to breathe, at first. Fights against the human urge until his lungs burn from the inside, and that burn is exactly what forces him to stop. No burning. Not from the inside, not from outside. His first inhale is choppy, reluctant, and the second one is just the same, but by the third he's sucking in enough that the edges of his vision aren't dark. That doesn't make it okay.

\---

"Just focus. Slowly. You're here. Focus on my face." She's not entirely certain what's going on, but from the everything that Mike's exhibiting, he clearly needs something to pull him back to Earth. Even if it goes against his nature. Can't fly all the way up to the atmosphere until your helium pops. 

"Slow down next time, hm?"

\---

Mike’s eyes stop rolling as he gives it his best effort. The surprise is enough— Who is  _ this? _ Something flutters in his chest, the little sparrow that uses his heart as a perch taking flight. 

“I was slow,” he insists, “I didn’t let us crash.”

\---

"Well good job. Seriously. Think you used your energy up, though." She grimaces. "And got Michael going. Are you hurt?"

\---

“It’s gone again.” Mike moves his head, against his better judgment, to stare wide-eyed in Michael’s direction. “I don’t know if I’m hurt.”

\---

"Can you get concussions? It seems like a concussion." Her grip on him tightens. "Sit still. Get your bearings before you do that."

\---

Mike snaps back, but the motion is delayed. Watery. “I don’t know. I don’t... I don’t think so. I’m already hurt enough. I’m still.” 

His eyes droop. Now that he’s forgotten about Michael, out of sight, so too has he forgotten about the Distortion. The joys of short term memory malfunctions. “I’m exhausted.”

\---

"Yeah. Guess it's probably a sign to head home." She gives him another once over, and then purses her lips in thought for a moment. "Can you stand? Walk?"

\---

Mike ignores the questions. Sits in silence for several seconds. “Could you... Could you explain what this is about?”

\---

"What  _ what _ is about? Use your words."

\---

“You’re different.”

\---

"Oh. Yeah. Happens sometimes." She shrugs. "You know. Gender freaky."

"Her name's Oracle," Michael mumbles from he's sitting up hunched over.

\---

“...Oracle?” Mike smiles. He really hopes he’s not concussed, but that would be one handy excuse for this behavior. “I like that name.”

\---

She can't help the small smile that runs across her face. Mike is charming, in such a quietly genuine way. Even when he's half out of his mind and worrying her. "Thanks. Need me to carry you home?"

\---

Mike deadpans, and restrains a nod. “I don’t want to touch the ground if I can.”

\---

Oracle hums in response and then crouches down further, so she can pull him up into a bridal carry. It's not the easiest thing in the world, but it's not the hardest, either, and he sits at least somewhat comfortable in her arms. "Michael. Get up." 

He's slow to, but he slowly pulls himself to his feet, looking far more subdued and quiet than he was a moment ago, exhaustion pooling into every inch of his body language. "Cool, uhm, cool trick, Mike. Didn't appreciate the landing."

\---

“There’s only a second to decide whether you’re supposed to hit the ground the way you should from your height, or from thirty thousand feet. One of them is easier to trick into reality.” Mike mutters all of it, batteries sapped dry and content in his weightlessness. Beyond the twinges of embarrassment. “I did the harder one.”

\---

"Yes, well, thank you for not killing me, really appreciate that. Lovely. Great. Amazing work." Michael grouses it all, and then admits, "You looked cool floating like that."

\---

Mike leans against Oracle’s chest. “I felt cool.”

\---

"It was impressive, from what I saw," Oracle says, and starts walking them. She thinks she has enough energy for the walk back. Here's hoping.


	79. Chapter 79

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin's singing.

Oh, Messenger. Messenger, Messenger, with torn up pages nestled deep within the dark pouches of your fraying backpack, buried beneath hand-me-down clothes to be adorned by a god that is far from false. Scribbled words crossed and carved from pen to paper and—

Jesus Christ, calm down,  _ Martin. _ The sky clears up and you go crazy, yelling  _ see, see? _ like you had a single thing to do with it. You don’t buy a ring, but you get an amazing idea for one that you’ll keep to yourself, until the time comes. You cry a little bit, but you don’t dwell on it, and now it’s getting to your head. 

You say, _ let’s go to dinner, _ and you eat, and you feel full, you feel brave, alive, successful, wonderful, wonderful, to show him every little thing you love about your tiny, tiny world. How big it really is. 

And then the sky stays clear. The clouds don’t come back, and you Know that the first star you’ll see is Sirius, so you’re quick, excited, and every other word to describe the brightest of ideas as you hurry up to the tallest roof you know, a stage to speak forth the gospel within your throat with passion you didn’t know you could have when you woke up this morning. Like a kid who never got to be one, 

“Okay. Back when we made our wager, you said I should make a— You wanted a story about happiness,” Martin says breathlessly as they climb the final staircase to the top of the Magnus Institute. “I wrote one.”

\---

Sirius feels settled into a body that is his and isn't, and Martin's treats from today sit bright upon his mind. He crests the rooftop and smiles up at the sky, then back to Martin, his eyes bright and curious and excited and childish, insofar as there's no cynicism to set in yet.

"I would love to hear it."

\---

Martin pulls his bag to the floor and reaches into its depths to find his notebook. It’s ratty and old, but it still does the job just fine. 

With the weight of the bag no longer a heavy presence against his spine, Martin sighs. No tension, a rocky day but a _ good _ day, one that gets to end well. Has to end well. Will end well. 

When he opens it, the papers threaten to fall out— Most of them aren’t even attached to the notebook itself, loose sheets shoved in and ripped from other books. 

“I—“

Huh. 

Suddenly, he’s catching doubt. 

The first star winks in the night sky, and Martin holds the book tight to his chest. “Did today change anything?”

\---

Sirius cocks his head, looking up at the star, his gaze captivated on it. "About what?" 

He wonders if Martin knows how much he can feel from him. The emotions wafting off him, the half-buried memories that sit on his soul like a blanket. It never mattered to pay attention before. Now, it's all he wants to pay attention to.

\---

“About your plans. The Eye’s plans.” Martin doesn’t know, but he wears his fear on his sleeve nonetheless. “About this world.”

\---

"... I believe this world has quite a lot to offer." Sirius keeps his gaze upwards. If this were a different genre, he could say something narrative, about the Dog Star being his Home, where the Eye sits, roughly, in a dimension adjacent to here. But it isn't that genre, and looking at the sky, Sirius feels nothing but loneliness.

"It has not. Changed my plans. But now, I think I must rethink what I am. I've been swayed by today. And I have not directly been with the Eye in quite some time. Something has changed."

\---

The Pup Star orbits as satellite orbits Earth orbits sun orbits moon. He moves closer, but off to the side, not colliding but keeping his distance. 

“If I’m really supposed to be your Messenger, you have to know it’s in my nature to like this world. To show you things, I— I have to like it, I have to know it from down here, and— So I’m going to fight it, until I lose. And when I lose, I’ll— I’ll be there, next to you, and I’m sure I’ll be happy, but until then I’m— I’m fighting for it.”

\---

Sirius is quiet for a long time, pondering that. Even a few weeks ago, and he would have bucked against that-- no obedience? No sheer obeying? Pull the bit and drag the leash?

But something has shifted. "I think that is fair. And perhaps good. The Eye has used vessels, but it hardly wants them to teach it about them. It wants to use. To glean what it needs and move on."

He sucks in a deep breath. "I am different, now. And I can bring the Eye perspective it has not seen before, through you. It deepens the truth of reality."

\---

“I don’t know what I’m feeling,” Martin confesses. “I wrote all this— This stuff, and now I’m just—“ 

He gets down to both knees on the roof. Overwhelmed. It just caught up to him, of course. “I want to be— I want to be next to you. If you’d just come a few months ago, before I found all these people— Or if you came the first time around, I wouldn’t have any... no, I don’t even know if that’s true. I’ve always  _ cared. _ Sometimes you’re just— You’re so human, Sirius. In the best way.”

\---

"I don't know what that means," He says, and ah. They're in a confessional beneath the gaze of the stars. Perhaps that is sacrilege. Perhaps it's all the same. These things tend to bleed into one another. Another reason being so individual is so terrifying.

\---

“You care about things. About people. You have opinions. You make jokes. Good ones. You like doing things, and touching things, and tasting things, you just—“

Martin puts the book off to the side. Poems later, maybe. If they feel right. “—You’re just alive.”

\---

"How is this _ human? _ It's mere... Curiosity. The humans know these things already, it-- it. I can't be  _ human." _ The last part of his words fizzle, a note of... Of genuine fear, perhaps for the first time ever, entering his voice.

\---

“Humans are curious. We learn by doing, and reading, and watching, and a million other ways.” He reaches for Sirius’ hands with his own. “Maybe you’re human the same way I’m a monster.”

\---

"That word confounds me." Sirius takes his hands, gladly. And oh, what an adjective to have. "I have heard it. From all of you. It carries a weight I... Do not understand."

\---

Martin brushes against his knuckles with both thumbs. “I’ve been so afraid of being one. But you can be human and something else. You can be both. I think the world needs people who can be both, maybe. Sometimes. I’m still figuring that part out.”

\---

"Why? Why would it need both?" He squints. He's above Martin, on his knees, taller for once in their conversations, yet it doesn't feel like he's higher than Martin. He doesn't. This just feels comfortable. Martin meeting him. Sirius... trying, he supposes, to meet him.

\---

“So everyone gets heard. To bridge— To connect things. Good and bad and everything else.” Martin sighs. “It’s about perspective. How else can we get the whole story?”

\---

He hums. "You presume humans can know the unknowable without by definition becoming unknowable themselves."

\---

“Are you really that unknowable?”

\---

He opens his mouth to answer, and then shuts it, looking back up towards the sky. As it darkens, more stars blink into existence, as though slowly trickling in to watch this unfold. Maybe they are; again. It depends on the story. Sirius feels paralyzed to answer what story this is. 

"I don't know if I am, anymore," Sirius says at length, and then his gaze turns down, down to the ground.

\---

Martin brings Sirius’ hands closer to his face, trying to pull his eyes away from where they seem stuck. “That’s not a bad thing. Not to me. I like knowing.” 

\---

His gaze does shift, down to Martin, and after a long beat, he too crouches, letting his hands stay near Martin's face, letting him once again be slightly shorter than him. "You want to know something that I don't think is supposed to exist."

\---

“Do you know how many people aren’t ‘supposed’ to exist? Maybe— Maybe all people shouldn’t. We’re a fluke. You’re a fluke. It’s not about you being supposed to, you just _ do. _ You exist now.”

\---

"In the evolutionary sense, I suppose." He frowns. "I am-- I should be exempt from petty... biology." He pulls his hands out of Martin's, so he can flex them, feel the muscle and tendons beneath them, something physical and real and There. "But I'm not."

\---

“We’d all love to be exempt, wouldn’t we?” Martin lets him move away, though something within him doesn’t like it. “But you’re not. And that’s good. At least you’re not debating choking me to death in my own bed anymore.”

\---

"I did not know your loyalties then." Sirius laughs a little. "It was a far scale to weigh out."

\---

“I’m loyal to Jon first. Always. And if you’re part of him, now, then I’m loyal to you, too. There’s no question about that. It’s— It’s a bit of a complicated situation, isn’t it?”

\---

"... I suppose it is. I did not realize it would be so." He goes quiet for a moment. "I suppose I did not know a lot."

\---

“And you listened.” Martin smiles brightly at him. “Do you want to watch the stars with me?”

\---

"Yes. I thought--" He looks up. "I thought that is what we were doing."

\---

“Oh. I was looking at you.”

\---

His smile curls up across his face again. "I am a star, remember?"

\---

“And the moon. Make up your mind!” Martin reaches for his hands again, to tug him down, so they can lie back to watch the sky.

\---

Sirius goes willingly, and says, as he lays back with his head to the ground. "Perhaps that's the question, mm? Is Jonathan the Moon, or am I?"

\---

Martin takes one look at him and sits upright again so he can pull off his sweater. He doesn’t verbally try to show Sirius why, just nudges it next to his head and calls it a day before lying back down. “You both are. Maybe he’s a star, too. Bit hard to find places to make it distinct.”

\---

He hums and absolutely does not register what the sweater is for, staring up to the sky, still as he can. "I don't know what this metaphor means. But something about it is enjoyable nonetheless."

\---

Martin does not push the sweater further. Guess it can just sit between them. No pillow for Sirius. “It’s not a metaphor. You’re the moon. It’s been that way since the beach, Sirius. You’re something old and cosmically significant. And— And people worship the moon. And it watches over all of us. I think that’s what it means.”

\---

"I am not literally the moon." He scowls at Martin. "Your falsehoods do us a disservice. But fine. I am... Of the moon. In a sense."

\---

“Moonchild,” Martin huffs with distaste. More stars begin to dot the sky, more than he’s used to even in the clear months. “Can I ask you something? It’s sort of... sort of grim, potentially.”

\---

"Yes, of course." Sirius says, and turns back to the sky. "I generally enjoy grim."

\---

“A long time ago, Jon mentioned the only way he knew how to get rid of the Hunt was the Buried.” Martin carefully tracks the constellations, knowing what they are without awareness of the fact. “Is that the only way?”

\---

Sirius hums, and after a moment, he closes his eyes, reaching out one idle hand to press softly against Martin's chest, palm to his sternum.

"The Buried won't rid you of the Hunt. It merely.... Suppresses it. A medication that makes one pliant, subdued. The purest way would be for the End to have its course with you."

His expression twitches and he opens his eyes, unblinking at the stars. "I suppose we could find something different. You are so good at creating New."

\---

“Well, I’m not ready to die. We... We know that much.” 

Martin frowns and lifts one hand up to cover Sirius’, holding it closely there. “I don’t want to come up with this one. I think I’m too attached to the Hunt to - to want to. And I don’t even know if I want it gone. But I don’t like... don’t like what it does to making friends.”

\---

"Is that important to you?" Sirius asks. "Making friends? I do love the loyalty the Hunt instills in you. And I do like your teeth. I did not like it, at first. On the beach. But I believe that was more Jonathan's voice, than mine."

\---

“I’m worried about not liking people I should. Like with— Crew, I have no reason to be growling at him and—“ Martin shrugs against the concrete. “Is that just how I am? Was I always like that?”

\---

"Did you frequently growl at people before this?" Sirius barks out a laugh. "I don't believe you did!"

\---

“Not—“ Fine, he’ll laugh. “Not that part! No! Of course I didn’t! I think I’m just worried about it... happening again. At the worst time. I know I can kill someone now. For you. For Jon.”

\--

"Good. I should hope you can. And will. You protect what you belong to."

\---

Something flips over in Martin’s stomach. It takes him a minute to realize he likes that. “I don’t know if I should.”

\---

"Then don't think. Your instincts are true. You and Jonathan both self-flagellate about your nature to the point of paralysis." He sighs. "I'm not even sure how powerful you'll be once you just give in."

\---

“How powerful do you think I’d be? If I just  _ gave in? _ Just—You don’t want that, though. Some mindless Hunter and not - not me? My nature is being your Messenger  _ and _ a Hunter - a bad one - but those are opposites.”

\---

Sirius smiles. "Your fate isn't to be just a Hunter. That much I know. You-- I don't know, because you're something new. Fresh. It should terrify me. It does. No doubt, the Eye is scrambling. But-- perhaps another sign I am Falling. It is rather exciting. I like New."

\---

“Falling.” Martin breathes, his second hand joining the other over Sirius’. “The only good thing about it is a new language to say things in.”

\---

"A new language?" He asks.

\---

“New— New way to get concepts across. The growling, the, the howling, little things and— And I think the others have picked up on it too. Just— A growl can mean a million different things depending on who... I-I notice that more.”

\---

"Quite animalistic. I enjoy it's simplicity. There are rarely simple things in the universe."

\---

“It’s not simple, though.” Martin sits up to lean over him. “How do you know the difference between this—“ He bares his teeth with no weight behind the motion.

“—Or this?” He starts to growl, that low, just-barely-started contented sound.

\---

"Sometimes these things run deeper than mere sound," Sirius says, staring unblinking back up at Martin. "I just know. Perhaps because it is you."

\---

Martin stays where he is, confusion etched into his features. “Me?”

\---

"You were there upon my entrance to this world. Wound tight with me. I may be part of Jon, but you are part of me, also. It... It must be so. That Sand is hallowed ground."

\---

“Do you think we changed it? Do people walk by where we were and feel something? Do— Do they feel that about that roof, in America? Or the caves? The— The basement?”

\---

"Maybe. If they're sensitive to these things." He lets out a breath. "Most humans aren't. Some are special. Or cursed, if you're under the impression that we are a great evil."

\---

“It’s grey. Saying you’re evil is like saying people are good. It’s grey. You’re grey. I’m grey. We’re a mix of things.” 

The moon shines behind him, but Martin doesn’t notice. “I think over time I’m seeing you’re less evil, and I’m— I’m less good, but more good, it’s - it’s very contrary, really.”

\---

"Grey." He hums, and thinks about that. "Yes. I suppose to an extent. From... From a great distance. But there are still truths embedded deeply into each facet of us all." His gaze is unwavering up above. "I am not evil; I merely need to eat."

\---

Martin leans closer. “What truths are embedded deep inside me, Sirius?”

\---

"I... If I knew the answer to that, you would already know, Martin." He tilts to look at him, squinting. "There are... facets of yourself unknown to even me. And it gets harder... Harder every day to parse through it."

\---

“Is that a good thing?” Martin smiles, tilting to mirror him. “What happens when gods start knowing what the fear they put on others looks like?”

\---

"What do you mean? They-- Feed on it. Of course they know it."

\---

“It’s not the same thing as knowing what it’s like on the other side. And you’re on the other side now.”

\---

"I have felt fear. Perhaps nothing as potent as that which I feed on. So... I.. Do not know." His face screws up, confusion and curiosity both mingling in, apprehension that it's possible to feel that.

\---

“You don’t know. But you’ll find out. Sometimes it’s good to feel it, right?” Martin isn’t... isn’t quite sure what possesses him, but he braces one hand on either side of Sirius’ head and starts to growl in earnest.

\---

Sirius shivers, staring up at him with eyes reflective of Martin's own form. "I don't know. Perhaps I am ignorant." His voice is small, but there's a winding thread of ecstaticness to his voice, following the shiver. Ah. The Hunt and it's threats. Even from one meant to guard, to protect.

\---

But who, in the end, will he protect? The Eye, or Jon? Maybe Jon’s vision of the Eye, not the Eye’s vision of itself. The distinctions are difficult to draw. 

Martin allows the vibration to draw up and reverberate between his ears, so thick he can feel it down in his fingers. Against the concrete. “I’m the only thing that could kill you, aren’t I?”

\---

Sirius sucks in a surprised breath, and tries to press himself further into the ground. This must be what Martin felt like, waking up to him with his hands around his throat. Perhaps. Something sick curls in his gut, but the truth winds itself around his throat regardless. 

"Yes. Yes, I think so."

\---

Martin forces him as close to melding with the ground as a person can get without being buried within it, and then stops. “Good thing I’m on your side, then.” 

He brushes his nose against Sirius’, or Jon’s, and in this moment he’ll allow himself to feed off that fear, just a little, just a tiny bit.

\---

"I suppose it is," Sirius says, and his voice is quiet, soft, and fearful, and oh, maybe this is what Martin is referring to. His voice catches in his throat, and then his breath, and fondness, excitement, and fear mingle, swirl, hurt and he lets out the smallest of whimpers, something involuntary and New.

\---

The softest of laughs joins the sound below him; just as involuntary but not so new. 

“Maybe one day I’ll have a way to say I’m yours in all the languages. Not just the human ones. All of these.”

\---

His lips curl up. A smile? A snarl? He's not sure. "All the true languages. Words can be so hollow."

\---

Martin mimics the gesture, his own absolutely being a snarl. “Push me and I’ll howl for you.”

\---

He isn't sure what _ push me _ means, but he does want a howl. He knows that much. Deep in his chest where his being sits in this body, becoming more and more like a mirror to Jon's own soul. How strange, the things Martin has done to him. Profound and evil and ruinous.

He stares for another moment and then darts upwards, just enough that he can take Martin by the lips. It's not a kiss; it's an excuse to bite, his hands shooting up to brace Martin by the cheeks, pulling at his lip. No snarl, but his eyes certainly could be, fiery and bright and curious and furious.

\---

Martin jolts, muscles locking up in preparation for something worse, frozen in place. Simplistic confusion as different responses spin in his head, fighting one another for the surface. Protect  _ himself,  _ that instinct is less strong, protect someone  _ else,  _ that’s stronger, but here where prey is handler is thing of worship is trusted on such a primal level, controlling himself is the last thing on his mind. 

Something turns off. Martin bites back, hard enough he knows he’s drawn blood because he can taste it, can sense it in the air the first moment it exists. The sound continues dutifully on, working up to something stronger, every little action adding fuel to a fire stoking in the center of his throat. It feels good. Good in a way that will hurt, later, but feels good now, mind quickly forcing itself into something that only exists in the present.

\---

Sirius' mind goes white-blank as sensation fills him to his core. Pain and connection and fear and belonging and the opposite of loneliness, the kind that the stars can't provide from their faraway satellite location, all intertwine, and his own throat must be working, something between a hum and a growl. Harmonizing, with the creature, Martin, his Martin.

The spilling of blood feels divine and if his mind were cognizant, he'd worry about how grounded such a fluid makes him feel, to this earth, the ground, to this body and the body above him. His mind isn't working, though, and what wasn't a kiss begins to turn into one, brutal and violent and messy and needy. He's never been needy. He's never been impatient. He's never been so, so many things, but something is awakening.

Memories from Jon trickle in, of other experiences like this, and it's terrifying, to have memory coat him without his permission, to feel Jonathan twitch inside of him, not against him but with him.

He pulls away and very nearly slams his head into the concrete below them, just barely avoiding hurting himself, and he licks his lips, tastes his own blood, letting it coat him, and he grins with teeth soaked in... Whatever this is. Whatever this means.

\---

Something something yearling wolves, and all that other smitten nonsense, Martin flows with the torrent openly roiling within Sirius’ head despite not knowing what’s happening until—

Ah, _ Jon.  _

Martin loves you. ‘Why’ is the strangest mystery of all time, ’Why’ is the great question brushing haunches with ’How is this all going to end’? It isn’t the blood that does it, though that’s certainly a plus, but he  _ wants _ to be the center of attention, beneath the spotlight of the moon, to show off, and so— So he does, before the impulse can fade.

He sits up straight, and holds his breath, to look down at the Moon just long enough to give a shaky laugh, and then up he turns— to the sky that allowed him this today, for what he’s sure he didn’t cause by anything but indirect interference, to howl a way that shreds his throat and says something far different but wholly identical to the weight found at the beach.

\---

Ah. What a show. They look up first at Martin, their Martin, and then up, up to the Moon, to watch it be serenaded as they are, right now. Something pokes fingernail-fine pinpricks of pain through a stomach that should not be, and a stomach that always was, bodily comfortable and new and old all at once, and as the sound continues, as it warbles and moves and sheds sheer emotion...

Sirius feels tears drip down the lengths of his cheek. These are not Jon's tears. This is him. But they both watch, they both know, they will both Remember. The beach, but different. The beach, but scarier. The beach, but healing and wrecking in ways sand could not chafe from their skin.

\---

The beach, at peace with this connection. The beach, out of control and completely in control at once. The beach, but for Jon and the Eye in equal measure. The beach, but now the burden of memory is no longer solely on one. 

Now, it’s all of them together. What Jon will become, neither Martin nor Sirius Know, but... But Martin’s soul belongs to him by choice. The howl burns through his lungs until there is nothing left to add, and he slumps forward, panting with his throat lined with blood and a soreness that will last, but all the better for it.

\---

Sometime between the middle of the howl and the end, Sirius sits up, hunched over himself as tears flow freely. This is a body that knows crying; it's unique, and new, and terrifying for _ Sirius,  _ and it leaves his cheeks raw, and his eyes mournful, and he doesn't know why.

As the howl dies, so does this momentary duality of both of them existing at once. There's a choice here; Jon almost wakes up, fully, but Sirius pleads, silently, pleads for his night to end to its fruition. For once, he gives Jon the opportunity to say no. He doesn't, and it's Sirius who cries, Sirius who feels a sob deep in his throat, Sirius with blood down his chin as he leans forward and presses his face to Martin's, exhausted and wired all at once.

\---

Martin can’t comprehend the nuance below Jon’s skin, can’t see what tugs below but he knows, he knows something has changed, something profound that draws him ever closer to whoever they’ll become. In the end. 

His first instinct is to lick the side of Sirius’ face, stopping beneath his eye. He realizes it does a better job to use his hands before the thought that that is weird even crosses his mind.

That is to say, it never does. But he thumbs at the tears on the other side, basks in the smells and sights the Hunt and the Eye by extension offer him below the low light of the Moon. O, how they’ve corrupted him with proper words. Emptied him of thought and replaced all substance with fluff. 

Martin doesn’t think he can speak, and he doesn’t try, since there is no reason to. He does what the Martin that exists at the center always does: he takes care of those closest to him. Gives them safety and comfort and company. And in this case, a body to lean on.

\---

The tears slow by increments, and by the time they dry up entirely, Sirius is sapped of all energy, his leaning turning into him bracing himself against Martin's side. The Moonlight is a balm to his skin, inverted suntanning.

"Can we go home now?" He asks, at length, his voice scratchy and raw and rough, and his throat hurts, some remnants from the sounds he made, from the cry, from the scar tissue making itself known once more.

\---

Martin feeds. He feeds off the fear, the love, and he doesn’t feel exhausted the same way. He feels alive. Capable. Competent. In control by relinquishing it. What a funny, funny conundrum he is. 

He nods, half a nuzzle against the comforting familiarity of his facial hair, and rests both hands against Sirius’ sides, fingers splayed over his ribs in a silent gesture. Begging the question of whether or not he’ll need to be carried, or if he can walk on his own.

\---

He doesn't. Need to, at least. He does not need to be carried. But Martin is offering, and after a second of deliberation, Sirius nods, silent once more, pulling in a deep breath that expands his ribcage against Martin's hands.

  
\------

The Spiral weaves itself deep into Mike’s core, and to be confronted with that inherent truth was to change his very perception of reality, if only for the shock of it. Of course, of course it makes sense that his being is a mix of two pieces that have equally shaped him. But still. There is a storm brewing, mostly within the swirled up wiring of his brain, but it is a storm nonetheless. 

The sort that follows, that hunts, that lies. One where the rules of thunder - a normal sequence, one you can track, one that tells you how close it is and how much longer you have - don’t apply. He can feel it against the back of his neck. 

But he isn’t in much of a state to cower from it. Against all odds, being placed carefully underground keeps him safe. Under all the watchful Eyes, he can’t be touched by the storm. 

Maybe he _ can  _ get concussions. Maybe it’s just the reopening of traumatic wounds alongside the very physical wounds that remain. 

Either way, he’s on their couch.  _ Again. _ Incapacitated.  _ Again. _ He’d fallen asleep on the way back, but now he’s up, not sitting up, but up nonetheless. 

“I think... weather... should do what I want it to.”

\---

Michael snorts from his position opposite Mike, his knees drawn up tight to his chest and his head resting upon them. He'd pulled his braids out once they returned, and his normally curly hair is all the more so from artificially tightening them all day, bounced all around his head. A halo, maybe.

His laughter is soft, still on the edge of mirthless, but better controlled now, his fingernails pressed tight to his shins. "We should all be so lucky," He says, and lifts one of his hands to make a lazy swirling motion. "Tornadoes in London. Imagine the chaos."

\---

“I would make it all go away. Forever.” Mike stretches out his legs however he can manage without touching Michael fully, knees bent at an angle so he can face up. “No more weather. No more storms. A light rain, maybe.” He squints up at the ceiling, unfocused. ”Maaaaybe.”

\---

"Sounds dreary," Oracle says after a moment. She's sat herself in the Archivist chair, exhausted herself after today. Sure, she could have directed Michael to carry Mike for part of the way. But. It felt improper. And it felt like an admission of some kind of defeat. She doesn't always feel like that. She does today. "What a Grey world that is."

\---

“No,” Mike says, tilting his head so he can see Oracle. All three of her. “It sounds like a wonderful world. Oh, that’s a song, isn’t it? Skies of blue... red roses, too.”

\---

"Don't remember rain usually involving blue skies," She says, at length. She assumes he just needs to sleep this off. 

Michael grins and leans forward. "The rainbow connection and  _ youuu. _ What about rainbows, Mike?"

\---

“I’ll allow rainbows, if I ever... ever fully control the weather. I’ll allow one— One or two rainbows.” It takes so much effort to move his head and face Michael. “She’s never been in a sun shower.”

\---

"She's goth. She's probably allergic. Do you see how pale her foundation is?" He laughs again.

Oracle rolls her eyes and absolutely let's them believe she's never seen the rain in the sun.

\---

“I like her foundations,” Mike says wispily.

\---

"Ugh." Michael rolls his eyes. "Everyone goes so heterosexual for Oracle."

\---

Mike blinks. Stupidly. Very, very stupidly. And then he moves on. “You’ve been kind to me. I’m... I’m sorry for dropping you.”

\---

"It was an accident." Michael mumbles. "Probably. It's... It's fine. Um. Don't do it again? It uh, made me crazy."

\---

“It was. I wasn’t— Hm.” Mike shifts on the couch to face one side. “I don’t like thinking about it.”

\---

"It's the opposite of thinking. It's-- it's spiraling. It's-- you know, I've never explained it before, and--" Michael abruptly cuts himself off, sitting up all at once. His hair, if possible, seems to get bigger in the shuffle, his eyes wide under the mess in front of his face.

His arms break out in goosebumps, and the mark on his wrist hurts, hurts like teeth are pressing deep into the flesh. 

"Oh," He says, and turns his face upwards.

"Michael?" Oracle asks, leaning over the desk, squinting at him.

"Martin's singing."

\---

Mike takes him in where he can over his shoulder, snapped into some semblance of coherency at the sudden motions. The Spiral isn’t forgotten, but it is gladly postponed for something far more new and unusual. 

He isn’t sure who will give him a proper answer, but Michael seems preoccupied, so he speaks to the air instead. “Is... Is that something you should be concerned about?”

\---

Oracle regards Michael for a long, long beat, her lips pursed as she tries to figure this out, as well as some residual irritation. Fuck, she _ just _ got him to calm down and get back to reality, somewhat. Is it just Michael doing... Michael? But... No. It can't. 

His hand is wrapped firmly around his wrist, nails digging into the scar tissue from where Martin once bled him, more than once, and he faces the ceiling. He isn't looking at the ceiling, that much is clear. 

"I... Have no idea. This is new." She blinks, and then says, cautiously, "You can hear... Martin?"

Michael doesn't nod, doesn't shake his head, but rather gives a soft hum deep, deep in his throat. It looks like he's trying not to do something, but it isn't the playful look he gets when he's trying purposefully to be a dick, or mischievous, or whatever word you want to use for him, but an active effort not to... What? "Yes," He breathes, thick, like his voice is through mud and stars.

\---

Mike forces his elbow to comply to his demands, said demand being a need to get up and curl into a ball at the opposite end of the couch. He has learned very quickly that nothing good will come of delving too deep into a Hunter’s business, and that Michael is a friendly but extremely unfortunately geared to Spiral... individual. 

He hikes his knees up to his chest and sits small, anticipatory. Better to be closer to Oracle’s side of the room. “You’re confused too? Isn’t your name Oracle? I thought that was literal.”

\---

She scowls. "You know how my abilities work. I told you. I-- I don't think it's something to be worried about. I think-- Michael, stop tensing your jaw like that, you look like a fucking maniac." 

Michael pauses just long enough in his resolute stare upwards to tilt his head towards the both of them, and his mouth drops open, and what comes out is a breathless, strained laugh, his eyes half-lidded and spell-struck, as though drunk on-- on something, and then the laugh ceases. Ceases just long enough for him to tilt his head back up to the ceiling and get himself in a better position to mimic the sound he hears, dredged up from an ether marrow-deep, spinning and swirling and crawling and stalking his veins, and his pounce is not a death toll, but rather a howl, loud and without any regret, remorse, or embarrassment, his chest puffed out to pull in as much air as he possibly can.

\---

Something shifts in the air up above, something seeping through the walls or maybe down between the cracks of the roof, but where it starts or what direction is lost on Mike Crew. 

It’s a beautiful, chilling sound. Horrifying in a way - a way that signals something untouchable. With gnashing teeth and harsh, vivid red hues bursting out of bright yellows and wow, colors, the infectious disease of harmonized emotion has him seeing colors. 

He isn’t in a place to inspect that. He _ is _ in a place to stare wide-eyed and wild up at Michael, trapped there, mentally begging for Oracle to handle the situation before he gets sucked into something he doesn’t understand.

\---

Oracle lets him for a few seconds, and then quietly says, "Michael," her voice covered in something apprehensive, confused. He doesn't stop, and she lets him go longer, to see if he'll stop, but he doesn't. He doesn't, and he looks wild-eyed as he goes, and she says louder, "Michael," And once more for good measure,  _ "Michael!" _

But it falls on deaf ears. He's listening to something else, and by the time he winds down, his chest panting, his eyes strained, his voice rough and thick and scratchy, Oracle is standing, ready to take him by the shoulders and pull him bodily away. 

Michael stops howling, and all but collapses in on himself, his body broadcasting a tired that isn't just his, but someone else's too. He has a second to breathe, a beat, two, before he's launching himself off the couch and over to the side of the desk, where a small garbage can half-full with old papers and used tea bags sits down on his knees. He then proceeds to vomit, violently, and Oracle is left to stare down at him, her own mouth slightly agape in surprise.

\---

Seems he’s quite the spectacle, with two pairs of eyes and all the ever-present Eyes about them honing in on one singular point of Michael Shelley. 

“Should I be doing something? I-I don’t understand, I’m really not— I’m not... not prepared, for—“ He shudders at the sounds that make him want to retch, badly. “—May, m-may I leave the room? Or do you... need...”

\---

"If you're gonna puke, yeah, feel free to go to the bedroom." She says, and steps closer to Michael, crouching next to him to pull his hair from his face. He slowly calms down, just dry-heaving for a bit. "Seems he's... Calming down?"

She wants to freak out, at least a little. She won't. It won't do anyone any good. Maybe with another name, right now, she would have. But she just holds Michael's hair back, and fields Mike a very apologetic look.

\---

“I haven’t eaten in several weeks,” Mike says blandly, unsure if that’s even true. 

He tries to stand up, and does a good show of it for what he’s gone through and put himself through the past few days alone. “I could find water.”

\---

"...Yeah, yes, that's a good idea. Uh, staff kitchen down the hall, brita filter in the fridge, oh my God I'm going to kill Martin for whatever he did to cause this." Okay. So maybe she's in full protection mode now. Good to know.

\---

“Right.” Mike spares one last sympathetic but scared glance, and then decides to go on his journey. 

It’s difficult to manage with one hand, but he can clear his head with temporary distance. It lends him focus. A tangible goal to work towards that he does with special care. Water doesn’t taste that great, he knows that, so he spends an extra minute... rummaging. 

People like punch flavor packets. Especially after vomiting. That sounds like something people like. Do people like that? He tries not to debate this fact too much, and vows to ask later. He still pours punch flavoring into it. 

When he comes back, his hand is wobbly but stable enough to pawn it off next to Michael without a word and resume his position in the very corner of the couch.

\---

Michael takes it gratefully with one hand, the other working to wipe away the residual tears that track his cheeks, and he chugs it faster than even he thought he could do. Maybe he was dehydrated. Maybe he just needs something, anything, that gives him a solid few seconds of no chance to speak. 

Oracle's stepped back by this point, having gone to the bedroom to find more hair ties and pull his hair back into a loose ponytail, just enough that it stays out of his way. 

"Thank you, Mike," She says, after a beat, and flashes him the smallest of smiles. Her eyes look worried. The second the water bottle is put to the floor, she asks, "What the fuck was that, Shelley." 

Michael shrugs, and looks from Mike to Oracle and then to no one, and shrugs again. "Martin was howling." His voice is raspy.

\---

“You’re not a Hunter,” Mike murmurs from the couch, not dwelling on the praise or the smile. Hard work. “Will you be alright?”

\---

Michael nods slowly. "Maybe. Probably. Always am. Never am. Hah! Um-- I didn't know I could do that. Hear him." He rubs at his throat, feeling the way it moves as he swallows. "Not a Hunter. Never. Never."

\---

Mike is officially, completely lost. 

At least he doesn’t get to dwell on that. The prodigal son himself appears, their Archivist in tow at his back, and they both look... alive. The Vast deals less with the senses of minute detail, and he isn’t well-equipped as-is to gauge the new dynamics between them, but he knows it’s not his place and not his stage. 

Martin seems to look confused, directly at Michael, then to Oracle where he softens, and finally to Mike. He doesn’t react. Not a sound, no growls, not even a frown, pure neutrality as he slowly lowers Sirius down to the ground again. Bending at the knees. 

He picks Michael in the end. To lock onto, anyway, with that frightfully keen eye contact of his. But he isn’t going anywhere until Sirius shows he can move on his own.

\---

Sirius can very well move on his own, but he stays close anyways, stepping around him and then next to him, staring at Michael Shelley. He smells. And looks quite miserable, enough so that Sirius announces, "He vomited." 

"Yes, thank you, Archivist," Oracle says slowly, with as much neutrality in her voice as possible. "We're working on it. Hi, Martin. He heard your... Your howling?"

\---

With Sirius taken care of, Martin sets out on his own path to Michael. His footfalls and voice are completely silent as he moves through the room, and he settles on the floor next to Michael, aware of very little else. 

He doesn’t acknowledge Oracle. Or Mike. In growls or nods or anything like actual communication, because he’s pressing against Michael’s cheek with his own, insistently, apologetically. Aggressively apologetically.

\---

Michael leans into him, his eyes wide. A tremor runs through him, the smallest of shakes, and after a moment, he makes the softest of whines, wrecked and scratchy in his throat.

\---

Martin has no clue what’s going on, to the point that he doesn’t feel guilty about it, trying to console with weight and pressure and touch. He spares one last glance up at Oracle, seeing her as the keeper of knowledge or maybe just clarity, to see if she might know what happened, and blood that he can tell is his dribbles at the slowest of crawls at one corner of his mouth.

\---

Oracle gives Martin a flat look. "I would love to know what the fuck happened, you know. He just started--  _ howling.  _ Thought he was spiraling again, he did that earlier, but this was different. Like he was possessed."

"'M fine," Michael murmurs.

\---

Well. Martin doesn’t have the answers to that. He hides beneath Michael’s jaw and stays there beside his throat, so that leaves one-or-two witness(es) in a single body to speak for them. Typical.

\---

Getting no answer from him, she turns to the Archivist, who watches Martin and Michael dispassionately. Something has changed in him; it's obvious. More than just the blood covering his lips and jaw.

Right.

"Do you know what happened?"

He turns to her, and gives a slow nod. "I suppose Michael Shelley heard him, due to the unbreakable bonds and marks they have laid upon each other's flesh."

\---

Ah. Redefining blood pact into blood pack, it seems. Martin lifts Michael’s chin with his nose and mutters a love you under his breath. It sounds human enough, though scarred and rough. Damaged. Content, but  _ damaged. _

\---

Michael hums, and presses himself tighter, his own "love you" just as small, just as throat-hurt. "Warn me next time? No one warns me about anything, ever, and then wonders why I'm crazy."

\---

“Didn’t know.” Martin goes still, the grumpy sort of way, before lowering his head down into Michael’s lap. Curling around him as best as he can. 

“He isn’t upset that I’m here.”

\---

Oracle rolls her eyes towards where Mike is. "Evidently, he's too occupied. Christ."

The Archivist turns to look at Mike. "You are not as powerful as you were this morning. Exhaustion pools in all our guts, it would seem."

\---

Mike stares blankly back at him. “I fell.” 

He doesn’t notice the awkward pause that stretches on after the fact.

\---

He hums. "I believe that makes two of us."

\---

“...My condolences?”

\---

"... Thank you. I am certain you will fly once more. With time. I am unused to the standards of healing."

\---

“I was healing well until today. Do I have a concussion? Can I get a concussion?”

\---

Sirius regards him with heavy scrutiny, his eyes narrowed. "I should think not normally. But seeing as you have already sapped the gifts my Brother has given you, and hurt yourself on top of that... Perhaps. Your soul and brain are... Shaken."

\---

“I’m so sorry.” Mike addresses that to Oracle, specifically. “I’d like to stop sleeping on your couch.”

\---

"... We have a bed," She says slowly, cocking her head a little, surprised at his seemingly sudden forwardness.

\---

“Um, you... you mean a spare bed? I didn’t— Did you think I meant... oh, no. No... No thank you.”

\---

"... Oh. Sorry. As for the couch, you're welcome to it as long as you need. I'm not kicking you out."

\---

“I... know.” Mike awkwardly settles back down, sideways on the couch. “I’ll just... I’ll just stay here.”

\---

"Yeah. You will. At least until that concussion lets up." She turns to Martin and Michael. "Why don't you get him to bed, Martin? That can't be good for either of your backs, sitting like that."

\---

Martin scuffs one of his shoes against the floor to indicate he refuses to move except by force and Oracle should let him do whatever he wants. He would like to hibernate on Michael Shelley, thank you.

\---

"Dumbass." She shakes her head and slowly returns to the Archivist chair, propping her feet back up onto the desk. Fine. She's absolutely not sleeping herself until everyone else is done pulling idiotic stunts.

Michael fidgets a little, but it's really only to get more comfortable where he's at on the floor with Martin.


	80. Chapter 80

Sirius rather likes sleeping. Not the dormancy that he dwells within when Jon has control of his own body, but proper, human sleeping. He even dreams, his own soul concocting visions and events that have not happened and never will, remnants of a strange conscious thought process that worms its way into his soul's very understanding. Moons and braying dogs and stars running constellation packs through their sky-territory; jellyfish ignorant and moving slow through the current of the cosmos, unbothered and unhurried in their fragility. Lightning crackles and laughter that would reek of ozone, could he smell in this space. 

It swirls, and when he awakens in the morning, he lays prone on the bed and stares at the ceiling for a while to process the images. Martin is curled around Michael, and he pressed against Martin, but both of them sleep soundly. There is a protective way in which Martin sleeps, and Sirius finds it endearing. A guard to him, but also to those more vulnerable, more fragile. Michael Shelley has a Protector. There's a story in that; something far more whimsical and light than his own genre, he supposes.

After a few minutes to gather his faculties, he slowly rises, silent and soft as he slips from the bedroom. It had been a late night; Oracle had eventually convinced them to sleep, the command working only once she had admitted to her own exhaustion. Her voice carries weight in a way that Gerard's only sometimes does; a Book versus an Orator. 

He does not bother with shoes, nor to change his clothes. No, his stomach rumbles in this small body, and he supposes he must be thirsty, and he supposes tea is the answer, and whatever else the humans keep lying around. A kitchen. There is one down the hall. This he knows, and that's where he journeys, closing the office door quietly behind him as to not rouse Mike Crew. 

He knows there is a kitchen, because Jonathan knows there is a kitchen. It is this merging of memory that haunts him, but it is useful, in this moment. He knows the way, because Jonathan knows the way. And he knows where the light switch is, because Jonathan knows where the light switch is. And once he's there, he closes the gap of memory and starts to explore, opening up cabinets every which way, his gaze hungry for rhyme and reason. Organization, or lack thereof, can tell quite a lot about the inhabitants. And all of this is new. Pots and cups and dry goods and the fridge, which needs a good proper cleaning, he supposes. He takes his time.

Well. No one is supposed to see Tim this way. Not this early in the morning, not with a meatball sub shoved halfway into his mouth, not with a gun in his lap, not... well, not brushing his hair back is fine, he can live with people seeing that. He makes it work, anyway. 

He freezes when the lights come on, and wow, he really is getting roped into this freak Institute cult if he’s sitting in the dark eating dinner-for-breakfast like a maniac. It’s  _ Jon, _ of course, Jon, who doesn’t notice he’s there, Jon... opening up everything, snooping, as usual, except in a place that feels incredibly bizarre for a man who lives here to snoop through. 

Unsure what to do and not wanting to kill the poor guy out of fear, he clears his throat from one of the dining tables set up across from the kitchen counters.

Sirius jumps, the heart within his chest pounding and pounding in fear. A new response. Something Martin has unlocked that he does not like, but does not want to examine, either. He twists from where his head was pressed deep into the freezer to examine the way ice shards have gathered into the crevices of the cold machine, very nearly hitting his head with the door in the process. He lets it shut behind him, and finds... 

Ah. He stares wide-eyed for a moment, and then clears his throat as well. "Timothy Stoker. Good morning. I did not know you were here."

Tim swallows a bite of his sandwich and then puts it down, so he can better keep track of what Jon is doing. “Uh, yeah. Bright and early, _ Jonathan Sims.  _ God, how do you keep up with that every day? I honestly thought it might’ve been fake when you first got the job.”

The Archivist cocks his head for a moment, and a smile slowly creeps up onto his face. The kitchen has been forgotten, utterly. Timothy Stoker does not _ know. _ "What is fake?"

Tim rolls his eyes. “The uptight boss schtick. You’re just like that.” 

He looks to the freezer, then back to Jon. That smile doesn’t comfort him in the slightest. “What are you looking for?”

"Nothing in particular. Merely... Looking. Though, yes, perhaps... Tea? I should think I want to make tea this morning, before I leave."

“Cabinet above the sink, bottom left. Brain not caught up yet, eh?” Tim goes right back to eating his sandwich, eyeing Jon somewhat suspiciously.

"Merely unaware where your foods and drinks are kept." He goes where Timothy has directed, and pulls out a box. Small bags of tea. He has to read the back to know what to do, giving a soft hum. How easy! No wonder Jonathan likes it.

He finds a mug, and then the kettle of water, and cautiously turns it on, delighted at the little red light that indicates it is set to boil.

And then he realizes, with a pang, that Martin might be cross, were he to trick his companion. A lie, he thinks, and it turns his smile into a small grimace, and he turns around to face Timothy. "We have not met."

“...Uh.” Tim raises an eyebrow. “I want whatever drugs you’re on, Sims.”

"No drugs." He leans against the counter and smiles again, this time far smaller. "I am not Jonathan. He slumbers, within this body. I suppose no one thought it fit to tell you. How unfortunate."

Tim looks down at his soda. No, he doesn’t think anyone slipped him anything. God damn it. A raised vein sits just beneath the skin at his jaw from how he tenses. 

”Really not a joke you want to make around a guy with a gun and a history with people I know bodysnatched, Jon.”

Sirius stands to his full height, and slowly shakes his head. "This is not a joke I would play. And you should be more careful with the artifact of yours. Such power burns."

The kettle clicks off, the water boiling. He turns to remove it from its warmer, and speaks as he pours it into his mug. "I am in the body of your boss, yes, but he is not gone forever. I have existed since they journeyed to America."

“I haven’t used it again. Maybe I should. That’s careful enough for me.” Tim drums his fingers on the table. The burns don’t hurt. He feels less there than anywhere else. “You know what? I don’t care. I really don’t. I’m in the revenge business, and all you’ve done is be an insufferable prick. So unless you’re buddying up with the Stranger, save it for someone who cares.”

Sirius raises an eyebrow. How strange. "I am unused to people who do not have a desire to know." He dunks the tea bag into the water, squinting at how hot the cup is. It almost hurts. It does not matter.

"I am not Jonathan, however. Do not implicate me in his cowardice and crimes."

“That’ll hold up in court.” Tim snorts bitterly. “I can say I’m the Queen all day, and oh, _ your Honor, _ I’m just here to find my lost dog. I promise the dead body was the other guy in my head’s fault. I’ll never see the light of day.” He frowns. That cruelty isn’t what he’d usually extend, but he seems driven to making a special case out of Jon. “I’ll chat, but not about  _ you.” _

He shrugs. "So be it. I suppose--" He pauses, abruptly, all at once, and turns towards the kitchen's open doorway. "Oh. Curious."

There's a few solid seconds of nothing, and then Martin walks through the door, and he carries an air of excitement, and mischief and oh, how wonderful. This is so wonderful. "Mr. Blackwood. What a surprise to see you so early."

Tim gives Martin a cursory wave. “Hi, Martin. Join the morning club. Free tea and everything. Oh, and next time we’ll have snacks. Eh?”

"Hi, Tim," Martin says at length, after a long, long look at Sirius, who stares back with as neutral of an expression as he can muster. "There's tea?" 

He pulls his mug of tea off the counter and holds it with both hands. "For myself, yes. You may make your own."

All’s not well in paradise, it seems. “So, ooh, here’s a question, Jon. Does your  _ second _ personality have a thing for Martin, or are you strictly friends?”

Sirius very slowly raises a finger to his lips, eyes bright around a smile. He clears his throat and returns the hand to cup his mug, lacing his fingers together around the warm ceramic.

"Of course. We are together, you know, Tim. I thought you knew that."

Martin squints a little, first at Sirius and then Tim. Sirius maintains a gentle smile. "I think, I'll, uh, make some tea now." 

Sirius steps out of his way deftly, to allow him access to the counter.

“Wow, not even a blush? Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.” Tim rubs the heels of his palms against his eyes to clear the soreness there. “It _ is _ morning, right? I’ve barely kept track.”

Martin turns the kettle back on. It doesn't need to heat up for very long. He keeps looking at Sirius, but Tim gets quite the look too, and he gives a very, very careful shrug. "I slept alright. It sounds like you, you know, didn't, though." 

Sirius can't help but stare daggers at Martin, so he turns to face Tim instead. He takes a careful sip of tea, and says, "You should sleep more, Tim. It helps to keep an eye open, here."

“Says you. None of you are healthy. Except maybe Keay. But he’s dead, so that’s a low bar.” He snickers from his seat at the table. “Nothing against you, Martin. You just have very interesting taste in your range of group partners.”

"I don't really think... Think that's any of--" He tilts his head upwards, his gaze sliding coolly off Tim. "I don't really think that's any of your business!"

Sirius takes another sip of his tea. "It is rather rude. But I think we can withstand it, Mr. Blackwood."

“Ah, but it _is_ my business. Literally! I work here. Hi. Tim Stoker. Standards: a flat. No cots. I keep  _ my _ scandalous sex  _ there.” _ He grins, wide and sharp and invincible. “I’ve withstood so much from you two lovebirds, please tell me you can handle a few jokes.”

Sirius tilts his head, and then nods. Satisfactory. "I suppose we can. Our horrid little cot. Awful, right?" He sighs, and angles a look to Martin.

Martin takes the kettle off the warmer, and gives a slow, sad nod. "It's awful. Still-- still not any of your business, but it's awful."

Tim blinks. God, they’re awkward. It’s not even fun anymore. Tim sighs right back. “Well, if there’s nothing else you want to talk about, and you don’t have anything else to offer as fodder for my joke pile, I’d like to enjoy my crappy breakfast.”

"Oh, I've given you plenty. You'll learn," Sirius says, and takes another drink. Still. He has to give the body back to Jonathan soon. He promised a day. He gives Tim a nod, and then a slow smile to Martin. "Have a good morning, both of you. I should.. Work."

“Yeah, I’ll  _ learn,  _ bossman two.” Tim waits until Jon has turned away slightly to hold up a middle finger in his direction.


	81. Chapter 81

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brush with a spider, Elias Bouchard, and the Not!Them.

Oracle doesn't want to leave the office, necessarily-- Mike running about, not to mention a drowsy Jon returned from the Archivist's clutches, not to mention Martin and Michael's... Entire thing, but it's not as though she's just going... To ignore Tim, right now. 

She's fairly certain ignoring Tim would result in some pretty bad repercussions. Hint, hint,  _ Jon. _

So when Tim calls her, she comes. Maybe another book; it seems too soon, but who knows. Who fucking knows these days. Seems a million things happen at once, every day, always. 

"If it's another Book, Stoker, we should maybe wait until our current guest vacates the couch before implicating someone else."

Tim welcomes her with a bright smile and a genuine wave from his own desk. “There we are. Now, the real employee meeting can commence.”

Sasha sits at her own desk nearby, one eyebrow lifted as she hikes up one of her legs so she can wrap her arm around it in her chair, shoe scuffing against the seat. There have been no rules of decorum lately. They can do whatever they want. She’s even wearing overalls. 

“It’s not a book. And I think I finally know how we might get rid of one  _ other _ guest.”

"I'll remind you I'm not an employee." She snorts. "Bar being dead and a necklace, I have nothing tying me here. What guest?"

“Three guesses, Keay. This thing. The gun? If it can destroy a thing that destroys avatars, why can’t it be used on a measly table? Eh? And what about the Stranger itself? All wax and plastic, I think this could really change things in our favor. We might have something here. Something we can work with.”

She tilts her head up, thinking. It's not... A horrible idea to consider, all things told. It would certainly do the job. An all-powerful Desolation artifact to melt and explode wax and artificiality at its core.

"It could work. We don't know what it will do to you, though. These things always have a price."

“It burned my hands. Fair trade. Woe is me, poor Tim Stoker, they’re slightly off-color and blankets feel weird now. A real catastrophe.”

“Okay. Just— Hold on, Tim? The table isn’t the problem. We know that much.” 

“Yeah, so we have a window, we just need... we need bait, or something. Draw it out, bam, one problem done.”

"That sounds like a fantastic way to die. Really. Top ten deaths, right there. Killed by the Not!Them because you were too slow on the draw. Marvelous, really."

“I won’t die. Cross my heart. And hope to live. There. Is that good enough for you? Hey. You’re already dead, too. Think a dumb monster can tell?”

"Don't know, really. I don't know how smart this thing is." She scowls. "You're playing with Fire, Stoker. It's going to bite you in the ass. We can destroy that table, we can think about it, but we're thinking first. No crossing your heart."

“What do you think this is? It’s a thinking session. I gathered the best and brightest. People who actually get things done.” Tim sighs dramatically. “Come  _ on. _ It’s practically built into the name. I’m made for it. It’s like a Van Helsing situation!” 

“He really is a Dracula character come to life. Now I finally get why you are how you are.” Sasha says with a smile.

"It's like you want to make yourself into a cautionary tale," Oracle mutters, and then rolls her eyes and finds an empty seat to sit down in, kicking her legs up on the desk. "Right. Fine. We manage to draw it out and then... What? Hope we have enough time to kill it? We don't know what this thing looks like before it steals faces. We don't know how fast it is. We don't know how it kills, even."

Tim levels her with a serious glare. “Let me ask you, then. We’ll have all the answers to that. I’m already a cautionary tale.”

"What refreshing nihilism you're working with here." She sighs. "Ask."

“One at a time, then. Is this thing too fast to kill?”

"It..." Isn't coming as fast as she'd like. She squints, and then raises her eyes to the ceiling, like it will help, and then concentrates for good measure, her body glowing as eyes open green and searching and sifting through the Watcher's knowledge. But some thing's blocking it. The Eye can't see this creature. The Eye can't penetrate spider webs. 

"... I don't know."

Tim pauses. Then he claps his hands together. “Great. Some help you are. Guess we have to learn by doing. Or... ooh. Okay. Can the freaky Desolation gun kill things like that?”

"Prob... Probably?" Forgive her. She looks constipated as she's searching for the answer, her face tight and her eyes narrowed. "It's-- The Eye can't see anything about it. The-- the Table. It must be the table."

“No kidding. So we crack open the table, and we don’t have much of a choice but to deal with it right then. Or...” Tim hums. “What use is a prison if it’s burning itself and its prisoner into a crisp, right?”

"I guess the question is-- would that take one bullet, or two? How many do you even have? Have you-- what have you figured out about it?"

“There were six. Five left. It asked me what year I was born, and the decals weren’t there before, so I’m guessing it’s bound to me now. Charming.”

“Actually, not a guess. We tried it earlier. It burned my fingers like a hot stove. So now we know the answer to that.”

"Right." She chews on her cheek and shakes her head. "I really think we should try not to use it, whenever we can. It was just a mere Hunt Beast this time. Who knows how it reacts to you when it's something more powerful."

“Mere... It was ripping our resident weather wizard to pieces, Keay. He’s an avatar, right? This thing isn’t, even. It’s just— It’s just a thing, like that dragon.”

"Clearly more powerful than some Hunt-beast, if it needs to be bound in Webs to not kill." She shakes her head. "I'm not saying it wasn't impressive, I'm saying this is more."

Tim rolls his eyes. “Right! Thanks for the help. Since no one here seems to have any mind to experiment, I’ll go handle this one myself.” 

He stands up, not bothering to rant about how this thing had been locked away, too. How to him, they both look the same. Completely identical, even.

"Jesus Christ," Oracle mutters, and gets up to follow, her jaw tight and annoyed and pissed. "Experiments are for when someone isn't in grave fucking danger. Experiments aren't for when you failing means someone wearing the face of an ally without us knowing."

“If something replaces me, you’ll all know. I’ll suddenly care way less about any of this.” Tim snorts. “If you find yourself thinking, huh, Tim’s looking a lot less handsome these days, there’s your first clue. Sash?”

“I’m coming, just— Are you sure, Tim?”

“Sure as anyone.”

“I’ll, um, I’ll have the paramedics on speed dial, then.”

"See, if shit goes wrong, you two don't share a bed with Jon and Martin," Oracle says, but... Perhaps curiosity has won her out. Perhaps wanting to rid the world of something evil has won her out. Perhaps this deep, deep need to Know, to Watch, and in situations like these, to Witness will always be stronger than her sense of caution, these days. "And thus, get to avoid their wrath."

“Please. I don’t think being a necklace half the time counts as sharing a bed. Don’t be dramatic.” Tim pushes his chair in and sets off. “Now. Here’s the plan. I’m making it up as I go. We throw a few things at it, really get it mad, it pops out, I pop _ it. _ How’s that?”

"Horrible. We don't even know what triggers it." But she's following him. "And you don't have to sleep in a bed to use it."

“I sit in bed and have heart-to-hearts with Sasha, that doesn’t mean we share a bed.” 

Sasha backhands his shoulder, trying to keep pace beside him. “We’ve been under the impression that breaking the table releases it. One of us might— Oh!” She turns back to Oracle. “You could do it with the locket at a distance, couldn’t you? It’s not like it could take your body, and we’d have a shot.”

“I do like that idea.”

She cocks her head. "Elaborate."

“You take those stylish combat boots of yours to the table, we’re off, eh, far enough, that buys us some time—“ 

Sasha cuts him off. “If you open the seal, but you’re physically with us, that narrows down a few of the ways it could go wrong. Mostly, the initial danger of opening it in the first place?”

"Ah. Keep my body with you, kick the table myself." She cocks her head and then nods. "Saves us a bullet. Alright." She squints, thinking, and then nods again. "Alright."

Tim snorts. “Please tell me why she isn’t the boss, again?” He gestures in Sasha’s direction. “Anyone? Hello?”

"Because she isn't as easily led into the traps the Eye has set," Oracle says evenly. "Jon is way, way easier to manipulate."

“I knew avoiding the audio recorded styles would pay off in the long run. God forbid we just have a written, searchable database.”

“Hey.” Tim is certainly a live wire of energy now. “One more question. Can I have one more question?”

"You can have as many as you want, so long you warn me first." She lifts her chin at him. "What."

He shoots her an insufferable grin over one shoulder. “Do you think I’m sexy?”

"Disgusting pig," She spits, but. Well. The Eye can't lie. And neither can she. "Yes."

“Ha! Knew it. Now I can die fulfilled, knowing at least a solid two thirds of the room thought so. Sash?”

“No comment.”

"You're the one who was taking potshots at my taste a few minutes ago. So have fun with that reckoning." She snorts, and then slides a humored look to Sasha. "Notice how he asks the question when I'm a woman? Men."

“Trust me, if I didn’t have him under my thumb at all times I’d have had him shipped off to the farthest sister office of ours for permanent relocation.” 

Tim gasps. “Whoa. Hey. I’m not always asking questions! You can’t pull that card on me! Shit. I have to start thinking of snappy one liners. Just in case I do die.”

"What amazing priorities you have, Tim," She says, and rolls her eyes. "This is why I'm in charge of the Book Hunts, by the way, Sasha. Tim here, evidently, is a wild card."

Sasha falls back while Tim charges forward. “Oh, you’ve never seen him caffeinated. How are you, by the way? We’ve never talked much. My fault, I guess— But you all run around so much it’s hard to keep track.”

She shrugs. "Past trying to stop multiple endings to the world? Fine, I guess. Better than most dead girls can wish for. Trying to be more active, outside the Book."

“Oh, really? You know, I heard you worked with Gertrude. If... um, would you ever want to talk about that? I was never very close to her, but I had suspicions. Not— God, I make it sound like a hero thing.” Cut to the chase, Sasha. Rambling. “I’ve been compiling notes and... trying to make a record without, um, the entire Archivist package. It would be nice to have insight.”

Oracle tilts her head, and then slowly nods. "Sure. I mean-- technically was never employed by her. And wasn't an Archival member, mostly just... The Apocalypse stuff. The... Book Hunting stuff. But I picked up a few things from, um, snooping." She snorts. "She hated that."

“I think that’s the most important part of our work. We really should be using the Archives to collect information that can help people, not just for the sake of archiving. A database and a few commonly-known preventative safety measures would at least buy us more time in the future to stop these.”

She can't help the small smile that jumps to her face. "We-- well, I suppose me and Mike Crew were considering trying to collaborate on something like that. A book."

“Huh. That would be a solid start. What about? I’ve been— Well, I’m sure I’ve found a few things you could use. I’ve been in several departments now, so.” She smiles back, bright and a little ashamedly conspiratorial. “Might be fun, really.”

"I am the opposite of opposed, Ms. James." Her smile turns to a grin. "You seem like the kind of woman to know pretty much everything. Would be good to collaborate."

“Easy to know everything when no one expects you to make a fuss about anything. I used to keep track of all the office drama.”

“It’s true,” Tim calls from the front, clawing out of his own head momentarily. “I got so excited when I found out about Jon and Martin first! She always knows before I do, it’s an awful skill.”

She snorts. "I doubt it was exactly... Hidden. They're ridiculously cringey around each other."

Tim raises a brow at her. “You didn’t see what they were like before America. I really thought Jon was holding him hostage. We both did.”

"... Hostage? Martin? He's-- he's just an oversized lapdog, he very much wants to be here."

“We know that now,” Sasha sighs. “It’s just— Back in one of our first meetings, he told me he wasn’t thinking clearly with Martin, and that’s why he couldn’t help telling him but could with us. You could... kind of tell. They were secretive. Odd. Tim and I both knew Martin faked his credentials— It was hard not to assume the worst even before we knew Jon came back here.”

"Huh." She thinks about that for two seconds and then lets out a bark of a laugh. "No, for better or for worse, Martin is... Ridiculously adept at seducing people."

Both Tim and Sasha share a brief nonverbal communication with an exchange of extremely vague facial expressions. Most signs point to ‘well, we have no choice but to believe you, but are firmly outside of that zone’. 

“Oh, for the love of... we have to go through the stupid spider zone again. I totally forgot. Blindsided by the thing every time.”

"Scared of a measly spider, Tim? Not a great sign when you're off to kill an entire spider table."

“Yeah, but that’s like, a table, not a nesting freak of nature that tries to maim you if you get too close to the shelves. Guess we’re losing two bullets tonight, ladies.”

"If you use a bullet on a measly spider that Martin threw in the Archives, I might throttle you myself. Seriously. She's just... territorial, or whatever. Maybe you're the one scaring  _ her." _

Tim scoffs. “I don’t even do anything, Keay! Look. I’ll show you when we get there, okay?” He pauses, indignant. “I  _ work _ here! The spider does about as much work as Martin did!”

"Did he really do that little?" She pauses. "Wait. He hardly does anything now. Workwise. Huh. How did I not realize that?"

“You know, when he worked in the library I think someone had to show him how to properly alphabetize.” Sasha hums. “When we all shared an office he’d tense up whenever we came by the desk.” 

“Watching dog videos all day, I’m sure.”

Oracle snorts. "Pretty sure he's going to make us get a dog when we move."

“It better be a good one, or no housewarming gifts for you.” Tim is about to launch into a rant about dogs, but it’s a moot point and they’re just about there, so he holds a hand up to shush everyone. “Okay. I swear, if it jumps me when I’m not doing anything you each owe me a week’s worth of lunches.”

"I don't have a bank account," Oracle deadpans. Her eyes are a little wider, though, pupils expanded, curiosity taking her over.

Tim passes beneath the stacks, and he doesn’t need to search to find the burrow. Up above one of the bookshelves is an old mason jar that’s hardly recognizable as such for how well the spider has made its burrow there. Up in the dark, only noticeable if you’re really searching for it, or really tall. 

But Tim isn’t looking there. He’s too busy staring a few feet ahead, where a small dark spot with legs sits primly on the floor. He lowers his voice, half-turning to grab at Oracle with one hand.

“See. It’s just sitting there. _ Waiting.” _

Indeed, she's just sitting there. Oracle blinks. "A spider. In the place it hunts. Sitting there. How scandalous, Stoker."

“No, now hold on. Sasha? You go first.”

“Really, Tim?” Sasha holds her tongue about becoming a sacrifice, and walks across the stacks. The spider moves to hide in a nook somewhere along the shelves, and Sasha crosses her arms from the other side. “It’s just a spider.”

“Shh. Okay. Now— Now watch.” Tim tries to do the same thing, and the spider scuttles across the floor again while Tim moves by, near his feet, prompting a squeaky noise from him as he jumps to hide behind Sasha. It moves back off to the side of the shelf after that. “It attacks  _ me!  _ Me, specifically! Seriously! Explain that!”

"Maybe your body language is more threatening than Sasha's. You _ are _ angry half the time." Oracle shrugs, leaning forward to watch the spider move. She looks like a normal spider, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything for what she is.

“What does body language matter, we’re all giants! I went carefully. Come on. Acting like I’m evil here.”

She fields him a flat look. "Giants or not, Sasha walks calmly and you stomp around." But fine. Experiment time. She steps forward, going slow and gentle as she gets closer to the spider.

Charlotte the wolf spider, autonomous as ever, quickly climbs up the shelf about five feet and stays there, visible, large black eyes fixed on Oracle. It isn’t running away, rather holding its ground, but it’s not actively hostile. 

Tim hates every second of it.

"Hi, Charlotte," Oracle says softly, and her smile at it is more of a sneer. Not at the spider, her own eyes are bright and curious. The sneer is for Tim.

"Did you just  _ name _ it?" Tim sighs in exasperation, even as Charlotte crawls further up the shelf to sit closer to Oracle's line of sight. It has the same emotionless glint to its eyes as any other spider, but it seems to not be very afraid of confrontation. "Really? We'll get a pig in the Archives and they can chat."

"Martin named it. I'm merely respecting the name choice," She says, and slowly holds out her pointer finger to the spider, going as slow as she dares.

The spider backtracks up the shelf slightly, until something in its instinctual processes decides it could be advantageous to take the offered perch, and so she does. If a spider could look puffed up, she’s done so, body language and blank stare betraying a willingness to tear apart anything that decides to move too fast at her. And an intelligence that comes with a natural sense of sight that most types of spiders don’t possess.

Oracle lets out a puff of a breath, a quiet laugh more than anything. She turns, slowly, and shows off her new living ring to Tim. "See? I think you're just an asshole to her."

“I’m not an asshole. You have no idea how many times that thing has chased me down here. It honestly thinks it can hunt me down and eat me!” 

Tim and the spider have a staring contest. The spider wins. 

"You're the one scared of a measly spider." She raises her finger until she and Charlotte can have a face to face look, and she, mostly to make Tim think she's conspiring, winks at her, and then slowly puts her back down on the bookshelf.

Rest assured, the spider does not wink back. She climbs the rest of the way up the bookshelf and disappears back to her burrow, covered by darkness.

“Of course she’s a spider whisperer. Can we go kill this thing instead of playing Cinderella, please?”

There's a small, pleased smile playing on her face. Cinderella indeed, that felt... Whimsical in a way that makes her rather pleased. Swamp witch. She almost forgets about the table until Tim brings it up.

"Fine. If you insist."

On they go, down the yellow brick road. A few minutes later, Tim pipes up again in the lifts. “Sash, you’re sure about coming, r—“

“Of course I’m sure, Tim. I’m walking, aren’t I?”

“... Okay, fair enough.”

“It killed me the first time. I think I have as good a reason as anyone to try to not let that happen again. At least the future’s not set in stone.”

"It isn't, but that doesn't mean we should let our guard down. Even with that gun." She scowls. "At the very least, I want both of you stepping back. Tim, you can shoot through me."

“You won’t feel that, right? The last thing sort of looked like a fire ghost, and it went right through like... like nothing, and—“

The lifts open along the way down, and both Tim and Sasha reflexively recoil slightly against the back handlebars of the elevator. No one walks exactly like Elias Bouchard, the near-silent single-tracking of a predatory wolf in the body of a man who seems to present himself with a spryness that shouldn’t exist. He enters with his eyes glued to a small book just inches from his face, using his free hand to punch in another floor. 

After a moment of reaping the benefits of stunned silence, he slides the paperback novel away from his face, giving them all a steady once-over. A sharp, tiny smile replaces his prior bored apathy. “My, what’s the occasion?”

"Research," Oracle says, and leans heavily against the back of the lift, her immediate response to him to look the image of a snotty teenager that he once thought she was. She shrugs one shoulder. "I know a lot."

“Ah. And you’re so keen to prove that!” His grin widens, eyes soaking in every detail he can find inside and out. “You’ve made yourself right at home.  _ Now,  _ before you continue your charade, I must say— I certainly hope you’re not getting any ideas about sneaking your way into a genuine archival position among the rest of the flock.”

She sneers at him. "Consider me a consultant." Even so, there's a peculiar tilt to her head as she regards Elias.  _ He's _ the one that wouldn't let her work here.  _ He's _ the one who denied him the paperwork.

"I don't sneak, Bouchard. I've been open about being here the whole time."

“Oh, of course. My mistake, for a moment you almost looked like a black sheep waltzing around the wrong pen.”

“None of your sheep are white, Elias.” Tim says, trying to not seem as unnerved as he is with a gun pressed low against his own back. 

Elias rounds his apathetic smile on Tim. “Yes. ...Metaphor, Mr. Stoker.”

Oracle raises an eyebrow. "Metaphor for 'Fuck anyone in my family', by the by. Whatever. I'm helping your archivist where I can; you should be thankful."

“Rest assured, you’ve been quite the help.” 

The lift opens, and Elias takes the few steps necessary to take his leave. “Do try not to lose your head, Mr. Stoker. I expect your aim will suffer  _ dramatically _ without it.” 

He’s back to his book before the door closes, back off to whatever his evil business is. Maybe he’ll even hover around the elevator waiting for new people to corner.

Sasha and Tim immediately release twin exhales of relief.

Oracle does the opposite. It's as though she's puffing up as he leaves, standing back to her full height and up and away from the elevator's railing. She sneers, almost hisses after him, and then lets out a short frustrated little growl. "Hate that man," She says.

“No kidding,” Tim and Sasha overlap, and then immediately do some vague set of hand gestures in the small amount of space between them to break the jinx instead of saying anything else. 

“He really hates you, Keay. What’s up with the hate-on for your family tree?”

She doesn't look at either of them. "Dad worked here. Mum wasn't exactly friendly here. She killed him. He didn't work here anymore. Guess he just didn't like me, either." 

Another one-shouldered shrug. "Tried to. Considering I worked for Gertrude. Happy he never let me, I guess. Figure I'm less bound to this place than  _ Michael." _

“Jesus.” Something seems to worm its way deeper into Tim’s brain, something— Something that makes him feel marginally less guilty for his own past. But he wants to. There’s a part of him that still wants to. Not in relation to Keay, not at all, but— It just makes him think. “Hey, I’d rather be stuck to a book than this place. At least you can put your page in any book.”

Sasha chimes in. “Sorry, this is— Probably a... a really personal question, you don’t have to... You  _ guess _ he didn’t like you? You’re not sure?”

"Well, I haven't exactly-- I haven't. Really spoken to him much. When I was here. Gertrude usually didn't think it was a good idea." She tilts her head. "Once or twice. I asked her, but-- oh."

Something chills her artificial skin and she crosses her arms, digging her nails into her upper arms. 

"Prick or not, and he is a prick, I'm thinking she also didn't want my names on the employee docket. The more I think about it. Didn't want her pet book hunter turning into something like Jon."

“That’s not a fate anyone should wish on anyone, quite frankly. Unless you’re Elias.” Sasha smiles, bringing herself closer to Oracle. Nearly brushing shoulders, but not quite. “I’m honestly glad I’m hearing the story from you, and... and not her.”

She blinks and slowly looks down at Sasha, giving her a slightly confused smile. "She'd probably tell it better. Archivists are good Storytellers."

“And a mean, secretive bitch who clearly preferred to keep her assistants in the dark. Like another archivist we know, but  _ genuinely  _ scary. Perspectives are important. How can you possibly make sure you’re not biased if you rely on one person to tell all the stories?”

“Uh oh, you’re in for a philosophy talk, Keay. Pandora’s box.”

She pulls her head back and gives Sasha a long, long look, one that's flat and emotionless and blank, before she breaks into laughter, leaning back against the elevator wall again. "Look what you do when you let the archivists run unchecked." She gestures to herself. "Storytellers make stories." She snaps in Tim's direction. "Even your analogy is just a woman turned story."

“It’s an expression,” Tim mumbles. 

“And you can tell your own story. You’re not just a character in hers. Right?”

"Not since she went and got murdered by Elias, no, I suppose not." She snorts. "Still one of the Eye's stories, though."

Sasha hesitates. “She’s still down there, you know. In the tunnels. Um.” Now she clutches at one arm with her fingers. “Sorry. I don’t know why I brought that up. I guess I just remembered it.”

Oracle purses her lips, and then waves it away. "You're fine. That's-- Kind of sadly hilarious. Guess that's what happens when you either sacrifice or maul all the people close to you, huh."

“We should probably do something about that. I asked... Jon, we talked about it. Briefly.” She shakes her head. “Either way, you really should write it down. I’m seriously interested in your side of things.”

“If we live through this, let’s have Traumatic-Takeout at my place and swap spooky stories. Eh?”

Is she just casually being invited to... Hang out? Feels foreign. Oracle gives a slow dip of her head, and then another nod. "A... Alright. I can... do that. We can do that."

Tim’s grin is absurdly audible in his voice. “Wow. Didn’t even ask what TT was. We’ve got a natural, Sash.”

Sasha smiles up at her, noticing the vague air of awkwardness in her... well, her everything. “You’re free to invite other people, too. Tim likes having people over way too much. But it’s a good place for talking. Not like here.”

"...I can't eat, Tim." But other than that, perhaps Sasha is right. Perhaps it would do her good to not be at the Institute constantly. And, wow, when did she become such a homebody, anyways? She used to travel constantly, anything, to get out of London for a week at a time. "Might be good for Crew, too. He's got a story or two."

“Right! You were working on a book. Or, thinking about it? Again, really, I could bring a few folders of statements— I keep—“ 

“—A massive drawer at my place, she does. And you don’t have to eat. We can still get you a fortune cookie and you can crack it open, though.” He winks.

"...Okay. Alright. That would be-- You know, me and Jon sit down a lot, during the week, doing just that. Comparing notes. It's almost-- Relaxing? Speaking about these things so casually." She's smiling again. "We can plan that. So long as Tim doesn't burn himself up with that gun by then."

“I won’t. Seriously. It was probably a fluke. Well— Probably not. But I’m fine. Small price to pay. Blah blah blah.” 

“It’s relaxing when you’re working together. Not separate. We learned that quick. Otherwise you start getting paranoid and... and frustrated. Um, this is our floor. I...” Sasha moves slowly towards the door as it opens, suddenly filled with apprehension. “I can lead us. I-I used to work down here. I moved.”

"To the Archives, right?" She steps out of the lift, scanning where it is. She vaguely knows the floor, enough from a couple casual snoops when she had been scoping the place out when Gertrude first started to let her in, but she's not nearly as familiar with it as she is the Archives. "Don't seem to miss it much, hm?"

“No, I don’t.” Sasha shivers as a cold spot passes through her. It’s not a particularly abnormal place in looks alone, and right now it’s well-lit but quiet. She looks up at Oracle. “Is there anyone in here besides us?”

She looks into the space provided and Looks, and after a moment, shakes her head. "I don't believe so, no. No one I can see at least."

_ “Good, _ ” Tim growls, deep enough to spook Sasha, who jumps slightly. He throws her an apologetically dopey smile to make up for it and side steps so he’s next to her, and that helps, it helps a lot, to calm the sudden nerves. 

The place is crowded, vaguely dusty, and disorganized; much like the rest of the Institute. The bulbs down here need replacing, all the objects of various accessibilities cast in a dull yellow glow. 

There aren’t many tables that stick out, so it isn’t hard to find the one they need. Not with Sasha leading, especially. She has a good eye for these things. 

“It’s right here.” She says, almost under her breath. “Do you think it happened here? Last time?”

"I suppose it must have," Oracle says, at length, cocking her head as she regards the table. She can feel the Web, now that it's in plain Sight, the gooey, sticky way its impressions latch upon her mind. She can feel something beneath it, but its identity eludes her. Whether it's the Web or the Stranger's marks that do that, she isn't sure.

"How are we doing this?"

“Can we move it to the center of the room? Fire hazards. Extinguisher just in case. See? I can be responsible. Keay opens the seal, we stay back, I fire on it when it comes out, boom, job done. We could sweep up the ashes, too.”

"Right." She stares at the table another moment and then steps back. "You two have muscles, move her for me."

Tim snorts even as he complies. “What, it’s a her?” 

Sasha is slow on the uptake, but after seeing Tim’s hands touch the edges of the table and not instantly be maimed or taken, she regains her confidence. Between the two of them, they manage to maneuver it to somewhere a little off-center with minimal scraping. Not that it matters, this thing isn’t meant to survive, but... She doesn’t touch it any longer than she has to.

"Great." Oracle says once they put it down. She steps in front of it, and then waves a hand. "Get back, I suppose. Is it-- can I just open it, or does it need destroying?

“Uh, why would I know? Crack it in half like a Kinder egg, love tap it, whatever works.” 

Tim moves away from the table, wiping his hands over his shirt while he paces behind Oracle like a caged tiger. “You still sure I should shoot through you?”

"Not at all," She says, and grimaces a little. "But it stands to reason the most it'll do it incoporeate me, since it's not my actual physical body. If it means getting the surprise on this thing, then do it." 

She stares down the table a little longer, and huffs. "Wish we kept a spare ax lying around."

“There might be a haunted one behind the creepy doll and the archaic torture devices,” Sasha says, stilted in her attempt to make the nervous energy pulling her down. 

“Can you make one show up in your hands? You can change clothes, and that seems way more complicated than an ax— Riiight?”

"Ah, yes, extend the energy to not only produce an ax, but have the wherewithal to put force behind it. I don't know." 

“It’s just a table, kick it or something?”

She growls, frustrated but submitting to the idea, and waves a dismissive hand. "Fine. Whatever. I'll try. Stand back."

Tim crosses the space between him and Sasha to grab her hand. It’s gentle, for Tim, a question and not a demand. She comes willingly, shielding herself partially behind his shoulder to watch without being in a direct line of sight. 

“Good luck,” Tim mutters as he readies the gun with both hands.

"Right," Oracle says slowly, and then takes a slow, stabilizing breath. Grounding herself. The air is thick with a pressure she can't name, but Knows is several interested parties all at once watching. She has no choice but to accept this with the resignation of someone with no control.

Thank God for years of pent up rage and a good pair of boots.

She lifts her leg, and presses her leg solidly but softly against the frame of the table, just to test the angle, and then nods. All at once she pulls back, grounds herself as much as she can (locket in hand pressed tight tight against her palm), and kicks. And then kicks again, and another, for good measure.

The wood is old; it begins to splinter easily, and she keeps going until she can feel the thing lurking below cotton webs of deception and discretion, something full to the brim with a desire to desecrate, so angry it wants to destroy, and she shivers, pulling back from the table and letting go of her grip of control on this plane of existence.

Tim can barely see the edges of the wooden carnage, but he can hear it; If this situation didn’t call for a carefully collected, fabricated poise he would be cheering her on with each kick. Neither he nor Sasha are attuned to the supernatural aspect at play, can’t put what they feel into words, but it’s potent enough to have Tim shaking at the end of the gun and Sasha gripping tightly against the back of his shirt. 

It’s a good thing Tim can’t see it. It’s a good thing that none of them are speaking, so the creature that pulls itself out from the confines of its prison with waxy skin contorted into an ambiguous nausea-inducing half-form won’t speak. No garbled speech mangled from a throat that doesn’t know how to work quite properly. One that knows the approximation of a human throat, but not how the rest fits in. 

But Tim sees a limb, grotesque in a way he knows is wrong, too long and misshapen in ways the Flesh won’t do; no artistry, just mockery. Something like a head rises up above Oracle, long and spindly and misshapen, but Tim goes with his gut.

He aims for the back of Oracle’s head. And then he fires, straight into the chest of the thing across from them. There aren’t any words to spare, no one-liners, mostly because he completely forgets when faced with the reality of this particular unreality. Just silence followed by a complete lack thereof.

Oracle immediately drops. She doesn't disappear, not entirely, but the force of a bullet that kills things that aren't human rips through her form, and she is static on the floor for a long few moments, cradling her head in her hands.  _ Fire, _ is what she thinks of, but it's less a thought and more an instinct, the sensation of Hell incarnate licking tender torture through the soul that remains.

But she isn't dead, so there's that. It just hurts a fucking lot, and where it goes through her, a spike of hot red soul energy bursts to a visual degree, to match the anguished and weeping eyes that light up along her body.

At least the bullet, when it goes through her, lands its mark with far, far more finality than her own pain.

Tim’s world erupts as the creature’s body bursts from the rib cage out, unnatural fire cloaking the room. Warm, hot, messy, but not bloody, there is no blood, no ghastly smell of flesh, just the combined heat of a thousand unscented candles exploding. No farewell monologue before death this go-around, Not!Sasha, you never get to be Sasha. 

He doesn’t get to enjoy his small victory, suffice it to say. 

The kickback reverberates in Tim’s own chest, starting as a wheeze that draws impossibly hot air into his lungs and— And just doesn’t let it come back out. He drops it, and thank fuck one shot was enough to destroy it, wax and ashes from the bits of table that went up with it. Drops himself, too, knees cracking against the tile floor. All the better to struggle for breath with. 

“Hey, don’t die,” He manages to rattle out, each word painful as he clutches at his chest with a hand way over a hundred degrees in temperature. Fahrenheit. You know it’s bad when you’re using  _ Fahrenheit.  _

“Stop talking,” Sasha blurts out to keep him from it, knowing by the heat radiating from his skin that’s almost visible that she shouldn’t put her hands on him. “Are you okay up there? Still— You’re still with us, right?”

"Marginally," Oracle grinds out between clenched teeth. She's on her knees, curling over herself so her forehead touches the floor, hair spooling in all directions. She can't see for a terrifying minute, and focuses on breathing, breathing, an artificial chest rising and falling with all the realness as the wax falsehood who’s guts are all around them.

"Take... The locket," She says, at length, and does not move a muscle. Her voice is deathly quiet, more static than words, but they're words nonetheless. "Horray. It's dead."

Tim makes no move to... well, move, either, and Sasha swallows. Puts a mask on her expression. And chooses to help Oracle instead of Tim. Tim looks bad, but he’s still stable, and Sasha finds herself on the floor with a hand attempting to comfort at her back, and the other outstretched for the locket. She’s never held it, but, well, first time for everything. “Do you, um— Do you need to rest? If you do, you can go without saying so. That didn’t look... good.”

"Just a bit... Existential," She says to the floor, and her vision is back, but it's swimming, so she closes her eyes. "I'll be fine. Had worse before. Tim?"

_ “... hhHeartburn,” _ Tim offers, voice full of hot coals. “Check back in the office?”

"Mm." Is all Oracle offers for near a minute, and then she says, "Sasha, dear, would... Would you mind helping me up?"

Sasha hums, reaching forward to wrap one arm around Oracle’s waist. The other closes gently over her hand and the locket beneath it. “Tim, can you walk?”

Tim groans and immediately tries to cover it up, and because he’s Tim, he fails miserably. He still bends forward to clumsily grab at the gun, then he’s content to crawl forward enough until he can get upright. “Like one of those evolution diagrams. Right as—“ Teeth gritting. “— rain.”

Her hands ground Oracle, bring her back to this reality. At least partially, that is. Enough to keep her from fully falling away before she's ready. With that borrowed mortal reminder, she starts to pull herself up, her hair hanging limp over her face, and her expression sallow and gaunt.

Hard to keep up a performance of health when a bullet through your brain feels like a clinical hospital room that's got you on the verge of death. Her jaw is tight , but she manages to stand, and with it, she spares the energy to shoot daggers at Tim.

"Told you the gun has side effects," She grits once she's standing, physical enough to lean on Sasha.

“I know it does,” Tim grunts, using one hand to unbutton his shirt as they walk agonizingly slow towards the lifts. Table trophy later, back to safety. “I feel them. Intimately.” He pauses. “I really just shot you.”

"Through me," She says, on the wind of a huff. "No blood. Just don't have the energy to look better than when I died, right now."

“That’s okay,” Sasha says, ever a calm and rational presence. It helps that they’re leaving storage, and she can pretend better than either of them at present, so she’ll press buttons and get them up into lifts and keep her eyes away from Oracle if she wants that dignity. “Do you still want me to hold the locket?”

"For now. Might want it in a bit. Helps to have someone-- someone real touch it, right now." She half leans on Sasha, and half against the railing of the elevator.

They make it up with little fanfare. Sasha keeps herself stable, and it requires very little actual weight. She realizes quickly that holding still is the best thing to do; she’s not holding Oracle up, it’s more that Oracle is able to feel held up. Something to balance against, something corporeal. It only takes one hand, and she takes the rest of that literally, brushing her thumb over the engraved edges of the locket. 

Tim keeps to himself once he has the gun wrapped up in his shirt. Tries to hold his breathing together and not look too hard down at the scorch marks winding up his chest. He’s mostly only keeping calm because he knows he’s really screwed if Oracle is too out of it to help, and she’s currently incapacitated, and he’d love to not have to go to a hospital for weird internal-external-gun-fire wounds.

Mike Crew, who has no clue what’s about to hit him, is sitting comfortably upright in the Archivist’s chair. No one is around, Martin and Michael are off somewhere, Jon went off on his way somewhere presumably to avoid getting stuck in a room alone with him, and he’s getting stir crazy on the couch alone. He very much likes the chair. It makes him feel very big.

Halfway down the hall, Oracle requests the locket back, and she holds it tight. Each step gets her standing a little taller, a little more grounded, but even so, by the time she gets to the office and opens the door she still looks like she's on her deathbed, no energy anywhere to be seen.

"Hi, Mike," She says quietly, instead of heralding the entrance of Sasha or Tim.

Mike freezes in place. Not like he’s been doing anything more scandalous than moving Jon’s pens around and staring at the patterns in the wood until his eyes start to ache again. 

“He—Hello,” He says cautiously upon seeing Sasha, regaining his confidence when he sees Tim. They haven’t spoken much since the initial life-saving, but his brain has made enough of an association to feel some measure of happiness at his presence. 

He knows something is wrong, specifically with Oracle, but he doesn’t try to move. “Are you alright?”

"Killed a monster," Oracle says, and sits on the couch with little fanfare,, leaning her head back against the top of it. "Tim burned himself again."

“Oh. Good job.” Mike glances at Tim’s chest, then looks away just as quickly. Tim moves to sit painfully across from him and rests the gun over the table; Mike notices the metal has left black marks over the shirt he’d wrapped it up in. Well. Not like he was planning on touching that. 

Sasha moves to stand beside Oracle, one hand on her shoulder. Insistent and helpful. She doesn’t know how to help, really, with either of them, but she can follow directions. “Where do I start?”

"Helping Tim. Burns. It was his hands, last time. Guess it's his chest." She makes a frustrated noise. "I didn't know my head could hurt. Fuck. I did not miss that."

“Yes. Burns. I know.” Sasha lifts a brow. “I’ve never treated burns. I’ll be your hands, but— I could Google it, if you’re not, um, well? Don’t tell me you’ve been shot in the head before.”

"No, but I've gotten migraines before." She slowly lifts her head from the couch and looks to Tim. "Show me. Need to see them."

“Can do,” Tim says, putting in some extra effort to make it sound suggestive. It mostly just comes out stupidly pathetic, and he tries to rectify it with something actually helpful. 

He moves the chair closer, facing Oracle’s direction, and sits back down. “Felt like it came from inside, started like— Like, uh, just heartburn. Guess it was outside, actually.” He can’t feel this one as well as he could with all the nerves in his fingers, but it’s a much larger area of damage; deep red splashes spread evenly over the center of his chest, about a straight shot from where he’d held the gun in front of him. It’ll scar, for sure, and it’ll hurt, for sure, but once again he’s way, way too giddy to care. Leave it to the professionals.

Oracle takes it in with a grimace, and then frowns. "Ah. Really awesome job there, Tim," She says. "Seriously, good job, but this sucks. And you're crazy, and I'd love to remind you and everyone else here of everyone's perilous sanity every day. Ugh."

"All I do lately is patch people up. It's obnoxious. We need to clean it up and get salve and bandaging on any parts that are open wounds."

“And soon you’ll be writing books. This is the chapter where you decide nursing school isn’t really your thing, even though you’re great at it.” Tim shoots her a shit-eating grin. He’s too happy about this to care.  _ Good job _ is right. _ Good job _ means one less awful thing out there to take people he loves away. 

Sasha scans the room for the first aid kit. She knows well enough that they’ve been doing most of it in here, and she finds it pretty quickly up against the side of the couch. 

“I could get you water and a rag,” Mike all but mumbles in Oracle and Sasha’s direction.

"I would appreciate that, Mike, thank you." She'll assess him when they manage Tim, and she gets more energy about her. God. Never ending cycle of chains of when's.

"I don't qualify for uni anyways," Oracle says to Tim.

“Hey, college is a pretty new thing, history-wise. Who cares about that? I never got a license to carry. You never went to book-hunting school. Oh! Okay. Now it’s starting to hurt.” 

Mike braces both hands on the desk to stand up, and leaves the room in a... hurry, for lack of a better word. He doesn’t make a complete straight line, but he doesn’t hit the doorway, so that’s a big plus.

"He's concussed." Oracle says when he leaves, and slowly leans forward to get a slightly closer look at Tim. "He just needs to be clean, before we apply salve, Sasha."

It takes Mike... longer than it should, to find a bucket and rags. This is because Mike decides to be nice, and try to give back, now that he’s grown somewhat familiar with their break room turned genuine kitchen. His first idea is tea, and he makes a good effort, but one hand and a spiraling brain don’t do well for craftsmanship, or for holding multiple things at once, so he ends up making several trips. 

Except he, for some reason, decides that waiting to bring any of it in so he can bring it all in quick succession is what makes sense. He doesn’t bring the water in until he’s had the tea made, and he doesn’t bring it in until he has several cups on the floor outside the office. 

And only then does he open the door to drop the bucket with one hand next to Sasha. Then return to the door for the first mug, put it on the desk. Get another mug. Put it on the desk. Get the last mug. Put it on the desk. “That’s everything for you.”

"Thank you, Mike." Oracle has since moved to the Archivist chair, which was a painstaking and annoying process, and sits with her arms crossed and laying flat on the desk, her face cradled between them.

Easier angle to watch Sasha clean Tim with.

"That gun is officially for the most dire of experiences only, now."

“It already was,” Tim grates out as Sasha begins working. “One to save him, and us, the other to stop that thing from— _ ow _ — taking any of us all over again.”

“At least we know it didn’t, this time,” Sasha says quietly. “Stop moving, Tim.”

Mike goes back to his familiar, loathsome position on the couch with one of the tea mugs and minds his own business.

"Small miracles, I guess," Oracle says. "Though I imagine one of us, this time, would be able to tell the difference. If not me, then the Archivist, probably." Talking about him happens spontaneously; discretion gone, but it's not purposeful. She just Knows, all at once, that Tim has met him, so what's the use in hiding it any longer?

“The Archivist,” Tim growls with an edge to it, rolling his eyes through the pain. “He didn’t know the first time, or maybe he didn’t care. At least I’m getting it done.” 

He hums, and starts to ramble through the pain. “We should have a code word, or something. Our secret club. Oh, I can’t wait to rub this one in his face. Don’t do it, Tim, the prison keeps us safe! So does a  _ pistol,  _ Jonny.”

"Not Jon. And Jon did care, I'm pretty sure." Hm. That sounds an awful lot like she's defending Jon. Well. Too bad he isn't here to see it. "And luckily we don't have to find out who would know."

“Yeah.  _ Luckily. _ That’s what we’ll call this. Luck.” Tim smiles in Oracle’s direction. It’s an angry one. All in the squint. “I don’t get the point of separating them. His alter ego.”

She blinks. "It's-- oh. Hm. Maybe he didn't explain. Whatever. You clearly know. it's not an alter ego. It's someone else."

“I  _ know. _ I’m calling it that because I sort of hate him most of the time, Keay.” Tim’s smile turns into a frown. Much more natural right now, sadly. “Either way, I’m not banking on him to keep me in the loop about any of this, really.”

"... I wouldn't, really. Either of them. They're just... Unreliable at the best of times. Even when their intentions are good."

“No kidding. At least we know who the brains of the outfit is.” Tim scoffs with a glance to Oracle, and Sasha presses a rag slightly too hard against his raw skin. Tim scrunches up his face. “Sorry. I think there might be a reflex somewhere that makes me start redirecting everything on him! Working on that. Yep. Over it. Him. Whatever. Hey, do you think they’ll get worse every time?”

"Obviously. It already is. At the very least, it's going to maim you every time. Hence me urging you to be cautious." The 'idiot' isn't said. But it's certainly implied.

“I know. You’ve told me, what, ten times now? One body for six dead monsters? More if I can get two at once? Fair trade on my end. I knew I’d get cool scars eventually. Much cooler than worm holes.” Tim chuckles, even though it hurts. “You don’t need to keep talking down to me, Keay. I’m fine.”

"I wouldn't talk down to you if you weren't so cavalier about your life, Stoker!" She shakes her head. "Seems everyone here forgets that it's somehow become my job to keep you all alive!"

“Who said it’s your job? You? Please. You’re a friend, not our warden. Certainly not my duty-bound savior. If it’s so much work you don’t want to do, don’t let me come with you, then!”

That gets her sitting up taller, pointing at him with her elbow pressed to the table, her teeth bared. "If I don't let you, you'll do it anyways and get yourself killed. If I don't keep an eye, you'll get yourself killed. It's not just you, it's everyone in this godforsaken place."

“Maybe getting killed isn’t the worst thing in the world! It could happen at— At literally any time! Ever! To any of us! Even if we’re trying not to die! Maybe even especially! Hell, I died the first time, right?”

“I’m sorry,” Mike says quietly from his corner of the couch. Barely audible.

Oracle's shoulders slump. Great. Tim's obstinance will remain, even as his gun destroys his body. She turns her head to Mike. "You don't have to be sorry. I'm mending you because I want to." Back to Tim. "You died the first time, hence attempting to live this time. Hm?"

“Yeah, I’m trying to live. And stop a few things that don’t want us to live. Not just throwing myself to the wolves for kicks here, Keay.” 

Sasha finishes with the rag, jaw tense as she visibly holds her tongue. Tim will hear it from her later. She shoots Oracle a look that says move on. “Next step, please.”

"Should be some burn cream in there. Just work it into his skin. Burns are easy, thankfully." Fine. Fine. She'll be the good one here. She slowly hunkers back down to hold her head in her arms on the desk. Filters a look to Mike. "I got shot."

Mike’s eyes widen. “You’re still up and about. Could write a whole chapter about that particular gun alone.”

"Oh, no doubt we will. Not now, though. Migraine. Back of my skull hurts. Not used to hurt anymore."

“Do you think it would still hurt if you left and came back?” Mike rests his hands over his knees where they’re pulled up to his chest. “Would that reset your... your, um, state?”

"Probably." She sighs. "But I wouldn't be able to come back for a while. Would need to... Heal. Wanted to see this through, first."

“Ah. I see. This one seems competent enough to take your place, though.” 

Sasha shoots him a confused little smile from where she works, glad that Tim keeps his mouth shut. Not that he has much of a choice with all his energy going to his tight grip on the edge of the chair. “You can go if you need to. Again— That really, really didn’t look good. You should rest while you can, never know when the next thing might come at us.”

Oracle makes a displeased sound, and then slowly nods. They're right, but she likes to see these things through.

"Fine. Fine. Bandage Tim up where he needs, and he should be good. Mike, take some pain meds." And then she purses her lips, thinking about if there's anything else she needs to say. Well. Not really. So she waves a little, and then le's the numbness take her back to non-existence.


	82. Chapter 82

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas gifts written in August posted a day before Halloween. It makes perfect sense!

Being incapable of speech should  _ terrify _ him. 

He can’t remember another time he’s been this relaxed. 

Cheek pressed to Michael’s thigh, throat left so ragged each swallow is a sore labor, eyes half-lidded to take in the muted technicolor screen in front of him. Michael’s hand winding through his hair a way that says he misses the curls he could twirl around his fingers. Deceptively methodical with how he moves his nails, carefully avoiding any spots that might get him to make sounds under normal circumstances. Martin can’t. He’d tried. And swallowed the taste of his own blood for several minutes. 

He’s been like this since— What is it, two days now? Clinging to Michael for reasons he can’t even begin to explain, tethered while they both recover from something Martin hadn’t consciously intended to share. He doesn’t know what it means, but something present deep inside him wants to stay and never leave, to curl around him and not let anything else hurt him. To apologize for doing just that, somehow. 

He has no idea what they’re watching. Colors warping, static weirdness on the cheap TV they’d rolled in to one of the private study rooms. Actually, he’s not sure how they ended up here and not in bed. Most of their sheets and pillows are here, and the blinds are down, and they’ve made a proper nest of it, but he knows they haven’t been here for days. A few hours, maybe. Maybe he’d been weird about people coming in and out of their bedroom. Maybe he’d felt weird pressed so tightly to Michael where other people could see. 

But it doesn’t matter now. He just wants to be here. And he is.

\---

Casting aside the background noise of  _ fearapprehensionpainanxiety  _ that seems to be a universal constant these days, Michael is pleased as punch. Not in the high-energy, ecstatic way, but in this calm, muted, loving way that's entirely foreign to him and entirely addictive.

He'd smoke right now, to drop as far as Martin seems to be, if the thought of anything pulling down his throat and lungs didn't sound like the worst, most excruciating experience he can think of, right now.

His throat still hurts, and he's pulled in two gigantic water bottles to keep them both hydrated and sated, and he's also stolen the little jar of honey that Jon keeps hidden behind all the tea boxes to dissuade people from using it, the cap off and a spoon slowly sinking to the bottom.

Fingers through Martin's hair keeps him from wriggling or moving or otherwise getting bored and needing to move, and his eyes are half-lidded as he watches the screen. The Wizard of Oz. He's seen it so many times, it doesn't really matter that he's barely paying attention.

Most of his mind is in clouds, swirling and spinning and twisting through Martin, Martin, Martin. He can smell him all around, can feel him, knows him, and it's more intense than it normally is. An endless feedback loop.

He'd moved them here, because Martin had been getting all agitated at something whenever the door opened and closed, and honestly, Michael wasn't exactly open to visitors or the smells of the office, either. Whatever spell Martin put on him, it makes him want to be near Martin, only, right now.

Michael leans down to press a kiss to the crown of Martin's head, and he murmurs, "Always liked the Cowardly Lion the most." He isn't expecting a verbal response, but that's okay; he can talk occasionally, but his throat hurts, too.

\---

Martin drapes one hand over Michael’s other thigh and squeezes gently at the kiss, smiling his contentment out. No words, no problem, he’s amazed at how little he genuinely needs them. Especially with Michael. 

He hangs on every word of his, though, little chimes he can sense and enjoy better than he can comprehend. Martin takes one finger and draws out three dots and a question mark, a little ‘...?’ prompting Michael to continue. If he can. He’d like him to. Maybe he likes the Cowardly Lion, too. Maybe for different reasons that reflect more about Martin than anything else.

\---

Michael smiles, and hums, nearly a purr, for a moment. There's something utterly entrancing about Martin, something that makes each gesture to go on in his own communication addicting, gracious, ecstatic.

He's still a little slow in his speech, though, halfway tired and halfway throat-ruined. "He wants to be brave. And I mean, it's just-- I'd say it's rather funny that he is, from the get go, being as flamboyant as he is in a movie from 1939."

\---

Martin’s smile widens until it’s a genuine grin, looking up at Michael and back to the screen. He’s right. The bravest of souls, a friend of Dorothy, no less. Oh, he wishes he could say that out loud. Share that. 

Instead, he tries desperately to shove it into Michael’s head. He doesn’t think he has the ability to do that, and he’s only ever done it once, sort of, maybe, if the roof even counted, but that was a whole different world and a whole different fire. And then he reaches for the jar of honey so he can offer a spoonful up to Michael.

\---

No thoughts spring to Michael's mind, but there's certainly something, something warm and humorous and comfortable, and he leans down to wrap his mouth around the spoon, smiling around it in a wordless thank you.

\---

Martin twists around in their blanket pile so he can face up, taking the spoon back from him and putting it directly into his own mouth. At least everything has stopped tasting metallic and rusty, and he can actually get the benefits of honey without fighting with his own body for it. 

“Do...” He tries around the spoon, mirthful music and teeth clacking against metal floating around his ears. His voice is beyond hoarse, and it sounds more like pushing air out of a small space than genuine talking, but he tries despite the pain. A few letters missing, a few stumbled over each other, and he really doesn’t want to, but he likes Michael so much. Okay, Martin. Not relevant. “...you know what happened?”

\---

At first, Michael thinks he means the movie, and he starts to try and wrap his mind around the plot of Dorothy's queer little quest, but before the first word comes out, he realizes, and swallows them down. It doesn't hurt as bad as it would, since his throat is covered in honey.

He tries again; different story, not Dorothy's.

"Not really." He shakes his head. "Was... Was spiraling. Heard you. And had to join in. Scared Mike. Scared Oracle, but she's good at hiding it. Scared me? I think I scared me."

\---

_ Had  _ to join in. Martin isn’t sure how literal to take that. How soon he should be worried about his own promise to the Distortion, that one day - who knows when - he won’t have to ask first before the ones around him play his games. 

He’s not sure why the Hunt is so strong. If it’s _ just _ the Hunt, or something more. Probably more. It’s not so clear-cut. Especially in him. Maybe he’s just grown possessive. Maybe— 

Maybe he just has a penchant for marking people. He wonders what it looks like from the outside. Whether someone with the right eye can see Martin’s brand on the people he loves. If they could tell they were his, specifically. If they really are his, and not just _ borrowed.  _

He sort of likes that idea. Not Michael being scared, though. He reaches out for one of Michael’s hands, brings it to rest over his own chest, his own on top of it. And just watches his face. Tries to gather anything he can from it.

\---

"Not of you," Michael says, slowly, and his voice is deeper, scratchy, but it does help make him sound more sincere than usual. Not that he's never not sincere, but-- Look, he knows how he sounds usually. There's none of the soft-humored smile filtering through his voice. 

"Just-- Everything. Feeling out of control. Liking when it's you who has the control, and it's just-- Hard to pull it all in? Inside. And figure it out. I've always been bad at-- at this stuff. Figuring myself out. Sorting my emotions out. And lately it's been... all emotion." He shakes his head and presses his hand deep on Martin. 

"I've had my Purpose be murdered, twice. It's hard-- Hard not to be scared this will... You know. Too. So-- Don't. I'm not scared of you."

\---

Martin nods. Not scared of him. He can deal with that. He wants to say that Michael is a collection of many great things, all of which he loves dearly, emotions and all. He wants to tell him he’s not getting murdered again. Not getting taken. 

Instead, he lets Michael push down on him for another minute, and then stops allowing him. Martin sits up, and just as quickly pushes Michael down, down into their nest of blankets and pillows, without any room for argument, hands on both his shoulders. 

If he’s in control, Michael won’t die. If he’s in control, it just won’t happen. It won’t. He tries to convey that with serious gravity in his eyes, something he can’t pull off when he’s just _ Martin. _

\---

Michael lets himself be pushed. Of course he does. He always will, with Martin. He relaxes, relaxes as much as he can, and his smile is one of soft relief; no words, but Michael knows. Michael understands. He's understood this part, even if he forgets it sometimes, since he was pulled from the Spiral. 

Maybe even before, maybe when he was still Michael. Michael had to become Helen, in order to not be under Martin's gracious and loving thumb. 

He stays still for a while, watching Martin's face, reading it like an open book, and when he's read his fill, he darts up and presses a peck on Martin's lips, just to say,  _ I get it. I accept it. I love you. _

\---

Martin uses the leverage to wrap both arms around Michael’s neck and fall back with him, partly sprawled on top of him and partly at his side. Easier to whisper while nuzzling against the side of his face, near his ear. Less work. Less pain. More love. Capital-L-Love, no less. “You can figure you out here.”

\---

Michael gives a hoarse, scratchy little laugh. "No, no, not  _ here.  _ I'm sick of the Archives. Sick of them."

\---

Martin stops everything he’s doing to try and parse that. “...Now?”

\---

"I meant-- I mean. No? Soon? House. I'm talking-- I'm talking about getting a house, Martin."

\---

“...Oh.” Martin nods. “Do it.”

\---

"I'm going to." He hums. "I have it narrowed down to a couple houses. Start closing on something next week, I think."

\---

Something at the back of Martin’s throat almost vibrates. He manages to swallow it down, just short of reopening a wound he’s not sure even exists outside of his own head. “Yard? Bay window?”

\---

Michael nods. "Yep. Now just a matter of choosing between a bigger master bedroom or a bigger living room. Leaning towards the latter."

\---

Martin gives an enthusiastic nod against Michael’s neck and hugs him tighter. See? He can communicate just fine. They’ll be in a house by the new year. 

Oh.  _ Oh. _

“Bought you presents.” He tries to say Christmas, but his throat does not like that word.

\---

Michael beams. "Really? I love presents. Where are they?"

\---

“‘Stairs. Bed.” He tightens his grip. Somehow it helps him talk. “Want them early?”

\---

"Yes! Yes yes yes yes. Always want things early." He leans to give him another kiss, trying to sit up from under his grip.

\---

Martin slips in his grip, and the timing of it makes it look like Michael broke him so he falls back into the messy pile beneath them. He makes an effort to look as pathetic and comfortable as possible. “You get them.”

\---

"They're your gifts. I can't present a gift to myself, Martin." He sits up just enough that he can immediately lean over and bonk Martin with his head to his belly.

\---

Martin presses both hands to Michael’s hair for just a moment. “All in one bag. I’ll show you...” Oh, God, talking. “Everyone’s. Please?”

\---

What starts as a groan in Michael's throat turns into a half-hearted growl by the time he starts to stand, but that's acknowledgement enough of a yes in his eyes. He makes a whole show of standing, too, acting like it's the hardest thing in the whole wide world.

\---

Martin offers up a fake swoon for such a noble sacrifice from Michael. He sets about organizing the space they’ve made. Fluffing it up. Comforts and comforts and comforts. “Black bag. Big one.”

\---

"Fine, fine," He waves Martin off and leaves the room, closing the door loudly behind him. Not maliciously. It's just Michael's harried way.

He isn't gone too long. He gets to their floor and grabs the bags and doesn't even peek, and when he finishes that, he gets them both soda from the vending machine and makes his way back. He only trips a little bit on the nest when he gets back in.

\---

Martin is all tired smiles and messy hair from where he sits on his knees at the center of it all. The Wizard of Oz still bounces along in the dimly lit room, and it makes for nice background noise to keep all the bad thoughts away. 

He gestures for the bag with both hands. “Who’s first?”

\---

Michael shakes his head. "You choose. Your gifts." He pushes the bag closer to Martin.

\---

Fine. Martin was going to be so nice, and sweet, about all of this. Instead, he fishes within the bag until he finds a small, palm-sized box he notably immediately puts behind him. He makes the opposite effort of an attempt to hide it. 

And then he pulls out the first gift; a Mamas and the Papas record. It’s the same one, he thinks, but that’s hard to confirm from his own memories.

\---

The grin Michael gives is...  _ Watery. _ No physical tears, but.. Gratitude pours off of him, and he leans in to kiss Martin, quick and elated, reaching to run his hands down his arms.

"Oh, Martin. Now I have to buy a record player!"

\---

Martin offers a sheepish smile to the floor after the kiss and tries not to get too flustered as he pulls out the next one. Much bulkier, and it takes up most of the remaining space left in the bag. 

It’s a fur coat; vivid, natural hues of brown and tan with red when it catches the light - not in here, of course - with white along the edges, fluffed up a certain way to give a regal collar in contrast. It isn’t genuine fur, but it’s still art and it’s still soft, and nicer that way. Deceptively bulky-looking for how breezy it actually is. He hands that over, too.

\---

"Oh, wow," Michael says, hushed, and immediately starts to run his hands through the fur, fingers tightening against the thick plushness, his eyes wide.

"I love this. I love you. You're so good."

\---

That’s the best reaction he could have hoped for, really. Martin lights up, pride in himself and excitement for Michael all at once. He’s getting a little ahead of himself, but with his hands free he immediately starts to rummage at the bottom for Gerry’s. 

They’re all on a separate chain for now, just to keep them all together. He figures he’ll surprise Gerry with either having them on the actual necklace when he comes, or letting him arrange them himself. He hasn’t decided just yet. 

He’d gotten them at several different places, picking them up as he saw them. The first is a nazar, of course. The second is a little red ball, a garnet, he’d done some research on birthstones and figured given the choice of Capricorn stones he’d go with red over blue. For several reasons. Then there’s a little stylized firefly, a black book, a few interconnected stars, a brown dog, a telescope, and finally, a bright green heart. A mismatched collection. 

When he has a voice, he’d like to tell Gerry they’re things he can take with him forever, if he wants them, pieces of him and of others with room for more. He hasn’t kept stealth in mind, he doesn’t quite care about that, but— the second chain is sturdier, just in case he wants to switch the locket out. Permanent clothes, in a sense, a physical connection that he can change and move around and know it’ll be that way no matter how he manifests. For now, he just shows them off to Michael.

\---

"Oh," Michael says, and his smile is softer this time, but full of elation. There's something... Intimate, about being privy to Martin's love for another, getting to experience and Know how he feels for Gerry, too.

"He's gonna get all bashful and weird and pretend he's not, like, totally into it. But he'll love them and probably look at them for houuuuuurs."

\---

Martin nods sagely. Michael is good at knowing exactly what they like, who they are, what they’ll do— and Martin, ever the eclectic romantic, is taking a lot of pride in being recognized for the gestures. He also loves Michael’s ’Oh’s. So he gives him a kiss on the corner of his mouth for all of the above. 

With all that said and done, he finally reaches for the ring box. He gets a lot more done than he seems like he does, at the Institute, it just happens to be things he wasn’t really hired for. He musters up all the words he can. “I cut out pictures of my— Um, favorites. And put them in here. So I could see if— Want to help me choose?”

\---

"Yes! Yes! Yes! A million yesses!" Oh,  _ this _ he gets excited for, sitting up straight and clapping his hands together, the laugh that leaves his throat a little ragged and worse for wear but otherwise still full of utter happiness. "Show me!"

\---

Martin opens the box, and there are indeed several pictures of approximate size cut out from paper he’s printed off from the Institute’s printers. More productive than what half the interns do, most likely. 

He takes one of the sodas Michael brought in, mostly so he has something to hide his face behind.

\---

Michael takes them all out, one by one, laying them side by side on the floor of their nest. "Oh..." Seems to be a common refrain today, but it's easier than a lot of words.

His focus becomes single-minded all but immediately, sorting through the images in hierarchies his mind provides. What Jon wants. What looks nice. What _ means  _ more. Sorting and deciding and smiling and giggling a little as he does so. Awful tic, these days, but it keeps him calm, even if it's paradoxical.

"I like these," He eventually says, bringing his eyes back up to look at Martin. He has three he's chosen, placed at the top of his little pyramid. Two moon-themed and opal in their stone, one blue and gold and seemingly sun-and-moon. Gorgeous. Decadent. And most of all, Michael thinks, something Jon might wear.

\---

Martin holds completely still. Life on the line, soul bared and dramatically self-conscious while Michael ponders what he’s chosen. 

He almost jumps when Michael does say something, and if Martin could see the blush on his own face he’d be completely miserable. 

Suddenly, his throat goes numb. “The one with the eye-shaped opal and - and the dots are rings that click together. I thought— I like them being connected. And— O-Obviously he’d get the big eye, and I’d... you... you know, I’d get all the dots.”

\---

"... I like that." Michael says, awed, almost. "it's-- it's really Romantic, Martin. You better pick out a good ring for me, too, when the time comes." The latter comes with a free grin, humor lilting into his voice. Just a little, though.

\---

Martin inhales sharply. “Ithoughtaboutgettingonewithfourbandsbut—I want... them... to be... s-special...” Martin sticks his tongue out, like he’s tasted something awful, and there’s definitely some blood at the roof of his mouth. Awesome. 

He shoots Michael the most pitifully defeated, flustered look he’s ever given. This is saying a lot, considering how pathetic he is on any given day.

\---

The second his tongue is out of his mouth, Michael darts out a finger to poke him, his grin turning into a laugh. "I know it'll be special. I'm looking forward to it. Jon first. I know, I know. Only fair. First love and all that. Blah blah."

\---

“Love you,” Martin tries, prioritizing that above anything else. He takes the pictures back, tries to keep them in the order Michael left them just in case, heart pounding with nerves and what-ifs and God-knows-what-else at the idea that he gets to do this to someone and it’s all real, isn’t it?

He doesn’t know how to say thank you, from there, or calm down, so he just tries to hold both of Michael’s hands.

\---

Michael lets him, squeezing them both tightly when he does, and his smile softens. "There's all kinds of happy stories buried in our little tragedy, aren't there?"

\---

Martin nods, and hides his face at the crook of Michael’s neck, and it’s such a good feeling to hear Michael say that, to not have to fight about whether it is or isn’t a tragedy. It can have both. They can compromise on that. They can have weddings while there’s still evil in the world. They probably should. 

He sighs deeply, the culmination of intensely different emotions packed tight into one body, and is content to hold Michael there through them all.

\---

Michael laughs a little, but stays where he is, letting Martin hold him, letting him stay close, needing him close. He maneuvers himself to give him a solid kiss on the cheek. "And hey! We could do a destination wedding for you two. Not a lot of guests, you know? Pros of barely having families."

\---

Martin announces his confusion to Michael’s throat. “Wh... Where?”

\---

"I dunno." He snorts. "This one isn't my wedding. I want my wedding somewhere warm. Tropical. No snow."

\---

Martin tries to hum. It works to some degree, and he squeezes Michael’s hands tighter. “Noted.”

\---

"For you and Jon.... Somewhere special he'd like, too."

\---

God. He’ll have to talk to Jon about that. He’ll have to  _ propose. _ He’ll have to— Well, he doesn’t really have to do any of these things, actually. He can do whatever he wants to do. 

Which is this, and that, and everything else. Martin grins, stupidly evil, and definitely not serious. “Art Institute.”

\---

Michael giggles, and raises a hand to cover his mouth for a moment. "Saying your vows while Jon has a traumatic flashback. Classy!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rings:  
> 


	83. Chapter 83

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a chapter of our fools trying to take a statement without Archivist powers.

Oracle will say one thing and one thing only about her newest companion tonight; at least he doesn't bring complete and utter chaos to every situation, no matter how menial or uneventful said task is. Maybe it says a lot about the man she loves, and the men she takes care of, but the blessedly quiet Uber ride to Tim's flat with Mike Crew quietly comfortable in the silence is heavenly. 

Not that Michael or Jon or Martin can't be quiet, but even their quiet is always dramatic. Somehow. Always. 

She shouldn't be bitching about them. It's... Christmas Eve, or whatever. She doesn't celebrate. Never has. Never had a peep of a cross in her house, or a church visit that didn't end in monster-meetings, or even heard a sermon. But even as an ex-Catholic, Michael insists it's Christmas Eve, and who is she to not take the opportunity to just... Not worry about things for a day or two? 

Besides; she's more excited about the prospect of sitting down and beginning the skeleton of their research project, than eggnog and guadily made sugar cookies (of which she will be surprised if there are none, if she's read Sasha and Tim's personalities right thus far).

"Did you ever celebrate holidays, growing up?" She asks, after a while, turning her head from the window to look at Mike.

\---

“I suppose,” Mike starts from his side of the cab, eyes glued on the frost gathering outside along the glass. “In the background. I celebrated Christmas before my scars, but after that— I was reading. Always reading. Holidays were, hm. More time for reading, and more time for looking.” He turns to Oracle with a small smile. “I can have the Vast and a good Christmas at once, I think.”

\---

"Some might consider that sacrilege, you know." She snorts. She's in decently high spirits for once; nothing atrocious has happened in at least two awakenings, and there's something exciting about having enough aquaintances for once in her life to fill a small two-bedroom flat.

\---

“Oh, I’m sure they would.” Mike continues to smile, mostly to himself. What an odd place he’s landed in; for all the pain in his life that’s led him to this moment, it’s turned out rather pleasant. His injuries have started to heal well, both head-wise and arm-wise, but this has... changed a few things, about his social life. Created one by complete accident, rather. “Were we supposed to bring gifts? I can’t say I’m invited to many of these. Or that I was expecting an invitation to begin with.”

\---

Oracle shrugs and flexes her hands in front of her, holding nothing. "I didn't bring anything. Memories and stories will probably be enough." She gives a small laugh. "Besides. Michael probably went above and beyond for all of us."

\---

“That seems par for the course,” Mike hums. Amazingly, being a fly on the wall to this particular group has given him an astounding level of knowledge about their little band of... oddities. He might even go so far as to say the stifling Eye around him rubbed off a little on his perception of things. Maybe he enjoyed taking mental notes. 

“You’re really putting yourself into this book idea, aren’t you? The earth’s first posthumous author. How will that explanation go?”

\---

"Don't forget an acquitted murderer, by all accounts." She purses her lips. "I don't know. Pen name, I guess. Or just keep my name off it entirely." 

She looks out the window, drumming her fingertips against the frame of the car. "Might as well try to branch out and do things with... Well, my posthumous life than just stop the apocalypse. You know? Keeps me sane, to categorize this stuff."

\---

“Ah. Well, you have quite the life ahead of you. One that... might be endless, in a sense, so—“ Mike shrugs and looks down to start reorganizing the way his scarf sits over his neck. “—you do have Oracle. Are you a one-name author? It’s a bit cheeky.”

\---

"And a bit authoritative." She tilts her head. "It's got a ring to it, though. I mean-- Imagine years in the future finding a book that has a resounding guide to the fears and it's by some person named Oracle. Bit esoteric and mysterious, hm?"

\---

“You  _ are _ an authority figure, you know. I think they can all see that plain as day.” Mike taps a finger against the window to hear the glass vibrate. “I wonder if this... entity networking is a good idea, or a terrible one. I’ve yet to meet another person who feels the way I do about the sky. I don’t know what that would even be like.”

\---

"Probably both. Good and bad. Dangerous, too, all things considered. Most of the people who choose to become avatars aren't exactly the most well-adjusted or non-murderous bunch. But... Seems important. You know? There's so many variables in how the Entities flow through us. Just look at all the different Beholder-aligned people."

\---

“I... have killed people. I’m not well-adjusted, as I’m sure you know. But we are still... human. So we can communicate.” Mike pauses his tapping to look back at Oracle with one eyebrow raised. “Hence gathering stories. I think they’ll be far less clinical in their execution, with you behind them. I look forward to it.”

\---

"You're not human, Mike," She reminds him, and rolls her eyes. "But... Yeah. Yeah. Not just a book hunt. An entity hunt."

\---

“I’ll always be human. That’s why all of this happened to me, isn’t it? One night, a boy struck by lightning closed his eyes in the dark. And now I’m standing here, and I’m still that. Not... Not to make it poignant, but. Well. Never mind.” He clears his throat. “I do know one or two, other than all of you. It’s a start.”

\---

"A person, but not human. I'm certainly not human. Jon certainly isn't." She turns fully, so she can watch him from her end of the backseat. "It's all always poignant, isn't it? All the fears like their stories, just in different flavors."

\---

“...Is there a difference? Sorry, in person or human. I wasn’t aware there was one.” Mike doesn’t hide against his corner of the seat, but he does shrug in vague defense. “I like stories. I just don’t tell them very well, usually.”

\---

"A person is-- you still have autonomy, you still have... Empathy, and... Emotions and whatever. Someone cognizant. Human-- I mean, you're an avatar. You've been changed. You're something different, now."

The Uber is getting close, and she bundles her coat closer against her frame. Useless gesture for someone whose clothes aren't real, but physical habits die hard. "Jon can make you tell a good story."

\---

“I was always something different.” Mike very much does not get it, but he won’t take that away from Oracle. “And I would— I would very much like to not be forced to tell a good story. Thank you.”

\---

She hangs her head a little with a slightly amused huff. "I wasn't actually-- of course you aren't going to be forced to tell a gold story. That was-- just an example, I guess, of one of the ways Jon isn't human. He gets all guilty about that stuff, anyways. You're fine. Don't sweat it."

\---

“Oh. I see. I understand now.” Mike’s odd little smile returns. “We should save theories for a conversation where someone is writing it down. I think I need a... um, a minute to collect myself and prepare for... Tim.”

\---

She nods. "He can be a lot. Good man, though." The car pulls down the road they're going to, and Oracle takes a moment to give an appreciative little nod out the window. Decent little neighborhood.

\---

Decent little neighborhood, decent little neighbors. A downright normal, quaint complex with bricks and street lamps and, most importantly, not at the Institute. 

Sasha is standing outside in the cold, bundled up with her arms wrapped around her front and a knitted beanie over her ears. Glasses fogged up but not to the point she can’t tell they’re coming around the corner. 

“Clearly, given that I’m still alive. What about her?”

\---

"Sweet. Kind. A lot smarter and shrewder than she looks. In a good way. Hard to get a lot past her."

\---

“Mm. Seems to be a running theme with your Archivist-types, here.” The cab pulls up to the curb and Mike steps out, holding the door open for Oracle. Seems like what he should do, anyway.

\---

Oracle smiles at him and steps out slowly, looking behind her to give a thankful nod to the driver. She turns, to give a small wave to Sasha. "Happy Christmas Eve."

\---

“Happy Christmas Eve,” Sasha says brightly, if a bit awkwardly, beckoning them to the front of the building. “We’re probably the only people thinking about work right now. But I’m excited! You have no idea how dry dead-end statement-reading is. Especially when you don’t know if they’re even real.”

\---

"Keep reading them and you'll probably start to Know which ones are real." She beams at Sasha. "Comes in handy. Knowing things. Usually, at least."

\---

“Hm. If it means turning out like Jon, I’d... rather pass. Not that there’s— It night work for him, but definitely not me. But Gertrude— She was able to read them, and not— She didn’t Know the same way, did she?” Ah. Jumping right in with the Beholding types. Can’t catch a break for more than a minute before they’re walking up a staircase chatting about knowledge. Mike decides to just... follow quietly along.

\---

"Hm. She kept her distance. Jon-- Jon dived into it with hunger. And then got brought back to do it over again with the knowledge of what this is already." She pauses. "I doubt Elias would want to start channeling energy into manipulating another Archivist into existence. I Know things; I'm not like Jon."

\---

“I  _ do _ enjoy just being me, though. I can know enough without having to Know it. I have you for that.” Sasha blinks at her own words, and then shakes her head. “Sorry, that was— That sounded rude. I mean I’m fine with, um, research. That part I like. I’m not interested in...” 

“It’s quite the commitment,” Mike hums from behind them.

\---

"And it's quite the slippery slope." She fields a look to Mike. "Or cliff, in some people's case. Even if you're careful it can go--" She grimaces. "Bad. There's a reason I was bound to a book instead of allowed to rest."

\---

“Not a cliff. A church tower, thank you. You can read about it further in Oracle’s upcoming novel.” Mike smiles one of his first genuinely catty smiles since joining this group.

\---

"The cliff was a metaphor for you-- alright, church tower is more poetic, anyways. Point for Mike. Sometimes reality provides."

\---

“No metaphors in my story. Please don’t edit them in. If I have to hear how lightning is like something else that isn’t like lightning, I’ll leave you a very mean-spirited review.” 

Sasha snorts. “We can use tonight to try and get more information on the gun, too. I’m sure Tim would be fine with us taking a closer look.”

\---

"I'll keep it as straightforward as I can, Mike. You have my word. Lightning is lightning. The gun is a gun. My scars are scars. No metaphors for our deep-seated traumas there. No way."

\---

“Fantastic,” Mike says, just as Tim evidently hears them from down the hall and pops his head out the open door to his flat. 

His “Hi, guys!” travels down the entire walkway. “Wow, I get three guests at once. How’d I score so well?”

\---

"Maybe it's your charming personality. Or your charming flat. Or the fact that we're stir crazy in the office these days." She snorts. "Hi, Tim."

\---

“Oh, yes, and you haven’t even seen it yet. Feast your eyes, beloved guests.” Tim steps back to allow them inside. A mixture of green, orange, and red light shines dimly from within, fairy lights adorning the walls otherwise covered with framed photos of seemingly random objects, people, events— there’s more than a few hiking trails and river shots. 

The kitchen is clean in a way that says it’s only used sparingly, a few bar stools along the counter. The only thing visible on the counter itself is a menorah with one candle lit. Instead of a dining table there’s a big, long, black couch. There’s another smaller and clearly second hand leather chair, the kind you just sink into and never leave, and a glass table about as long as the couch between them. Various snacks and drinks cover the top, and some obvious drug paraphernalia that Tim would call ‘on the classier side’, and a big TV with a sea of wires coming out of it. Beneath it all is a gaudy, gaudy rug, fake deep red fur that doesn’t match much else in the room. 

On either side of the TV sits a bookcase filled with various games, movies, and a few board games. For everyone’s benefit, both the other rooms in his flat have their doors shut. “So? Thoughts?”

\---

"... Normal," Oracle says, and her smile is wide and happy and pleased. She looks all around, her eyes wide and her body eyes glowing just slightly in curiosity. "Very normal. I like it. A lot!"

\---

“I’ll take that as a compliment! I’m a pretty normal paranormal researcher!” Tim puffs up at the praise,  _ beaming  _ while Mike just stares at his awfully ironic holiday sweater with a happy, normal snowman on it. This  _ is _ very normal. 

Sasha bypasses both of them to sit back down on the edge of the couch. “I know you don’t eat, but, um, it’s mostly the principle. I don’t get to make cookies often! But they’re, you know, edible. Hopefully.”

Mike shares a look with Oracle..

\---

She flashes him a knowing smile and winks at him. Then turns back to Tim and Sasha. "It's alright. I can just watch you all eat."

\---

That gets three looks of confusion, though Mike’s is particularly disoriented. “I’ll... have some.”

He sits at the opposite corner of the couch, almost curled up there. There’s a stack of paper plates on the table, and he uses that to grab just one. It’s shaped like a snowflake. It’s actually very nicely done.

\---

"They're nice, Sasha. I've never-- I've never made cookies? They're-- cute." she squints down at the plate. She shifts on the couch a polite distance away from Mike and... Well. It's a little awkward. Work or no work, she's not used to being so.... friendly.

\---

That leaves Tim to kick back in the special chair. Which he does, happily. Mike starts to eat, and tries to make it as silent as possible while he does. 

“Thank you. So—“ Sasha clasps her hands together and pulls a stack of journals and paper-clipped pages off the table. “Not to get to business so soon, but... I think we should start! We can only talk about holidays and... and cookies for so long.”

\---

Oracle lets out a relieved breath and nods. Normal is hard to keep up. Hard to examine. Hard to pretend when she's sitting on a couch in a full winter coat with no need or desire to take it off because she can't feel heat or cold. Anyways.

"That's fine. What have you got?"

\---

“That depends on what you... want to work on. My questions are mostly about Gertrude’s work, but that does involve everything else, so we could start... anywhere. Certain entities, objects, books, places... it’s... It’s... all new. You might have a better idea. I’m just here to learn. And to ask a few guiding questions when I can.”

“And make friends,” Tim says loftily. 

“And make friends. Sure.”

\---

She cocks her head and thinks. "Starting with... Gertrude's work isn't a bad idea. She has more technical knowledge than me, considering she had access to all those statements. I've only had time to go through some of them, since I've been here. And you've clearly got... Files, there."

\---

“Oh. These are... Um, these are your statements. All the ones I could find about you, anyway. Not really about— About Gertrude.”

Tim leans back in the chair with a controller in his hands, content to pay enough attention while keeping his hands busy. “I like the one where you hit a wall with a hammer and run around like a little weasel.”

\---

"A little--" She blinks, and tries to think of what that could mean. What event that-- oh. Ha.

"I was like seventeen! That was... That was back when I actually  _ liked _ finding books."

\---

“May I see?” Mike asks quietly from his end, and Sasha passes a few over for him to go through. 

“You, like, killed a guy.” Tim scoffs. “I like how important he thought your band shirt was. I remember when I first read that one— It’s a Smirke, that’s how I found it. A bunch of secret tunnels, just like the Institute. Funny that I know who the weasel was, now.”

\---

"I didn't kill anyone," She says, almost loftily, almost offended. If she were alive, there'd be a sheen of embarrassment coloring her face. As it is, she just starts rambling. "He just died. Or whatever. The Book, probably. They do that, you know. Kill people. I'm not a weasel. Why am I a weasel? I did good that day, I found the Book, you know-- my Mother was very pleased?"

\---

“Right. He just  _ died.  _ Some mystery solver, you are.” Tim grins, evil and fiery. “You’re a weasel. It’s a fact. Don’t fight it, Keay. Maybe even a ferret.”

Mike stands up abruptly, staring down at a page as he rereads. It’s the sort of sudden motion that is usually paired with an outburst, words, maybe, but this one’s just a stormy silence.

\---

"A ferret," She scoffs, almost angrily, but in that way where the anger is fake and she's just defensive. "I'll have you know that I was-- Mike?" She turns from Tim to look at him, the playful fire in her eyes dying as she regards him. "You good?"

\---

“Dom— Dominic _ Swain _ found Ex Altiora?” Mike whispers, trying to read as fast as he’s capable of. “What are the odds of that?”

\---

Ah. The Book. Oracle slowly relaxes back into the couch, pulling her feet up onto the cushion so her knees are higher. Nice thing about being dead is that the standard rules of etiquette don't apply; no chance of mud getting on Tim's dashing bachelor couch. 

"Yes. Yes, I do think that was his name. Nervous man. Probably scared him right half to death, considering when we met. Took care of his problem quick, though."

\---

“No, he was... We were friends, once. He was there when— In the field, that day. He gave it... He gave it to you? He didn’t— Did he try to read it?” Mike looks down, into Oracle’s face, pale eyes wide and glassy. “Do you know?”

\---

"I suppose he must have tried. Complained about the smell-- ozone, you know. The vertigo. Didn't like it much. Would have died if I didn't take it from him. No doubt." She shrugs. "I bought it from him. Didn't want Mum to have it."

\---

“...Oh. So he sold it to you.” Mike sits carefully back down. “I barely remember anything before that. But I know we were friends.” He hesitates. “I had friends.”

\---

"... So the same man who got struck by lightning with just so happened to get your book after you got rid of it?" Oracle cocks her head. "That's..." She hates coincidences. They aren't. She knows they aren't.

\---

“Yes. Um. He wasn’t struck by lightning. Just me.” Mike fidgets with his coat, along lines beneath it he can’t see with the barrier to sight. “I tossed most of my books. Not in the garbage, just... out. Finding books led me to my truth. I didn’t take them out of that possibility for... I just didn’t think it would be him. I wonder how he is.”

\---

"Blessedly ignorant, one would hope. Just a brush with our world, and that's it. Back to normalcy. To his-- theater, or whatever." She shrugs. "Never thought about it. I bought it, I burned it."

\---

“So which one of us got lucky? I didn’t  _ choose _ to get struck by lightning. But, I— the fear.” Mike pulls his legs up to his chest. “I suppose that was a choice.”

“Wow, so that’s where we’re at tonight,” Tim chuckles from where he’s playing... some kind of racing game.

\---

Oracle looks over at Tim and squints at his screen for a couple seconds, confusion passing over her face. "What are you doing?" She asks, and then decides she doesn't care, and turns back to Mike.

"Fear isn't a choice. They take something we can't choose and turn it into something we can."

\---

“I’m having fun while you all share traumatic stories. Then when you get to mine I’ll be too busy thinking about Mario Kart to get emotional.” 

Mike is about to open his mouth to discuss some philosophy on fear when Sasha decides to intervene. “Let’s... pick somewhere to focus on. We could choose a story to use as a template for how you want the others to go, if you’re interested in gathering stories from those... touched. It might be handy to have ones we can categorize under entities. Like— Chapters, right?”

\---

"Isn't that what Jon does? What's the difference? Mario Kart playing in the background?" She wrinkles her nose.

\---

“Ignore the...” Sasha sighs. “Ignore him, he’s trying to calm down so he can tell you about the Stranger if you want that, too.” 

“Whoa, hey, hey,” Tim replies, notably distracted. “Don’t give away my secrets.”

\---

"...Alright. I guess that's more productive than, like, yelling or hitting people. Okay. Stories. Who wants to share stories. Mine's a little, long, so--" She fields a look to Mike. "Want to be a guinea pig?"

\---

Mike puts his statement back down, switching it out for the cookie he’s half-finished so he has something to hide his embarrassment behind. “Um. Where do you want me to start?”

\---

"Uh.... Wherever you-- I mean, whenever it starts?" Oracle blinks. "Shouldn't you know?"

\---

“It’s not... Well,  _ you _ try organizing your entire life in sequence.” Mike clears his throat quietly. He really isn’t great at this. “Did you know ninety percent of people who are struck by lightning survive? I think it should be lower.”

\---

"... Why? Isn't that... A good thing? I mean, all things considered. Only a 10% mortality rate sounds... Unless you're a sociopath. I guess."

\---

_ “You’ve _ never been struck by lightning. It’s... pain beyond pain. It-- I could smell my own... my skin? Burning out from the inside. Leaving it hollow.” 

Mike moves to shrug off one arm of his coat, to hold his actual arm out. The Lichtenberg fractals adorning the length of it. “That’s a lot for a small body. Anyway, I think I mean it’s not fun to live with, after.”

\---

"... Right." She cocks her head, trying to envision it. This pain. There's a tingling at the back of her head, the Knowing wanting to experience. To Know as Mike does, but it's not nearly strong enough to be anything more than phantom curiosity. As it is, she imagines the heat she's experienced, the pain of sitting in the burn ward and pleading with deities behind her control to knit her back together to finish the damn job before she passes out from pain.

Must be remarkably different.

"Start from the beginning? The experience-- what happened to your body."

\---

“I was struck by lightning. And then I woke up, after having been struck by lightning.” Mike makes an odd, scrunched up face. “But it was later, that it became... it wasn’t the Vast. It was... the Spiral. Before that— maybe it was earlier. It’s— It’s common, really. To have personality changes, traumatic— lasting brain injuries, after. So I wonder how much of me is really me or... or what the lightning left, sometimes. It started with the lightning, the beginning. My life had been normal before that.”

\---

"You were... How old? Young? Don't know how much we keep personalities from too young an age, anyways." Oracle cocks her head. "Guess I don't think about being a child very often, though. So who knows. When did it become the Spiral?"

\---

“I was eight. For the— The lightning, not the Spiral. The Spiral came... I was, I was twelve, I think. You know, looking back on it, I believe the Vast might have been calling me, even then. But maybe they’re both... they’re very close. Sister fears. I was terrified of storms, naturally.” 

He shifts uncomfortably on the couch. “I used to move my fingers over the scars. It wasn’t comforting, but it was, um. If you close your eyes they can...” He trails off as he recreates the motion along his arm, reaching up to his elbow from his wrist before he snaps back. “Sorry, what was the question, again?”

\---

Oracle leans closer, her eyes wide, pupils big as she takes everything, everything in. Her Questions are nowhere near as refined as Jon's, nowhere near as Potent, but she's still the Eye's captive Voyeur right now.

"You've answered it. What did the Spiral do?"

\---

Mike sighs, smiling at the retrospect stupidity of it all. “Nothing. It made imaginary storms. It chased me. But it didn’t catch me. On purpose, obviously. I would go outside, and I’d feel raindrops, and I’d— I spent a lot of time beneath tables. And in bathtubs. It threatened me, all— All the time. I’ve seen it. Saw it. It’s not around anymore.”

\---

"Not-- Not the Distortion, then, though? Right? Is it... was it a person?"

\---

“A... No. It looked like one. But not, not the way we are. Just fractals.”

“You started collecting books, then. When did that start?”

Mike tilts his eye contact slowly to Sasha. “I’d been reading for years searching for... answers, to various things. It makes sense that eventually I’d find... you know. That first one killed my family. So I continued. Continued searching. If something could do that, something could get rid of whatever that thing was.”

\---

"The first..." Oracle leans back. "Book? Leitner? You killed your family? Details, Mike. Where you can."

\---

“Leitner, yes. It was... Um, it was called... A Journal of— Of the Plague Year, I think. I didn’t kill my family. The book did. You can’t blame me for that. I didn’t know what Leitners were, yet.”

“What did that book do?”

“It rotted from the inside. The entire house. Bugs chewing and spitting acid deep in the wood. Fungus and holes, there was such a smell to it. Even the bricks fell through like they were made of paper. Sorry, I said no metaphors, didn’t I?”

\---

"That's not a metaphor. That's a simile." Oracle clears her throat. "Regardless. Gruesome. Hate the Corruption. How old, then?"

\---

“Nearly eighteen. Oh. That one— I doubt it’s around, still. That one I... the day it killed them, I shoved it into a street gutter. It was storming that day, too. Big raindrops. Or maybe they were normal-sized. That one was a real storm, I believe. The Boneturner’s Tale was the first one I found while actively looking.”

\---

"... You had the Boneturner's Tale? And it did... Nothing to you?" She blinks. "You threw... That's. No wonder you were just hanging around that antique shop with hardly a plan to get out! Fuck! You're lucky you're alive! Christ!"

\---

Mike blinks right back. “I did have a plan to get out. It— Yes, it made me— It did plenty to me! Look at the— These, you must know normal scars don’t... don’t look like that. I only find one of these every— every few years!”

Sasha taps a pencil loudly against a pad of paper in her hand she’s been using to take notes. There’s an odd gravity to her words. “Oracle, too many directions at once.”

\---

Oracle's jaw snaps shut, tight, and she forcibly leans herself back, visibly attempting to calm herself from some sort of... Well, frenzy. "Right."

She looks at the screen Tim is playing on for a few seconds, her eyes crossing as she tries to follow the bright stimulus of the game. Don't grow up with these things, and they're hard to follow; for her? Nearly impossible, but it has the effect of blanking out her mind. "How many, thereabouts, have you found or destroyed over the years?"

\---

“Four. Five, if you count our most recent.” Mike tries again, shoulders relaxing with less pressure. “I destroyed none of them. I didn’t see if the sewers ruined the first. I added to Ex Altiora. I-I bound the Spiral creature to it. So.”

\---

"Mm. Should have. Destroyed them, I mean." She clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. "But Ex Altiora was the one you landed on. Church tower and all that. Why look for more?"

\---

“This latest one was a whim. It was supposed to be something involving the Vast, which— you know, I wanted to see it. I still like to read, between being an  _ evil avatar.” _

\---

"So, between being an evil avatar, you decide to search out yet another evil book. Not for the purposes of destroying it, but to read and use it. Great. Wonderful, Mike! Charming."

\---

“You’re awful judgy for someone trying to gather stories,” Mike mumbles. “I read and used Ex Altiora, and that worked. I assumed it could work out again. Especially if I were already attuned.”

\---

Oracle le's out a puff of air. Maybe he's right. Well, she knows he is, but it doesn't mean she has to like it. She has to remind herself that not every entity is a Hunt-starved man on a desolate Indiana road. They won't take as kindly to her snapping.

"For what end goal?"

\---

“I told you before. It was supposed to be about dragons. It didn’t summon dragons, it summoned dragon qualities. It was about harnessing the wind. I like the wind. That was the end goal. I never got to know more about the book, because it wasn’t there.”

\---

"Red herring, I suppose." She tilts her head at him. "Suppose I'm glad we got the gun instead of a book. On all accounts. How nice would you have been if there had been a book we took from you?"

\---

“Not very nice at all.” Mike deadpans. “I genuinely doubt  _ he _ would be alive. You still would be, though. The locket would have survived. Most likely.”

\---

She hums, looking mildly displeased, but not surprised in the slightest. "We're going to have to talk about that, at some point, if you're going to continue working with us. This propensity for murdering people."

\---

“Am I working with you? I’ve yet to be given a job.” Mike tilts his head. “And haven’t most of you killed people?”

\---

"If you want. You seemed to be into this whole cataloging thing." She shrugs. "Martin, technically, has killed people.. I haven't killed people. Just monsters."

\---

“Unless I’m under contract, which I’m not, I have no desire to change my relationship with my patron god. Maybe the people I kill, I consider monsters.” His mouth twitches up into a mischievous smile. “Have you ever thought of that?”

\---

"Ah, yes, people with no sin greater than having a natural fear you prey upon like a parasite, they're the real monsters. Uh-huh. Sure." She's sitting up again, leaning closer in his face, her teeth bared. "I'll think about it all you want, Crew, but it doesn't change the fact that you're a murderer."

\---

“I was... I was joking.” Mike doesn’t visibly react with fear, but he is vaguely confused. “I’m well aware that I’ve... ended lives. Or prolonged them. I’m not exactly ashamed of that. But you wanted my story. You now have... pieces of it.”

\---

Oracle tongues the inside of her mouth as she tries to calm down. She leans back, and says, "That's the problem. This laissez Faire attitude. Whatever. Thanks for the story. The Eye loves it."

\---

“How is it a problem? I’m not endangering any of you. And I’m hardly as bad as some of the others out there. You’ve never met Jude, I’d imagine.” 

“Are you alright?” Sasha asks quietly from her end of the couch, momentarily ignoring Mike.

\---

"Peachy, Sasha." She lets out a slow, deliberate breath to loosen the way she's tensed up the image of her muscles, and then she shrugs. "Just no moral code. It's frustrating."

\---

“I do have a moral code. You’ve been— Well, kind to me in several ways. I won’t harm you. I’m telling you things I’ve never spoken about. To anyone. I showed you— I’m sorry that feeding what kept me alive and free from what chased me is such a frustrating experience for you to have second hand.”

\---

"Well I'm just so glad you're able to so easily cavalier yourself into the arms of a deity with no remorse, Mike. Stunning work." She quiets for a moment, shaking her head. "I want to work with you. But I'd also love to do so knowing the chance of being complicit in more murders is far lower than it currently stands. And you seem to not care, one bit, about that part."

\---

“Of course I have no remorse. You... do realize I was hunted by the Spiral since the age of  _ twelve? _ This was the one thing that didn’t take anything from me. The other books— The other books killed people I loved. They turned my marks into horrific fractals. How is a sacrifice to that which healed what was left of me any worse than your Archivist stealing information from others? Cutting it out of them? Mm. It’s not like I toy with them longer than necessary.” That last part is a tad warped from the truth, but-- so be it, to make a point.

\---

"I'm not exactly pleased with Jon at the best of times, either, Mike, don't turn this around on my other company." She huffs. "I'm not unsympathetic, I'm just-- disapproving. Worried. Upset. Whatever the fuck you want to call it. Your sacrifice ends people. That's more than just...knowing something."

\---

“There are worse ends than death. You of all people should know that.” Mike reaches for another cookie. He actually likes them very much, kudos to Sasha. “At least my sacrifice does end people.”

\---

"Name your sacrifice what it is. Murder. Christ. And I thought I was the one raised with no moral compass. Fuck."

\---

“Yes. I’m a murderer. They are murders. I, an avatar of the Vast, have done what every other avatar has done. You’ll have trouble writing a book full of stories if this is how you react to one I’d consider mild.”

\---

"Yes, see, but I don't _ care _ about them. Whatever. Let's move on. Shall we?"

\---

“Ah, you’ve unwittingly joined our circle of friends, Mikey. Now we get to judge all your compasses,” Tim says with a laugh at the edges, the race picking up speed in front of them. Loops, colors, twisting bright flashes. 

“Mike.” Is all he says in return, a basic correction. 

“Let’s go back to Gertrude, then.” Sasha clears her throat. “She was in Jon’s position, but she refused aspects of it, I’m assuming?”

\---

Oracle watches Mike and then Tim for a moment, collecting her thoughts and calming herself down, before she returns to Sasha and gives a small nod. "Must have. She was always a distant woman, very shrewd; I imagine she knew... If not the details, then at least some of what she should avoid. Reckon Elias hated how hard she was to control."

\---

“And that’s why he shot her a million times, right? Not a bad idea,” Tim snorts. “Kidding. Hey, did you ever find out what was on all those tapes? I figured it must’ve been boring, old diary stuff if I never heard about it again.”

\---

"What tapes?" She tilts her head.

\---

“Uh, the tapes Jon had me drag out of the tunnels before his America trip? I guess you weren’t around for that just yet, huh? Yep. Picked up a box of tapes and left me—  _ Hanging—“ _ Tim skirts along the edge of almost falling off the map, and just barely makes it through.

\---

"Hm. He's hardly played tapes of-- of hers. One or two, but-- Jon usually chooses the research material. I didn't know there was a box." She looks at the back of Tim's head questioningly.

\---

“Oh yeah. Big one. He couldn’t carry it out on his own, and Martin was still in his squeamish phase about death, or whatever. So it was either really boring, or juicy. With Jon? Hmm. Think I’m betting on the latter.”

\---

"Hm. Guess I'll have to ask him. Tapes from Gertrude might come in handy if we're wanting to start with her." She sits back and presses the nail of her thumb to her mouth. "We've got more work to do when we get home, Mike. Happy Christmas Eve."

\---

“...Me? I was unaware that I’ve become your pet avatar. It would be nice to sleep in my own flat, for a change. It’s not all that far from your Institute.” Mike tries to make himself look as comfortable on the couch as he can. “I could give you my number.”

\---

"... Right." Maybe she's being a bit Much. Maybe she's just used to Martin and Michael and Jon, who seem to have a supernatural need to be bossed around sometimes. Maybe, just maybe, learning socialization skills around those three isn't the most healthy.

Whatever. She's not thinking about that right now.

"Sure. I'm not-- I don't have to leave now."

\---

“Right. I’ll write it down for you. Easy enough of a task now that I have a functioning brain.” 

“Oh, hell no, you’re definitely not leaving yet. You haven’t even played this with me.” Tim gestures with the controller in one hand. “That’s on the itinerary.”

\---

"... You'll win. I've never played a video game. And I have the motor functions of a ghost." She grimaces and then sighs. "I need to start possessing people."

\---

“It’s not about winning, Keay. Maybe I just want to see which one you pick as your driver.”

“Do you think you could?” Ah, Sasha. Ever the practical sort of curious.

\---

"I have no idea. Never tried. Martin tried to get me to possess a car once. I refused." She looks at the screen. "Does it matter? Are there advantages?"

\---

“You can manipulate other things in your environment. Wouldn’t... Would possessing a car just mean driving it?”

“Not really, it’s all just for fun. About aesthetics. Here, let me—“ Tim abandons the race to go back to the title screen and starts setting up a new one.

\---

"Probably. I don't know how to drive, though. Manipulation or not." She gets up to come closer to the screen, squinting at the graphics. "They're all so bright, Tim. I want the ghost. With the circle mouth."

\---

“You’ll learn how to drive through this,” Tim waves her off. “I’m sure that’s how it works. Just play around with it, you’re just up against a computer. No hard feelings that way.”

He turns to Sasha, beaming brighter than any of the lights in the room. “She’s a Shy Guy. Figures.”

\---

She holds a hand out for the controller. "Fine. I also don't know what judgement you just passed, and I'm not sure I appreciate it."

\---

“You’ll know some day. I’ll indoctrinate you. Imagine if you were, like,  _ really good _ at it. I’m a Daisy, I’d bet Mike here’s a Bowser, and Sasha’s a Mario.”

“I do like that one,” Mike mumbles.

\---

Oracle blinks. "You _ are _ one? Is this-- it's part of your personality, what you choose?"

\---

“Yes, it is. And it’s a good thing! At least you’re not Toad! No one likes a Toad. Seriously.”

\---

"Everything is about personalities these days," She mutters. "Explain what that means. I don't-- I literally don't know any of these characters."

\---

“It doesn’t mean anything,” Sasha smiles, purely genuine. “It’s, uh... Like astrology? You just pretend, Oracle. That’s all it is.”

\---

"Oh." She blinks at the screen. "Well I'm a Capricorn, so whatever this ghost means, it's that."

\---

“Oh, yeah.” Tim nods, gravely serious. “It’s definitely that.”


	84. Chapter 84

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eric Delano makes a guest appearance. So does a house.

Oracle stays at Tim's for another hour before gathering herself to go home. The video game was rather fun, even if she was  _ horrible _ at it and was certain that, were she still alive, it would give her a horrendous migraine from staring at such a brightly lit screen. 

As it is, it just hyper-focuses her in as the goal to get decent is powerful enough to distract her, however momentarily, from the strange collection of emotions whiplashing through her form. But she's not very good, and eventually she silently hands the controller back to Tim and informs them all that she's going home, thank-you for the hospitality, and a promise to Mike to call him that she hopes sounds like an apology. 

The ride home is quick, mostly because she zones out until the ride reaches the Institute doors, and her fingers press tight to the locket as she takes the stairs back down to their floor. She takes a breath, two, three once she closes the office doors behind her, and then she immediately spurs into action. 

It's not that she thinks Jon is hiding anything, so much as she knows the Archivists always have their secrets. And Jon, bless his heart, doesn't always seem to remember what is, and isn't, important at the best of times. 

So she begins to search. She once knew this office fairly decently, having snooped whenever Gertrude wasn't looking. Jon's made it his own, and while she knows it well now, she hasn't gone searching with the same distrust that she had for Gertrude. 

Pardon the noise as she tears about the shelves and desk to look for  _ tapes, tapes, tapes _ with the voice of a long-dead woman who gave her a form of freedom that turned out to be more servitude, in the end.

\---

Martin has been settling down again, after that whole fiasco with Sirius and, by extension somehow, Michael. A sense of calm that is not  _ detached _ has washed over him in his recuperation, and he’s in a rather good place. For how out of control everything has been, he feels  _ positive.  _

His voice has come back for the most part. A little hoarse around the edges, sore when he raises it - luckily, he doesn’t usually have a need - but none the worse for wear. The Hunt’s quieted down, and that tends to coincide with his anxieties following suit. 

That’s why... That’s why it’s extremely hilarious to walk in with a towel around his neck, hair wet, and his usual nightly wear of boxers and a t-shirt.... to Oracle upending Jon’s desk. On Christmas Eve, no less. Not that he’s keeping a particularly keen eye on the date. 

“Um...” He says from the doorway, just loud enough to try not to spook her, a lazy smile on his face. “...What are you doing?”

\---

She still jumps, all but curled over the entirety of Jon's desk as she rummages through the drawers from the other side of it, straightening and spinning on a dime. Her hair is frazzled, and her eyes are wide and more than a little manic. She tries to curb down the look she knows she has in her eyes, returning Martin's smile with nothing short of an immature leer.

"Looking. Jon's been hiding stuff again. Want to find it." She turns back to the drawers and then back to Martin for a moment. "You look good."

And then she dives back in.

\---

“Oh! Um, thank you! You— You too.” Yeah, that’s a _ look. _ Manic Beholder on a quest for knowledge, God, like there’s never enough of that around here. 

Martin takes the towel to his head and crosses the threshold without sight; he knows it well enough by now to make it over to the desk. “I doubt it’s the candy or the cigarettes, but I know a few other stashes. What are— What are you looking for, exactly?”

\---

"Tapes. Evidently, Jon's been hiding tapes, and I want them." That's not really the truth, but she's gotten it into her head at this point, and that's where her head's at. "Gertrude's tapes."

\----

“Oh. Right. Those. I... I actually forgot about them! We went to America, and... well.” Martin takes a long, breathy sigh. “Um, under the bed, is all I can think. One of the unmarked cabinets?”

\---

"Help me find them." It comes out more like one long, fast word. She doesn't know why she's so amped up. It just feels, all of a sudden, like she  _ needs _ to find these tapes. And she's been in this life long enough to chase those urges, when they take her over. When she knows she's close to something.

\---

“Okay,” Martin says, and it comes out  _ very _ serious. The speed of it makes it a command, and while the Hunt is quiet he’s certainly not immune to a little chase. Especially for her. 

He does linger for a second, though, just to watch.  _ Oh. _ He can even get two birds with one stone, here.

Martin opens the bedroom door, setting the towel down on the bed. He keeps it cracked open just in case she finds them first, but he’s got a hunch and he’s determined to follow it through. He immediately gets to his knees on the wood to rummage around under the bed, and starts pulling a few random things out. Boxes of stuff they own but don’t have space to keep out, even some of his old things in the banker’s box he’d brought here ages ago. Then another box, one he vaguely recognizes. 

He calls out from where he’s tucked halfway under the bed. Cobwebs everywhere, especially near the headboard. They really need to fix that. “I think it’s down here!”

\---

She rises from where she's looking immediately, her steps loud on the wood as she meets Martin in the bedroom, looking from the doorframe. Her eyes light up when she sees the box. Yes, yes, this is it. This is it. 

"Good. Bring them to the office. I need to-- I need to look through them. Now. There's a  _ lot,  _ there's-- Why the fuck was he  _ hiding _ them?"

\---

“Wh— I don’t know. What’s all the fuss about?” Martin pulls the box all the way out, and along with it the bag containing the rest of his gifts. 

He makes it back into the office with the bag on top of the tapes, and sets them all gently down on Jon’s desk. “A lot of what?”

\---

"Tapes, statements, Gertrude's, don't you-- Isn't it weird that he was hiding them? That he was--" She cuts herself off with a growl and starts to sort through the tapes, moving the bag and then pulling tape after tape out. 

The more she rummages, the more she realizes, dully, that she's looking  _ for _ something. That the eyes on her body are glowing with purpose and the same manic energy as her actual eyes, that none of these tapes are the one she wants, that there's one here, one she needs, one that feels sickly awful in her head. But it slides right off her; the Eye doesn't like it, but she's dead, and she was never fully _ its _ in the way she is now, and there's no escaping this, never escaping this, Grant us the Sight We May Not Know, and she feels here, and solid, and each touch produces sound and materiality, and she keeps pulling and pulling and pulling until-- 

"This one. This one, Martin." A waver runs through her form when she touches it, her hand shaking slightly. She stumbles in this corporeality and drops it on the desk, sliding right through her, and she growls again and picks it back up, shoving it into his hands. "Play it."

\---

“Ah—“ Martin takes it as quickly as he can, fumbling nervously. Slipping through his fingers and hers, something slimy about this one that has his hackles raised and goosebumps prickling up his arms. “I— Okay, just— Hold on, okay? I don’t think he was, h-hiding them on purpose, he...” 

The light dancing off her Eyes reflects in his own, green brightening the flecks already nestled there. Except he’s worried. “Can we slow down? I don’t know what this is about. I thought you were with— Where— Where’s Mike?”

\---

"Home, he wanted to go home. Bastard got all weird when I said it was shit that he murders people, and Tim made me play-- Shy Guy?-- and it's not important, Martin!" She grips the edge of the desk and is almost shaking, the bodily kind, from the sudden energy flowing through her. 

"This isn't  _ about _ anything. I just need to know. I need to. I don't know what."

\---

“Made you... play... Okay.” Martin fishes for a tape player, though he is carefully slow in his execution. Giving her a chance to back out, if she needs it. Doesn’t seem like it, though. He doesn’t like the itching at the back of his brain. He doesn’t like touching this tape. He can’t say why. 

He sits down across from the desk and starts to put everything together. “I, um, I-I have gifts for you, after.”

\---

"On Christmas Eve? Play it. Please? I'll--" She finally, finally sits down in front of him, tugging on either end of her hair, her jaw tight. "I just need to hear it. We can-- Gifts after, okay, alright."

\---

“Yeah, I mean, Christmas doesn’t really.... matter, it’s just about—“ He sighs. “Okay.”

He forces himself to press play.

\---

She sits in silence as the tape starts itself. Anticipation sits high in what was once a gut, and her fingers are tight around the locket, holding it in both hands as a rosary. 

Immediately, she tenses, at the start of Gertrude's voice. This isn't the surprise; they've gone through a few of her tapes, and she's tensed every time. Jon's gotten used to it, even if he has never looked quite so comfortable with that reaction. It's hard not to; Gertrude was in her last living memories, and she's the reason Oracle stands to this day. The control Gertrude Robinson holds over her situation is as bone-deep and constant, now, as that of Mary Keay's. 

And then her breath catches, as she realizes what Gertrude is reciting. 

_ "When the garden shears plunged into his chest, he was surprised by how little actual pain there was- just the sudden feeling of moisture on his chest and the realization that his body was growing weak, fading away." _

A page from the Book. No page Oracle recognizes. Nothing so familiar. But she can feel the cadence, and she  _ knows _ the cadence, and she murmurs, "Someone Trapped, like--" But she cuts herself off as Gertrude recites the final line. 

_ “And so Eric Delano ended.” _

Oracle stops breathing altogether, and the locket drops from her hands, only hanging on to her form because the chain is wrapped around her wrist. She goes deathly still, all Eyes to utter, unblinking attention. Almost white, in how bright they are. 

The tape plays the sounds of Eric Delano coming forward to this world, and as Gertrude asks confirmation, and the first tenor of Eric's voice rises spectral over the tape, Oracle lunges into motion, almost falling through the table in her haste to press pause, to give herself a moment, to process what it is the Eye has given her tonight. No wonder. No wonder it put her into such a frenzy.

\---

Martin had listened politely up until that point. Both hands placed neatly in his lap, eyes to the tape recorder with none of the manic frustration pouring off Oracle in waves. 

He blinks when it pauses, vaguely confused. It’s been a long time since he’s read a statement, soaked up anything that wasn’t straight from the source, literally. It takes him a few seconds to catch up to the fact that she’s paused it, a few long seconds more to glean the contact. “Wh— Who was that? That was a page— It  _ sounded— _ G— Oracle?”

\---

All at once, he wraps his hands around his face, shaking his head a few times. When he pulls them away, the strange spirit-glamour that he'd carefully constructed to look nice tonight for their little get together, is gone, utterly gone, replaced with bedraggled Gerry, hair unbrushed and face unshaven, eyes shadowed and haggard from nights unslept. 

His eyes are still wide, though, still glowing, the same mania still present, though it's tilted, tilted into something near panic, near grief, near fury. "My dad," He says slowly. "My dad was put in the-- He was a  _ page." _

\---

Unsure if he’s supposed to be seeing this, if Gerry even wants him to see this, Martin lowers his eyes back to the desk. Follows the spiraling grain in the wood until one flows into the other. This is all incredibly sudden, but he’s still calm, and maybe... maybe that’s good for something. 

He gingerly holds out one hand across the desk. Oh, he’s done this so many times before. But who knows if it will work with him, and not Jon? “... Do you want to - to try and listen?”

\---

"Well-- Yes, yes of course, I just-- I need--" Oh. Yes. That will work. Part of his brain doesn't want to, wants to sit back and avoid anyone and anything and fade away and be nothing, but it's not productive. It's not good, and Martin's right there, and he slowly leans across the desk to take his hand. 

"Press play for me. Please?"

\---

Martin grips Gerry’s wrist and keeps him there. It’s more of a tether than a comfort, really. Comfort can come later. For now, he hones back in on the tape. Before he puts pressure on the button, he whispers between them. 

“Stay here.”

\---

Gerry will. Martin's hand on his wrist is a leash keeping him on this plane, keeping him from hiding, from dredging up old anxieties, and fears and hopes, and-- Well, certainly he's heard his father's voice before. When he was an infant, maybe. He can't remember it. He wants to. Is this all that's left of him, now?

"Okay," He whispers, and then the tape is playing, and he squeezes Martin hard. 

And so Eric speaks, speaks of the pain and nothingness that sits in Gerry's gut, speaks of a wife that was cruel, was evil, was impossible to leave because she was addictive, and good at  _ ensnaring,  _ and oh, she might have Chosen the Eye, but she had the Web deep in her breast, didn't she?

But it's not really about her. It's about Eric. Eric who figured it out, figure out how to leave and did it, managed to escape, wanted to escape for-- For-- 

For him. For Gerard. And paid the price with his life for it. She killed him because of Gerard. And all he wanted, even in death, was for someone to take care of him. Figures even he thought Gertrude might be the best bet for that. 

He sits numb through the tape. No sudden inhales, no fidgeting, no nothing. Just pure silence and stillness as he stares daggers into the tape, willing it to give him anything,  _ anything.  _ It gives him a lot, but none of it is comforting, and when the tape eventually clicks off, having run its course, he stays still. 

At length, he asks, quietly, "Have I gone rotten, you think?" His voice is soft, almost childlike in its insecurity, and he doesn't look up.

\---

All at once, Martin knows. Knows that this is how Jon found out you could escape the Eye. What it took to do so. He sat down, and he listened to this, and he found out. And this— This tape, it’s to blame for him coming back. Indirectly, but it’s... It’s almost funny, how much everything loops in on itself. 

Funny, except that Gerry is hurting. Funny, except a voice that lilts and smiles in ways he knows the man across from him inherited by sound alone. Bitter, but genuine, but caring, and kind, it reverberates off the static even in ghostly memory. 

“Of course not,” Martin whispers, once Gerry breaks the silence, bringing his other hand to cradle the one he keeps safe. “It’s— wow, did you notice you sound just like him? I mean, you’re not just  _ hers, _ Gerry. No. You’re not rotten.”

\---

"D-Do I? I don't-- Are you sure? He sounds--"  _ Good,  _ what he wants to finish that sentence with.  _ Loving,  _ even if his love was for the wrong person and the wrong cause. He shakes his head.

\---

“Uh, yeah. A lot. I think he might’ve had your same— you know, how you talk when you’re smiling a certain way. There’s this—“ Martin smiles down at the tape. Something subdued about it. “What did he sound like to you?”

\---

He shrugs. "Someone-- I don't know. Safe. Someone safe."

\---

“Yeah.” Martin’s smile turns sly. “He was back-talking Gertrude.  _ Cheeky.  _ Sorry, that’s—“ He lifts his hand up to stifle the sudden bout of laughter. “— just really funny. Sassing Archivists runs in the family?”

\---

His lips twitch for a moment, and his free hand moves across the desk to grab the locket ball. "It's-- It takes balls to do that. I have to-- And she just took it. She just--" His jaw tightens, and he pulls his hand back from Martin, drawing his knees to his chest to fit entirely in the chair. "Imagine if he was there."

\---

“Imagine... Imagine him where, Gerr— Oh, I just realized he called you that. Sorry, I’m trying to wrap my head around— Details. Lots of details. Do you mean—“ He realizes Gerry’s taken his hand away and frowns. “What, in your life?”

\---

"I- I mean, yeah, I suppose." He sits there in silence for almost a minute, and then says, his breath all a rush, "You know, the first time I saw someone-- saw a man die, was-- Well I must have been six or seven. And, I mean-- I didn't-- I didn't realize that's what had happened until I saw someone else die when I was... Hm, ten? Maybe, but-- I mean. It's stupid, but I can't help but think-- I mean. He wanted to stay home. He wanted to-- raise me. He wanted-- He didn't want me in this life."

\---

Martin listens. He likes to listen. Especially to Gerry, especially with things that matter. This statement is a sick one, no doubt, but it’s sick for what it reveals about it’s own patron, not for the love they’re both pulling out of it. 

“No. I don’t think any reasonable person would’ve wanted any of that to happen, Gerry. Now you— You know he... He wanted you.” He is not immune to that weird, bubbly anti-nausea that creeps up on him after statements, though. He mutters it, almost under his breath. “I mean, he said it himself. He always loved ghosts.”

\---

Gerry has enough wherewithal to look up and glare at Martin. "I don't think he would have wanted me to become  _ this,  _ Martin. This half-thing. He-- He had Gertrude kill him, it was so bad. You know, that first meeting we had? In that shitty fucking hotel room? I had half a plan to ask you two to do the same to me, the next time I was summoned. Honestly, had the idea for  _ welllllll _ after Jon had been kidnapped. This-- This..." His voice trails off, his voice thick and almost impossible to get out of his throat. 

"This sucks. It just-- It sucks."

\---

Okay! Bad joke. Read the room, Martin. Sorry, so sorry, Gerry, really sorry. “You’re not a half-thing. You’re not just a memory, not anymore. You’ve made new ones. He’d want that.” 

He keeps his hand on the table, just in case Gerry decides he ever wants it. “It sucks. Yeah. But do you— Do  _ you _ still want that?”

\---

Gerry shrugs, and admits, "Not really. Probably one day."

\---

“Yeah. Maybe one day. But not now. And not soon. Just like all of us. I mean, he couldn’t keep you from getting put in the book, but - but based on this? I’m sure he’d be proud. Of what you’ve made despite your mother. And Gertrude. And I’m sure he’d love to know about how much you sassed her.”

\---

"But he can't," Gerard says slowly, like Martin's stupid. "Because she killed him. He can't, because she took him away." He's still again.

\---

“I know. And it happened, and there’s nothing you can do except take this as a p-positive and move on, maybe?” Martin frowns. “She already got what she deserved. She’s gone, too.”

\---

"...Yeah. She's gone, too," He repeats, and he goes quiet. He doesn't realize it at first, presenting as these small wavers through his form, little jolts and jitters of static interference. But he realizes eventually, when he realizes he's breathing again, and it's not an even breath, but something shaky and heavy and thick and the memory of tears hit his cheeks in tracks. He can't feel their strange warmth. He can't feel their anything, but as the breaths pick up, he knows exactly what this is. 

He's crying, and he's doing it in front of someone else, too. How-- How  _ pathetic.  _ His mother would be livid to see such a sullen display of brattery. Of weakness. Of childishness.

\---

“I just hope I can give you enough love now that it hurts less,” Martin murmurs, and he wants to erase the desk between them from the world itself. He wants to not be thinking that Gerry looks beautiful, right now. He wants to be able to give him whatever comfort he needs. He wants to know what he needs. “You’re one of - of the most genuine, real people I’ve met, Gerry. You’re the opposite of rotten. You’re— You’re like, like the world’s most stubborn tree ever.”

\---

"A stubborn tree? What does that--" His voice is tear-thick in the memory of a real sob he must have had sometime, somewhere, somewhen, when his vocal cords were real enough to be thickened by sinuses and tears and puffy eyes and cheeks, and it makes the question sound less like a confused question, and more like a pathetic admission, like it's something sad to be a stubborn tree.

\---

“I-It means I’m mixing metaphors, and I meant to say you’re— You know, like a weed, but I couldn’t say that because that sounds like an insult, but I like weeds, so I thought, oh, it makes more sense to - to - to say fruit tree, you know, the rotten thing, since you’re not, but you’re... You’re— I’m just realizing I don’t know how to comfort you, and I want to, more than anything, but I’m just—“ He deflates, sighing and forcing himself to calm down across the desk. “—That’s all. I’m here for you.”

\---

"...I don't know how to be comforted. So I guess… I guess we're on the s-same page here," He says, and takes in a tumultuous, shaky breath as another shiver runs through his form. And it's true. He doesn't even know what to do with himself now, as he's crying. A million different fears run through him with each shaky breath, enough so that he can't collect himself and stop.

\---

Martin sits through another painful, deliriously awful second of watching him cry, and then— then he gets some sort of half-baked idea in the form of stern words. “Put the locket on the table.”

\---

"The-- What?" But his hand is moving, curious enough at Martin demanding something from him that he complies all but immediately. "Why?"

\---

Okay. That makes him confident. Not in the giddy way, just a way. He moves to blindly grab into the bag, unceremoniously dumping another chain covered in charms next to the comparably empty locket necklace beside it. “You’re going to do this yourself. I want you to feel all of them when you put them on. And I-I want you to think about what they mean, in the context of you. Not me, not anyone else, just you.”

\---

He squints down at the bracelet and sniffles a little. Nothing so foul or embarrassing as a human sniffle, but one nonetheless, one that has him feeling profoundly small. "Wh-- You want me to put them on the locket?"

\---

“Yeah.” He pushes them both closer to Gerry. “Take them off the other chain and put them on yours. Concentrate on it.”

\---

Gerry blinks and starts to say, "this is st--" But it's really not, and it's a gift, and as he actually looks at the charms, something warm penetrates his ghostly figure and he looks up to Martin with watery eyes before nodding and focusing back down at them.

Nazar, and a firefly, and stars, book, dog, garnet and the rest, and each one he pauses on before he even begins to take them off the chain. The real kicker is that he can picture Martin picking these all out, the little flutter of excitement that would pass through his eyes like a visible spark of electricity with each one. It makes him smile.

He pulls the dog off, first, and slowly strings it onto the locket. Gaudy idea, this is, and it'll make an awful lot of noise, but he doesn't care, right now. One doesn't interrupt rituals. Even when they're just gifts from someone who loves you.

"... Thank you," He says, once the dog is securely latched onto the place his soul lives and loves and breathes.

\---

“I tried to find pictures of you I could use to put in an actual locket, but I really— I could only find your mug shot, so. I wasn’t about to use that one,” Martin starts once the first one is done, ignoring the ‘thank you’. “Just... You’re not alone, and - and I love you, and it’s okay to be upset, but I don’t want you thinking you’re - you’re anything less than— You’re special. I’m serious. Backstory be damned.”

\---

He pulls the book off next, stringing it onto his chain. "My mugshot is the only picture you could find? I suppose-- I guess that makes sense. I wasn't on Facebook. Might be pictures of me in the bookstore." The charm chimes when it clanks next to the dog, and he takes the Nazar next, to string onto the other side of the chain.

"I'm special, am I?" At least he's not crying anymore.

\---

“Of course you’re special. You managed to turn this into an entire new life. Not just a bunch of memories written on a page, you’re— You’re literally impacting everything around you, all the time! You help people, and you still find ways to love things no matter how hard it is. I— You make me want to be better. All the time.” Martin smiles, sheepishly genuine. “Leave it up to Gerry Keay to make his own legacy out of sheer stubborn will.”

\---

It was a weak attempt at joking with Martin, but the damn bastard took him seriously. Of course he did. And now his expression is getting all soft and droopy and fond and  _ in love. _ He swallows non-existant spit and opens his mouth to say something, then closes it and tries again and says, "I love you."

He jangles the half finished locket chain. "You're-- utterly ridiculous, and crazy, but you're so... sweet to me."

\---

“I love you too. And— Yep, crazy and sweet. You chose me, just remember that!” Martin looks back down to the desk, the charms, scratching at his arm to make the hovering anxiety go away. “You deserve it. Being— You know, loved. I’m sorry it’s so late.”

\---

"Making up for lost time, it seems." He sighs. "I'm killing Jon when I see him, by the way. For hiding this. He knew my father was on these tapes."

\---

“He’s not really the best at sharing information.” Martin nudges the tape recorder. “I think this is how he found out you can... you can get out of the Eye. And then I... I guess he did. Maybe he doesn’t like to think about it.”

\---

"I.... Don't really give a shit. He clearly didn't succeed, so." He tilts his head, like that's that, and starts to pull on more charms. He holds each for a moment before placing it on the chain, thinking as Martin wants him to.

It keeps him calm enough. Calmer than he was, at least.

\---

“Yeah. There’s a lot he doesn’t tell us. I know. But I don’t know how to get it out of him any other way, either.”

\---

Gerard hums at that, and then shrugs. "I'm still gonna yell at him, you know. I like the charms. Not very subtle, if we need to he quiet, but I.... I like them. They have parts of you on them."

\---

“You can yell at him. I— I figured they sort of tell stories, all of them, or say... say something about you, or what you care about? Like... Like tattoos, I guess. Stuff that’s always there even if you’re sleeping.” Martin shoots him a sly smile, all squinted eyes and smugness radiating off of him. “You could always have a work chain and a recreational one.”

\---

"Now that's an innuendo of I've ever heard one, you dog." But it gets him smiling, just as sly, nearly a laugh. "Christmas eve is always so weird. Always whiplashing. Thanks for making it better."

\---

“Woof.” Martin eases back into the sappy, lovestruck gushing on a dime. “I’m just glad I was here. You would’ve found it either way and - and it’s much better to not be alone. Right?”

\---

"Yeah. Probably wouldn't have gone very.... Well. If I was alone tonight." He sighs. "I was weird all night at Tim's. Reckon I should apologize for being a freak when I see them next."

\---

Martin snorts. “I’m sure they’ll forgive you. Tim likes you. He always seems like he’s in a good mood whenever he asks to pick you up. But, so— Mike just... went home? Just like that?”

\---

"Yeah. Think I offended him. Uh--I mean, first I assumed he'd be coming back with me. Well. Demanded it, really, I guess. And then I-- well, he didn't appreciate me yelling at him about murder. Probably." He has the decency to look a little embarrassed. "I'm rusty with… Friends?"

\---

“Oh, right. He kills people, doesn’t he? I can sort of... I can sort of smell it.” Martin scrunches up his face. “I’m sure he’s fine. At least there’s one less avatar that might be interested in, erm, ruining our lives? Thanks to you. I wasn’t exactly charming.”

\---

"You weren't, but I don't think he-- blames you? At least you presented the Hunt to him, and not the Spiral. Would have gone over muuuuuch worse."

\---

“Yay! No spiraling. Great job, Martin! Almost as good at Gerry is at making friends.” He gives an awkward smile, one that wants to be genuine and a joke all at once. “...Speaking of, what was all that? With Michael? I have, a-at least twenty questions.”

\---

"... What, you getting all weird on him? You're always weird on him. Him howling? Honestly. Just assumed he was being mad, like usual. It was.... It was more, though, wasn't it."

\---

“Yes, the howling. It always screws up my throat, but he— It happened to him, too. He’s never been on a Hunt. Or anything like that. And I wasn’t— I was howling for Sirius, it’s all just mixed up. All over the place.”

\---

"... I mean, you two are bound rather tightly. Look at his wrist. Look what you've done for him. Hunt or no Hunt, it's still.... Wrapped around him. And the Spiral still has a claim on him." He shakes his head. "I don't know."

He pauses. "You were howling for-- for your Archivist?"

\---

“...Yeah. The sky got all clear before we got home and I could see the moon. And I... dunno. Sirius. We call him Sirius now. When he— He was acting human. Per request. All day. And then I...” Martin covers his face with both hands, just long enough to try and wipe away the red creeping up there. “I thought it was important that I... that I do that.”

\---

"... Right." Gerry squints at him. "You're growing fond of him. More than you were before. Is that... Smart?"

\---

“Maybe Jon was right, about... you know, me throwing myself to the Lonely back then. As a martyr. I’m just kind of hoping that if I’m on his good side, it’ll work out. For everyone I care about. Or he’ll listen to me. Or change his mind. I don’t know about smart.”

\---

"Change his... You think you can change the mind of something that wants to remake the world to be a feeding ground?"

\---

“...Yes. Hopefully? It’s always a possibility. If you say it like  _ that, _ it’s— He seemed to have a lot of thinking to do, by the end of it.”

\---

"... Right. Just... Walking about London together." He cocks his head. "I do have a gift for you. By the way. It's just going to be late. Waiting on something."

\---

Martin blinks dumbly. “...For me? What is it?”

\---

"Gift. As in. A surprise. Don't make me have to be your dictionary." His smile is sly. "You'll find out eventually."

\---

The dumb look turns into a nearly childish frown. “What are you waiting on?”

\---

"The house."

\---

“Michael’s narrowed it down to a few houses,” Martin blurts out. “He told me just - just a few days ago. I’m— Okay. Okay! I won’t ask. Don’t let me.”

\---

Gerry shrugs and then laughs. "You can ask all you want! I just won't tell you. It has to be a surprise."

\---

”Fine.” Martin huffs. “Guess we’ll just have to talk about your family and locket charms.”

\---

"See, that's almost tempting to tell you. But nah." He's quiet for a second. "I've never done-- holidays? Before. Never. This is the first year I've ever gotten... A gift?"

\---

And it almost worked, too. “Really?” Martin bends down slightly to look at them all again, then uses the angle to put both hands beneath his chin and watch Gerry instead. “I didn’t have many holidays. Sometimes I’d get things from coworkers. It feels— It feels really good to give them.”

\---

"... Yeah. I always liked giving gifts. Did it a lot, growing up. Mum liked them."

\---

“God.” Martin scoffs, but it’s not cruel. How he could possibly think he was ever rotten is absurd. “You’re sweet. Do you think they’re still around at all? Pictures, too, things like that?”

\---

"I'm not sweet." He glares at Martin. And then leans back and thinks. "Yeah. Maybe. I mean-- guess it depends. It was pretty abandoned, and suddenly too, so... There might be some stuff. At the bookstore. Haven't looked."

\---

“Sweet. And thoughtful. And  _ caring. _ And we should check, if you wanted to. It really would be nice to have your picture in there. Just for the sake of it, you know? So you’re always around.”

\---

Gerry's smile is small and flattered and genuine. "... Okay. We could do that. I don't think there's many pictures of me, but I'm sure there's... Some? And I guess I could. Maybe find my old art."

\---

“Ohhh.” Martin gives him the most loving, evil look. “Michael and I made something for the living room a while ago. If we find your art, Gerry, that’s going right above the TV.”

\---

Gerry blinks. "It's... I mean, I suppose Beholding cult artwork would fit well for us. A bit much. But par for the course, I guess."

\---

“Jon would love it. I’d love it. Michael would, too, probably somehow weirder than either of us about it. I’m excited. I want to— I want to know more about you! You’re like... you’re family.”

\---

His smile grows, even if it's shy and bashful. "If it's still-- if it hasn't been touched, it-- I mean it's only been. What, two years? Since I lived there. I had a bedroom, once. Isn't it weird to think about?"

\---

“Maybe it’s just waiting for you to snoop around. Won’t know until you get there, right?” Martin tilts his head, and tries to look very, very cute. “Does Michael know what you’re getting me?”

\---

"Nope. He can't keep a secret to save his life." Gerry snorts. "Besides. His opinion on the matter would be.... Awful. I know rich kid's tastes. Not allowing it."

\---

”Tastes?” He shifts restlessly in his seat. “Does Jon know? You told Jon, right?”

\---

"Nope." He grins. "He wouldn't approve."

\---

“Oh, like _ that  _ narrows it down. He doesn’t approve of anything!” Martin sighs dramatically and leans back in his chair. “You’re a poltergeist again.”

\---

"A poltergeist that can keep a secret, that is." He raises an eyebrow. "And hardly. I don't knock anything around. We've already got one and his name is Michael."

\---

“I’m sure there’s a few things you knock around. Where— Speaking of, where is he? Or Jon? Jon knows it’s Christmas Eve, I’m sure. Unless he doesn’t. He better know. I had to get him a red herring gift and everything.”

\---

"Well, I've been gone all night. You'll have a better guess than me. Bet they're-- doing whatever it is they do. I don't know. With Michael? Anything's possible."

\---

“Mmh.” Martin pulls out his phone. God, he rarely uses this thing anymore. Hardly ever did to begin with. He’s pretty sure his maps from America are still in his history, honestly. 

But... they have a seldom-used message history. Jon, Michael, Martin, and... Gerry, when Gerry occasionally takes over (or, possesses) someone’s phone. Just a simple ‘where are you two?’. “I really don’t know. I took a long shower. No one’s here.”

\---

'coming soon just printing some stuff. trying to get jon drunk.'

'Failing at getting Jon drunk.'

'succeeding actually cuz his cheeks r all rosy LOL. but that might b bcuz he's all teary eyed ROFLMAO'

\---

Martin scrunches his face up at the screen. 

‘why are you making Jon cry? what are you printing?’

\---

'pictures LOL but not THOSE kinds, tho that's a fun idea for the future'

'I'm not crying. Michael's exaggerating.'

'Also let's not do that in the public group chat.'

'Please.'

'LAME !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! n he totally teared up n now he's getting drunk so we'll be home sooooon.'

\---

‘great! can’t wait! no more innuendos please! It’s weird when you have a conversation and I know you’re standing right next to each other!’ 

Martin puts his phone down. “I... guess they’re taking pictures, and Jon’s crying, and they’ll be home soon?”

\---

"... Seems weird, but not out of the ordinary. Alright." 

And indeed, it takes them another fifteen minutes, but the door eventually opens, and Michael is grinning ear to ear, his hair pulled up into two buns on the top of his head and a scarf looped around his neck, cold-bitten hands clutching a manilla folder like it's the most precious object in the world. 

Jon looks... pleased, despite the tone of his texts, but, well, his texts always have a terrifyingly severe tone about them even at the best of times. 

"Happy Christmas Eve, you two! You look-- Oh my god, Gerry, you've been crying too. Hopefully the good kind, like Jon, but-- Uh-oh, you look pissed, actually. Well!" Michael is a whirlwind of energy, dropping his coat-- the one Martin graciously gifted him-- where he stands and kicking off his shoes, all but spinning on his way to the desk to plant the folder in front of Martin's face. 

"Hi," he says, and leans forward to press a kiss to Martin's cheek. Michael opens the manilla folder, and there's the front to an edifice. He taps it where one of the attic windows sit. "Narrowed it down. We close on the second."

\---

Martin barely gets a sound out, let alone a greeting in the flurry of motion, but while Michael is talking and moving and shoving things in his face, he stands up. Puts himself handily between the box of tapes still out on the table and the two of them. 

That’s why it takes so long for him to fully register what Michael’s showing him. “You—“ His voice comes punched out, one hand up to his cheek where Michael kissed him and the other trying to reach out for the pictures. “You did? You’re... You’re sure? Like... Like it’s ours?”

\---

Michael grins. "Yep! I mean, we still have to close close, but I mean, me and Jon pretended to be the nicest most sweetest most richest heterosexual couple that has ever existed, and the realtor loved us and basically told us we have it, and it's perfect for our needs, and has your bay window and your yard and it has quite a lot of rooms and it's old and has a fireplace and room for a greenhouse out back, and yes it's ours! Duh! I told you. Happy Christmas!"

\---

Ah. 

Okay. 

House. 

_ Their  _ house. 

Pretty much nothing Michael says reaches his brain, too wide-eyed with delirious excitement-nausea-overwhelmed-scattered-Home-wait  _ home? _ \- to process any of it. Oh, shit. Jon’s cried and Gerry’s cried and one of those was bad but then it turned out good and the other was— oh, he cried for the same reason Martin’s about to, isn’t he?

Maybe not the exact reason. Maybe it also has to do with never owning a single thing in his life, never having anyone he wanted to share something he had with, never even daring to dream for decades upon decades that he might one day have a home. Never thinking he’d live that far. He can’t even begin to imagine what it’s like. A kitchen. A yard. Windows, even. Plates and cutlery and a couch and desks and bookcases and music echoing through the halls and - and.

And he’s crying, now, the ugly silent start of a sob that he doesn’t want to happen with the side of one finger shoved between his teeth like that’ll stop him. It doesn’t.

\---

"Nice," Gerry says. "I won the bet. Told you he'd cry." 

"You did not  _ win _ the bet, because we all said he'd cry, so that's not even fair, and-- Hey, Martin, it's a good cry, right? You're crying for-- For happiness?" Michael leans down to kiss his cheek again. "You're welcome, by the way." 

Jon looks at Martin and his face is a twin look of complex emotion, love and thick, clogging memory and hope and revelation that they get this, and his own eyes are tearing up again, as it hits that this is real. Out of the whirlwind of Michael taking him to some realtor meeting at a house he was set to judge, and into the realization that it's theirs. Theirs. Their Family. 

"I'm not drunk, despite Michael's lies, but would really, really love some celebratory champagne, right now," He says, and his voice is thick and happy and emotional, and Michael darts out to press his hand into Jon's palm for a moment, beaming.

\---

All their words are muted almost beyond comprehension, though Martin still nods shakily to answer a question he’s sure he heard somewhere in there. 

He only gets a few sobs out before he can rein himself back in, wind up, inhale sharply into coherency. “I think we might have something in the kitchen,” he says, watery and far away but so, so very close. 

He turns around, and though his eyes are clogged and reddening from tears he glares sternly at Gerry, one hand firmly planting itself on the box in front of him with the bag still sitting right there on top of it, a grip that he hopes looks enough like  _ ‘put this the fuck away right now’. _

He turns back around, makes it look like he was just clearing tears from his eyes, and grabs Jon by both hands. “Come help me?”

\---

Gerry's own glare is fleeting, softening not a second after its aimed at Martin. Fine. _ Fine. _ Jonathan Sims lives another night without Gerard Keay's utter wrath. Fine. He waves a hand in compliance and leans back in the chair, pulling Michael close and away from Martin, his hand wrapped around his wrist. Fine. A happy night. He'll thank Michael for the hard work while Martin and Jon abscond.

Jon says, "Of course," and sheds his coat, too, his smile at Martin watery and so full of love, squeezing where their hands meet.

\---

And so, like clockwork, they trade dance partners. Kudos to Gerry for making the transition so easy. Martin takes the coat from him and hangs it up, and just as quickly he’s heading off toward the kitchen. 

It takes him no less than ten seconds to forget everything that came before. Just long enough for them to soak up the positivity. He tries to even out his voice as much as he can manage. “Do— Do you like the house?”

\---

Jon's nod is immediate. "Michael showed me-- we went to two different places. His final choices. He-- he wanted me to have final say, I think. They were both nice, but... This one's older. Cozier." He slides a smile in his direction. "Bigger master bedroom, too. The pictures are just... From the listing, but... It looks better in person, you know. It's-- he did a fine job of finding something."

\---

“I can’t wait to see it all,” Martin sighs, no small amount of wonder in his eyes. “He’s right, we wanted a house you— That you’d really like,  _ picky.” _ His next inhale is just sort of hyperventilating. “Sorry, just, a whole bedroom. We’ll have to decorate. Or, or I guess get to decorate.”

\---

"... Yeah. Never-- never really decorated my flat, before. It, uh-- never really had the time, you know? Now it's-- now it feels. Good. Nice. Exciting."

He has this dopey smile on his face, eyes wide and reflective of Martin as he looks at him. "I haven't been-- happy? Like this. In a long time, I don't think. I'm excited?"

\---

Martin nods along, taking a hard turn into the kitchen to start getting his hands busy. Cabinets, cabinets, cabinets. _ ”Yeah,”  _ he blurts out along with a little hiccuping sob. “Thank you. I-I know coming back here was hard, and I can’t even imagine what - what it took, but I— I love you. And I’m glad you’re here. With me.”

\---

Jon cocks his head in mild confusion. "Of course I'm here. I love you too. I--" He shakes his head and laughs a little. A self conscious, loving thing. "I always-- I've wanted this with you for a long time."

\---

“A house. Right. Yeah. God. God, we’re getting a house. I’m giving you about fifteen seconds before I’m picking you up and spinning you around, so I’m warning you—“ And there goes what restraint he had left, both arms around Jon’s waist and mouth against his.

\---

Jon lets out a little muffled yelp of surprise, but it's not an unpleasant surprise. He melts against him all but immediately, kissing him with a solid gusto. He only pulls away enough to say, "My lips hurt for a day, by the way. After you and the Archivist had a playdate. Guess it's good I can remember what happened. And-- oh, stupid, Jon, talking about him when I could be--" He dives back in.

\---

Martin hums out his ecstatic approval against Jon’s lips, keeping him up in the air just long enough to knock out the rest of his insufferable jitters. “Oh, your poor lips.” He thumbs at Jon’s bottom lip as he says it. “I can’t even growl anymore.”

\---

"Well. Howling for us will do that." He laughs. He squirms a second before he's put down, but Martin seems to have impeccable timing on his tolerance for such an action, and when he's back on the floor, he reaches forward to take Martin by the hands again.

\---

“For us,” Martin huffs with a slight roll of his eyes. “Yeah. For  _ you.  _ I can’t find anything. Any idea if we still have something buried somewhere?”

\---

Jon rolls his eyes. "That  _ us _ didn't include you." He moves to the fridge and starts poking through all the various old takeout boxes. There's gotta be some old unopened champagne somewhere and.... Ah! Well. A bottle of white will suffice. He pulls it out and dangles it like it's a treat." It's something."

\---

“You get glasses, then.” He leans in close enough to nudge his nose against Jon’s, something just slightly violently giddy sparking around his pupils. “And for the record,” he snatches the bottle away from him by the neck, quick as he can so he can start walking back. “I know it didn’t.”

\---

Jon rolls his eyes, but complies with Martin, moving to start finding glasses. Oh. They'll get to buy dishes and matching ones, at that. No more drinking from an eclectic set of random champagne flutes and coffee mugs. "Uh-huh. Just thought I should make it clear I remember you destroying my lips. Just an FYI! Oh, Martin. We can have a wine cabinet."

\---

Oh, a  _ wine cabinet.  _ That’s so...  _ adult.  _ They could even have a real stove, one where he can use cooking wine and reach into cupboards for his choice of spices. “Pretty sure you bit me first, so that’s on you. Oh, I’m getting excited. I feel different. In a— A really, really, really good way. Come on.”

He hovers in the doorway, antsy and hurried like there’s actually some sort of rush.

\---

"I didn't bite you, and I'm coming. I have cups to balance!" as in. Three cups, that he seems to have a precarious grip on. He sets them on the counter and then picks them back up again in a semi normal way, and hurries behind Martin. "I'm excited now, but God, the work we have set about us. Packing, and-- and physically moving. And buying more furniture. So much work!"

\---

”Oh, we both know it’ll be me moving things. I’m the only one without an excuse.” Martin giggles, high on whatever pure shot of happiness has started coursing through his blood. Huh. Cool. He waits for Jon to catch up, then bares his teeth like a grinning fox just at the edge of the office doorway. “But we can buy furniture together like last time.”

\---

"Martin," Jon hisses, and blushes a little, pressing his hand in the lightest of slaps against his shoulder. "Maybe. Maybe. Michael would-- Martin that's a horrible game to play when Michael exists in our lives."

\---

“What is?” Martin barks out a laugh, no hints of remorse there, then enters the room while gesturing with the bottle of wine. “Michael! I think Jon’s inviting you to shop for furniture with us.”

\---

"I am  _ not!?" _ Jon all but screeches, and then glares when that elicits a peal of laughter from Gerry, causing him to phase through Michael from where he's been, evidently, touching the man's arm while Michael sits on the desk in front of him.

"What? I can't help choose with you? Why? What is-- that's not fair, I just bought you a house!" He starts to pout, hardly even registering the shiver that runs through him as Gerry's incorporeality touches him.

\---

Martin allows himself the righteous cat-caught-mouse head rush as he hops up onto the desk next to Michael. ”Oh, no, don’t worry, it’s code. Wow, wait a minute. I was up here, like this—“ 

He leans back; there’s enough room for him to sprawl his torso out with one leg hiked up and the other hanging off the desk. “I even had wine! Funny how things repeat themselves.”

\---

"I'm killing us all," Jon growls, his eyes narrowed.

"I'm still--" Michael starts.

Gerry snorts. "They had sex and ordered furniture. That's the joke."

Michael blinks, and then turns to Martin and then to Jon. "Well I want to participate in that! Shit! Wait? Now? I haven't had time to wash my hair!"

\---

“Careful, we don’t want to make the authors have to write out a foursome.” Martin winks mischievously up at Michael, lifting up the wine bottle for whoever wants to take it from him first. “Wow. I’ve never felt this good. We should buy houses more often.”

\---

Michael takes it gladly, and forgoes a glass, unscrewing the top in such a way to make it fly onto Martin's torso. "One mortgage is enough, Martin! Thank you!"

Jon looks between them and shakes his head, then blinks when Gerry stands up and offers the chair to him. "Considering I can control my weight, I think it's time to test if I can sit in Jonathan Sim's lap without enacting his bitching genes. Sit, the Beholding's Own."

Jon blinks again and then silently moves to do just that. At least the atmosphere is.... Oh, wow. Jovial. Jovial and light and familial. Because they're a family. And Gerry is light, when he sprawls himself out.

\---

Roll cameras. Action. What a quaint scene they make, all happy, and perfect, and gorgeous, forming a little triangle of love here. 

“We should do something tonight,” Martin says quietly, once everyone is settled. It doesn’t sound like a suggestion.

\---

"Oh?" Gerry asks.

"What are you thinking?" Michael takes another pull of the bottle and then hands it off to Jon, who takes it around Gerard's body, curling it close to himself before taking a drink.

\---

“My first thought was a blood pact, but I think that’s an old game.” Martin hums. “We should give the Institute a goodbye party. Jon voyage?”

\---

Michael's smile slowly grows into something terrifying. "I like that idea. I do. I do. Oh, we should kill Elias!"

"Okay. Slow down. Just a little." Jon's eyes are huge. He takes another swig. "a party, yes, murder, no."

\---

“Killing Elias is the best idea so far. I was thinking we practice sigils. We could always...” Martin takes both hands and brings them up above himself, locking his fingers together. “...combine them.”

\---

"We can do that our last night here, Hm?" Jon says, and leans forward to pass Martin the bottle. "Maybe." He laughs. "You  _ are _ in a mood."

\---

“Martin’s manic moments make mortgages mirthful,” Martin says plainly, like it’s a simple fact, sitting up with the bottle in hand to pour it nicely into a glass. Jon went through all the trouble, after all. “Jon? Gerry? Clock’s ticking on ideas. You’re the ones with Eyes.”

\---

"Oh," Michael breathes, and then shifts so he can lean back and sprawl across Martin's lap, grinning up at him. "Envious Eyes Endanger Everyone's Entertainment. Deliver Delicious Deceit; Don't Dare Deny Delusion." He laughs.

Jon huffs. "It's not enough to drink, or to have sex, it must be a party?"

\---

“Why not? When will we ever have a night like this? Seriously?” Martin manages to get out, before his eyes fall back down and stick on Michael. “Good ones. Jon’s just jaded, justifying judgmental joylessness, jeopardizing jubilating jabberwockies.”

\---

"Jabberwockies?! Do we want those? I can't remember if they're good or... Or bad!" Michael pulls his arm up to pat at Martin's cheek.

Jon's mouth twitches. "I don't know how to have a party. Not really."

\---

“They’re good for the purpose of my alliteration,” Martin verbally preens. He takes a few sips of wine, and it makes him feel classy. “My game it is, then. Spoilsports. Michael, you still have some paint left, right?”

\---

"Always. The rule is to keep at least a dollop of each color for a rainy day, you know. Just in case. One wouldn't want to be caught unawares." He grins and slowly sits back up to go grab his supplies from the bedroom.

\---

Martin sits completely upright, almost too quickly, and beams at Gerry and Jon from the desk once Michael leaves. “I finally got rid of him!”

\---

"You wanted to?" Jon asks.

Gerry squints. "He'll be back soon."

\---

“Oh, yeah. I thought pushing him off that bridge the third time would really send the right message. Guess not!” Martin frowns. “You really don’t want to do anything special? On Christmas Eve? The night we found out we’re getting a house? And you found—“ He looks at Gerry. “—And you found—“ At Jon. “—We’re just— It’s a special night! I’m really determined about this, for some reason!”

\---

"I don't-- Martin, you're being less clear than usual," Jon says, and holds out his hand. "Pour me some wine. Please? We can do something special, I'm just not sure... Murder is the right choice, and--" 

"And _ I _ found? You want to talk about that, Martin? Hm? Is that it?" Gerry gives him a shitty look.

\---

Martin glances down at his hand, and almost genuinely considers pouring wine straight into his palm. Instead, he picks up a fresh glass and pours liberally into that one. Off to Jon it goes. “Here you go, beloved.” 

He doesn’t look at Gerry when he adds, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

\---

Gerry gives a displeased little hum, and watches as Jon takes a large, large drink. Well. When in Rome, Jon. Meet Martin where he's at, hopefully. "Uh-huh. Excellent, Martin. Excellent."

Saving grace, Michael Shelley, who has tubes of paint in his arms and a wild look in his eyes, and who has pulled his hair up into a top knot. Just in case. "Martin," He says. "Where do you want me?"

\---

Martin perks up physically, a near full-body thing, to find Michael. Ah. There he is. “Who, me? Oh, we could do one under the rug. No one ever moves that thing. It’s been here ages, they’d never find it. Until they do. Second worm fiasco.”

\---

"Oh. Your sigils." He nods. "I thought that was a ruse to do weird sex. Okay! Sigils it is. What color?"

\---

“What— What kind of weird sex would that even be implying, Michael?” Martin tilts his head to one side, comically exaggerated. “Orange.”

\---

"Orange. Well-- I don't know! You're the one with ideas and I'm the one that bought a house, so I'm thinking maybe Michael deserves a reward tonight and also give me that wine and also I'll just start making out with you in a second if you don't give me direction here!"

\---

Martin blinks, momentarily snapping out of whatever he’s been running himself into. He slowly reaches for the bottle of wine, and holds it awkwardly with one hand, the other lifted slightly in a gesture of ‘well’? 

“I do like you as my assistant. You’re very charming. Sorry, unrelated. Um, thank you for the house!”

\---

"I  _ am _ charming. And I  _ am _ a good assistant! I have experience! What is happening!" He takes the bottle and pulls it close before coming back to the desk, in front of Martin. His grin is confused but growing stronger by the second.

\---

“I don’t know! Make out with me so I stop talking?!” Martin matches his tone, just as confused but no less manic. “My ideas clearly aren’t that great right now!”

\---

"Well. Okay!" A drink of wine and then he meets Martin where he is, holding himself up by the desk to press a kiss to Martin's lips, the edge of a smile tilting his expression upwards.

\---

Martin pushes forward, just as much smile with a little more teeth. He breaks just long enough to whisper “thank you, I’m serious” before he’s... well, he’s hooking his legs around Michael’s waist and keeping him there. Still manic, but a little more normal in his thought patterns. Sort of. Maybe?

\---

Michael regards him for a bit, taking him by the shoulders and looking down at him. "Well that's going to be a problem. two Sirius'? Hard to keep track!" He giggles.

\---

Martin glares up at him like he’s trying to set him on fire with his mind. “None of that. I won’t allow it.”

\---

Michael pouts. "Oh, you can have fun? I can't?" He leans in to ghost his lips against Martin's. "Only you can make jokes?"

\---

“Yes, only I can make jokes.” Martin deadpans. “No fun for Michael, ever, he doesn’t get any puns, or gags, or any of the fun stuff.” 

\---

"Don't strike gags off the list quite yet," Gerry says from his perch on Jon. Two twin pairs of eyes watching with heavy amusement. "Might be our only method to keep him from spouting off like that."

Michael twists to aim a pout at Gerry, and then carefully drops it before he turns back to Martin, all full of lovestruck devotion. "Okay. Just for you."

\---

“We’re never gagging Michael. I wish I could gag you!” Martin huffs without looking back, turning it into a smile at Michael’s face. “They’re really going to sit there while we make out on Jon’s desk. The Eye’s a pervert.”

\---

"Just catching on, are you? The Great Voyeur...." He snorts. "I dunno. It's not a turn-off."

\---

“Evidently it’s contagious,” Martin grumbles, but, well, Michael’s right about that. It isn’t. Not right now, anyway. He squeezes Michael’s waist with his thighs to keep him closer, gives an acknowledging, “That coat looks good on you, by the way,” and then kisses him like his life depends on it.

\---

Michael wants to say something nice, and sweet, and thankful. But Martin's got his mouth occupied, and he can't make his sugar baby comment, which is a shame, but not as much as it is nice to feel Martin against him, with him, for him. He makes a low humming in his throat, one of his purrs, and presses even tighter against him.

\---

Martin... does try to growl back, but this one is a more human sound to compensate for his lack of vocal control. Sad, really. Just a pathetic little sound that can’t travel far, but that’s fine. Fine when Michael is so close. Fine when he’s got one hand up into his curls and the other balanced on the table just short of knocking one of their wine glasses over. 

“Show me the house,” Martin says between increasingly frantic kisses.

\---

Michael makes an excited little hum and starts to paw around the table for the folder, still connected to Martin as much as he can. He doesn't find it, but Gerry's gracious and slides it over in such a way as to make Michael think he got it himself.

He pulls away in victory, his grin a little wet and his eyes maniacally ecstatic. "Here," He pants, "For you, dear."

\---

Martin turns just slightly so he can start to flip through the pages while still having one hand and both legs on Michael, using the pauses for breath around kisses to soak up all the details he can. 

“Christ, it’s—“ Everything. Somehow completely perfect for all the rotten work Martin did not helping them actually find this place. Nowhere he’d rather be. They might really end the world. They might have a base to do it. Or save it. Either or. Martin giggles stupidly. “We’re going to do so many awful things to that living room.”

\---

"Oh," Michael breathes, and grins as he nips at Martin's lips. "A lot. I can't wait to wear her in."

\---

Martin starts to settle anything left on the desk off to the side; he’s not subtle at all about it, but that’s not the point. He just wants to sprawl now. To sigh the longest sigh he’s ever sighed, to stretch out a tad obscenely and get all of them in view. Just a little break from kissing to let this sink in. All of it. Let it get permanent. “I’m about to turn into a snappy housewife. I’m never pretending to do Archival work ever again.”

\---

"Pretending," Jon scoffs, and rolls his eyes. "I guess no matter what, we'll keep getting paychecks. If you're employed, one assumes Elias will pay the bills."

\---

“Oh, I’ll still do his dirty work. I’ll just do it for me. I don’t mind making friends with a few more entities.” Martin grins slyly up at the ceiling. “Maybe I’ll apologize to Mike and he’ll join our band of... of whatever we are. Martin Blackwood, expert of seduction.”

\---

"I doubt your usual brand of growling is seductive to many people outside our little band," Gerry snorts. "Besides. I'm pretty sure he likes women."

\---

Martin scrunches his face up so he can stick his tongue out at Gerry. "Boo. Just wait a couple years and we'll see where I'm at." 

He turns back to Michael, still keeping one leg hooked around him, utterly ridiculous in his debauchery. Purposeful, of course. 

\---

Michael grins, unabashed. "What's next on the list? Your tits? You're turning into a real Ship of She'seus."

\---

"God, nooooo," Martin whines on a childish laugh. "Off-limits. I like them how they are. But-- I'll take requests for piercings. I just had two weird haircut freakouts in a row, so now I need to go the extra mile. Or get tattoos. But I won't be getting any eyes. I'm too-- I'm too classy for that."

\---

Gerard glares. "One, you are not classy. Two, the eyes are classy. You're just rude. Three, you should get a septum."

\---

“I can be classy.” Martin half-pouts. “I’ll get a septum. For you. Then we’ll see.” 

He tilts his jaw back up at Michael, still grinning. “What do you want for buying us a house today?”

\---

Michael grins, all puppydog love with big eyes. "Whatever you'll give me. Anything. Everything? Oh, everything."

\---

"You can't use that face on me," Martin says with a toothy grin. "Any requests from our audience?"

\---

"Guess it depends on if we're participating," Jon says, which earns him a snort from Gerry.

"God. You really are a pervert. I don't know. Or care. It's funny when you make Michael squirm. Also funny to make you squirm."

\---

“Oh, you’d better participate. If there’s ever been an occasion—“ Martin huffs, and sits back up with the same breath. “One last chance to make a real m-mockery of the bedroom?”

He shakes his head. Take charge, Martin. Be bold, or something. “I can easily manage the former.”

\---

"Mean. So mean," Michael whines against Martin. "You better. Please, pretty please?"

Jon gives a wide, lazy smile. "I'll participate."

\---

”Mean?! I’m not mean!” Martin moves off the desk, one hand carefully protecting the wine glasses while he jumps off. He hands one off to Michael, keeping one for himself. He likes to think he looks very classy. In his boxers. And a t-shirt. And eyes still wet and red from crying. And probably cheap wine. “Bedroom?”

\---

"Bedroom." Michael confirms, and takes the wine glass into his hands like it's a sacred object. 

The other two slowly rise to follow, Gerry snorting at Michael's back.

\---

“Michael, where would I be without you?” Martin snickers, drinking the rest of his glass so he can set it down on the bedside table. Perfect opportunity to roll dramatically onto the bed. “We have to take this bed with us. I’m not moving without it. It’s so good.”

\---

"Horribly pent up and blue balled, I'm sure," Michael snorts. 

"Sure," Jon says. "But we should also get a king. It's a bit small for our needs, hm?" He steps forward to press against Martin, a hand to his chest and a ghost of kiss over his lips.

\---

Martin drags Jon into bed with him. “You want to keep sharing? Some house this’ll be. One bedroom for everyone, Gerry’s evil goth room, Michael’s spare closet the size of a full room, everywhere else is for—“ He giggles, genuinely, holding Jon at the waist above him where he’s pressed into the bed. Everything else momentarily forgotten. “—our various rituals.”


	85. Chapter 85

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas sale: books 100% off! Practically a steal!

_ Good morning, _ awful Institute.  _ Good morning,  _ ancient floorboards with dried blood caked onto them.  _ Good morning,  _ miraculously soundly sleeping Jon and Michael wrapped around one another in bed. 

Oh, it’s Christmas. 

Oh! It’s  _ Christmas! _ Shit! 

Martin, in a sudden fit of belated childish excitement from all the wasted holidays before, rolls out of bed. He isn’t in the middle this time, which he isn’t exactly prepared for, but he manages to land with both feet on the floor without causing too much of a scene. 

He’s not wearing Gerry’s locket. It was moved at some point in the night to the bedside table, which Martin takes carefully in his hand. Immediately, he understands what Gerry meant about the locket making noise— it takes genuine, calculated effort to get it not to jingle loudly in the quiet space of the bedroom. But like a spy in a particularly low budget movie, Martin sneaks successfully into the main office with the locket in tow. 

“Gerry, wake up. If we’re moving we’ve got loads of work to do and - and places to visit, and things to pick up.” He talks as he moves, placing the chain around his neck and cleaning up the mess they made of Jon’s desk to start with. The new weight is comforting. “We can start with that bookshop. See what we can find? It’s Christmas, by the way.”

\---

"Happy Christmas," Gerry says, when he manifests in the Archivist chair. Pardon the messy manifestation; he's a little tired from the previous night. No boots, just slip on sandals, hair pulled up messily, no jacket but an old faded band shirt and jeans. Seems his soul is having a lazy Sunday Look today.

"You sure you want to see my lame ass childhood shit?"

\---

“Yes,  _ obviously,” _ Martin scoffs, settling down on the floor with a banker’s box he’s preemptively emptying just in case. Flurry of positive energy this morning, he is. He peeks over the desk. “What band is that?”

\---

"Uh--" He looks down at himself and blinks, tugging on the fabric of the shirt a little and shrugging. "Incubus. I guess. Used to be a sleep shirt I had."

\---

“Incubus.” Martin commits that to memory with a happy, sated smile. He isn’t wired, just well-rested. “I like calling you in the morning. You look— You look comfortable.”

He sufficiently empties the box and picks it up beneath one arm. “Like the locket? It’s loud.” He shakes his head for emphasis, and all the charms move against themselves. They love each other.

\---

"I could hear it, when you called me." His own smile is equally lazy and soft, fond and full of love. "I am. Tired, but in that... Good way? Can't remember the last time I've felt like that."

\---

“Yeah.  _ That _ good way.” Martin nods along. “I’m sure they’ll be— There was a lot of excitement, they might be asleep for a-a while, I think it’s early, um, so, I wanted to spend time with you! And... And I know yesterday was hard, so maybe this’ll help?” 

Martin gestures with the box. “So we can take things back.”

\---

Gerry's next smile is small, almost embarrassed. "You're really-- really excited for this. I don't get it?"

\---

Martin tilts his head. “You’re part of my life? I thought it might be nice to... to just learn about you. Doesn’t matter what it is. And maybe, help— help make it easier, to think about it? The past? Maybe?”

\---

He tilts his head, a look of fond confusion crossing his face. "I see. Well-- I mean. You're more excited than me, that's for sure. But-- maybe it would be good. Considering I can't take pictures of myself anymore."

\---

“There must be  _ something _ we can catch you on. I’ve seen pictures of ghosts.” Martin scoffs, like he’s an expert on the subject. “Can you lead us there from here?”

\---

"Real pictures of ghosts? I mean, just cause this shit is real doesn't mean it's  _ all _ real. And I'm not exactly a traditional ghost." He snorts, and then nods. "Yeah. Lived there while I worked with Gertrude. Lotta commuting. Not too far."

\---

“Maybe they’re real. Maybe they’re not. We can— We’ll find something, I’m sure.” Martin stands awkwardly in the center of the room, squeezing his hand in Gerry’s direction as a desperate ‘come-here’ motion.

\---

Gerry stands and comes easily enough, coming forward to give a small kiss to his cheek. Good morning mood indeed. "Ready, then?"

\---

Martin lowers his head, some old shy tic resurfacing for the sake of getting flustered by someone who’s kissed him plenty before. He likes who he is better when the Hunt is quiet. “Ready. So you think it’s untouched? I mean, it usually takes a long time for people to clean out old, abandoned places. Right?”

\---

Gerry shrugs. "Probably. I mean-- who knows what protective sigils and stuff my mum layered there. Old witch's store. Cursed. I reckon there's some stuff."

\---

“Should I be bringing anything to make sure we— Uh, don’t die?” Martin hesitates as he walks a few slow steps forward. ”That kind of protective?”

\---

"Nah." He shrugs. "It was a place of business, you know."

\---

“W-Well, yeah, but like, it was also a place where... you had evil books. So I think it’s a fair question!”

\---

He laughs. "Any of the evil died when we killed mum."

\---

“Right. Okay! Then let’s  _ gooo.  _ Come on.” Martin starts to pull him along by the arm. “Maybe we could go out to eat after?”

\---

Gerry grins. "I'd like that, yeah." He lets Martin pull him. "You'll get to see-- oh my God. You'll get to see all my shitty shirts."

\---

“We’re  _ so _ taking those. I need my late goth phase, right? Piercings and hand-me-down bad band shirts from a dead person.” Martin sticks his tongue out over his shoulder to Gerry and speeds up.

\---

"Bad bands? C'mon. They're good. You can't-- ugh. I guess you can make fun of me. But don't disrespect the music you don't even know."

\---

“I’m not— I’m not talking about the music, they just look—“ Martin squints, facing forward again. “They look like shirts you steal from people when you spend the night.”

\---

"Well-- I won't lie. I'd love to see you in them. We never get to have you steal my clothes ever. Horrible partners."

\---

“I promise to wear them all the t—“ 

Something vaguely evil crosses Martin’s face. “I’m going to wear them around the house without saying where I got them and Jon’ll go insane.”

\---

Gerry's expression breaks into an equally evil grin. "Oh, that's good. Your latent metal phase."

\---

“We’re going to kill him. I love it.” 

\---

The cab ride isn't long, with the rote familiarity of, as Gerard said, a commute. Near mindless, with the only added charm of him being able to hold Martin in the cab as they drive along, running his thumb down and up Martin's hand.

When they arrive, the bookstore is how he remembers it. Drab, from the outside. Like a normal shop with a flat on top, no signs of evil Leitner’s, or evil script-covered women, or a history of blood and violence that Gerry thinks has seeped into his DNA at some point. He leaves the cab and stands before it, his jaw slightly tight as he greets the storefront.

"I don't have a key, so, we're breaking in."

\---

Martin continues to hold Gerry’s hand as they step out, trying to serve as a comforting beacon of... love, maybe? Safety? Normalcy?

“Oh. Ri— Okay. Sure. Um, are you going to do your ghost thing, or - or, I guess you could watch me struggle through a window if you want the, erm, the entertainment.”

\---

Gerry blinks. "Oh, yeah. I can just-- right." He gives a stiff nod, and then another, and then just stands there for another few seconds before pulling away from Martin. His first couple steps are tentative, and then he realizes he's acting like a scared, territorial cat over a building, and he picks up the pace with purposeful steps to the front stoop. A ghostly shiver runs through him before he goes completely incorporeal, and walks through the front door. He refuses to look at anything, when he does so, merely turning around, going solid, and unlocking a door he's spent his entire life going in and out of, swinging it open to let Martin in.

\---

“Good job,  _ Kitty,”  _ Martin hums facetiously as the door opens up, but he’s genuinely excited about it. Well— About him phasing through walls and opening things from the inside. That’s attractive. 

The building itself, though, he’s far more hesitant to enter. Where Gerry might be a scared cat, Martin is Martin, who’s level of fear goes in and out at two extremes with random frequency. He finds himself frowning with the banker’s box in front of him as a pathetically useless shield. 

“Okay. Give me a tour!”

\---

"...Yeah." Gerry steps back from the door to let him in, and turns with a flourish, taking in the bookstore for the first time in several years. It's dusty, and clearly hasn't been touched since then, cobwebs collecting along bookshelves and tables, and dust like snow in the air where it catches the early morning light.

"It was a normal bookstore, really. I mean-- in the front, at least. Bit spooky, bit occulty but nothing.... Nothing the likes we deal with unless you talked to mum."

\---

“Think there’s anything still lying around? Inventory not cleaned out? Doesn’t look looted or anything.” Easier to feel safe with Gerry so... blasé about everything. Martin hesitantly puts the box down by the front door. 

He starts to cautiously make his way through, brushing his fingers over the shelves. It gathers dust, and cobwebs, but he’s fine with the cobwebs. Found loads of those while crawling around the floor for tapes just last night. He thumbs the dust away from the spine of the nearest book to him. “Oh, look at that. Is— What, is this an actual spell book?”

\---

"Mm, maybe. Who knows." Gerry turns to look at what Martin's looking at, and shrugs. "Lots of just-- you know. Fake shit that would sell, or witchy stuff that, who knows, maybe was real. She liked to throw some real stuff in the shelves. Just to cause chaos, I guess. I've read a lot of them. Probably thumbed through that one at some point."

\---

“How do you even tell what’s real? Real magic, real witchy stuff. Anything here you think I should read?” Martin beams at Gerry. For a split second, it’s easy to pretend he’s flirting with a bookshop employee. Fun game.

\---

Gerry hums and cocks his head before he starts to thumb his way along the shelves, brushing familiar spines from books that had never been bought after years of shelf life. He pulls a couple from their homes and hands them off to Martin. 

"LaVey. Crowley. Austin Osman Spare. Madam Blavatsky. Dense, but you might like it." He pauses and then pulls another out. "Book on Green Witchcraft. Michael might like that one."

\---

Martin carefully wipes the dust off each and every one of them, gently places them down in the box where they belong. No longer orphaned. “I guess— I guess we could always come back, too, if it’s too much to take all at once. God, I’m really about to start reading Crowley again. You’ve corrupted me.”

\---

That earns him a grin, cutting through the solemn expression sat flat upon his face since they entered. "You're the ritual-maker. Probably good reading."

He continues to walk; the main shop moves into a back office. Her office. He leads Martin into it. His paintings sit upon the wall. He remembers painting them, painstakingly wanting to have some hobby other than moping and hunting, and had been elated when his mother had loved them, all of them, wanted them framed and placed in her office. He'd been young when he started, hardly nineteen, and had continued to paint until his mid twenties.

Her desk is covered in dust, but it's cleaner than she kept it. Gerard had cleaned and reorganized once he and Gertrude had killed her, and the desk is sparse, just a couple books and folders of research from his last book hunt laid out.

\---

Martin stops at the doorway, not out of fear this time but wonder. The ritual-maker in a ritual-space, something— Something static. Something itches along his neck, something that pulls him to say something he thinks is important. 

“Why did you start making these? Just— Impulse, one day? I— How did you even pick the Eye, of all things?”

\---

"Mum always liked it. She was more aligned with the Web, in all honesty, but-- you know. Catalogue of books and knowledge. The Eye came hand in hand." He sniffs and steps closer to the desk to rummage through the research files.

"Wanted to impress her, I guess. Want to make a family dynasty, and-- well. Alignment to one Entity helps."

\---

“Ahuh.” Martin adds, just to show him he’s listening while he turns away to see how he can get the paintings off the wall. He does like them. 

Something that lives in him likes them, too. 

“That just makes it funnier you weren’t allowed to be hired. But what would... What would you even do, if you were an avatar of the Eye without being the Archivist? Doesn’t seem like they need a lot of them to keep running. Oh. Yeah. Maybe more of a single-child dynasty.”

\---

"Don't think mum expected anything close to an avatar, at least-- at least now. That wasn't really her goal. She just wanted... Wanted to cheat death." He purses his lips. "Probably would have gotten close if I hadn't worked with Gertrude. Proximity, and all that. Not an Archivist, but... I was on the way to something."

He comes closer to watch Martin try to pull the paintings off. "Not that I had credentials to be hired."

\---

Martin giggles. “Oh, but I did? Don’t you think it’s funny that you get to live and - and learn, love, all that, but she sort of... she sort of got the short stick, for what she did? I think it’s... It’s really funny.”

\---

"It's... I mean, I guess funny is a weird way of saying it." He scowls. "I did end up killing her, I guess. Funny how that works. Aquited just to follow through."

\---

Martin hums, managing to get the first painting off the wall. He feels like a high-stakes art thief. “You’d look good in orange, you know.”

\---

"If I'd showered, probably. I looked like shit on trial. I looked like a murderer."

\---

“I would imagine. But I can’t— I cant picture you killing anybody, really. Especially not, erm, like  _ that.  _ You’re too sweet.” Martin takes another painting off the wall, and just looks at it for a minute. “Just a little off-kilter. I can’t wait to see your bedroom.”

\---

"Well you're the first to think that," Gerry snorts. "On both counts. My bedroom? Your desires are so  _ confusing _ sometimes." He scans the pages and snorts. "Guess I was still looking for Leitner before I went to America."

\---

“I’m a man of many whims,” Martin mutters incredulously under his breath. “You sure found him. I’m sorry— I’m sorry it was too late to really... dooo... anything about it, though.”

\---

Gerry shrugs. "Probably for the best that I didn't get to follow through on premeditated murder of a living man." With conscious force, he closes the folder and sets it back on the desk. "Hated working in here, after she was gone. But it was a good space."

He gives a flourish of the hand; the room is cozy, in a witchy, bookish way. Dark maroon wallpaper, peeking out from scores of old bookshelves. The books in this room have a far heavier feel to them. More intent. More real magic. More evil. There's artifacts and objects on available spaces. Skulls and daggers and stones and wood and vases and the like, eclectic but somehow matching in their very uniqueness. A dead plant pot with rotted, dry leaves cascading downwards in what was once a pothos hangs from the ceiling in the corner, what might have been a splash of pure life in a suffocating, dusty room of occult knowledge.

\---

Martin hums. “It doesn’t feel like a very friendly work environment, does it?”

With a few paintings off the walls now - paintings he likes and can’t wait to see in better lighting - he starts to look around the room. More like snooping, with how he squints at anything that seems of vague interest at all. “Should we be doing something with all this? The real stuff. B-Burn it, take it, use it? Anything?”

\---

"Probably. I kind of don't want to touch most of it. Some of the books, maybe. No actual Leitner's here, anymore. Got rid of those very, very fast." He pulls out a decorative red peacock feather from a vase and throws it in Martin's direction just to watch it slowly flutter down to the ground pathetically. "But not everything in the world is a Leitner."

\---

Martin tries to catch it, and fails spectacularly. He still picks it up. “Yeah, but Leitners aren’t the only sort of thing we need to worry about it. Just making sure. Any evil cook books?”

\---

Gerry gestures to one of the smaller bookshelves. "If poisons count, then yeah, sure, there's a few recipes over there. Mostly on how to mask certain poisons in foods, I think. Take whatever you want."

\---

“Might come in handy, I guess.” Martin moves to take that off the shelf, grimacing at how untouched it is. Nearly reclaimed by the dust of the world. “I’d rather us have it than someone else. And—“ 

His eyes brighten up considerably. “—we need to fill out our own bookcase, anyway.”

\---

Gerry huffs out a laugh. "Bookcases. We'll collect fast. Especially once I get my hands on your money."

\---

“Oh. You can— You can have that whenever you want.” Martin shoots him a doting, flustered smile. “I can’t wait for you to decorate.”

\---

"Yeah, well. Hold your horses. You haven't seen my bedroom yet."

\---

“I’m sure it’s fine. In a... you know.  _ You _ sort of way. It’ll be better than my bedroom, it was... the most depressing place on earth.”

\---

"Oh yeah? I guess the litmus test is-- what kind of posters were on your walls?"

\---

“...Oh. Um, not... not any, really. It was boring. Bad. Didn’t really— I didn’t have much to like. Didn’t own much at all. A few pictures, I think? But that’s it.” Martin shrugs, vaguely embarrassed. “What does the litmus say about that?”

\---

"Beyond a sad childhood? That you're ready to blossom now as a near thirty year old man. Which is exciting." He laughs a little. "Wonder what my litmus will tell you. Cmon. Let's get it over with."

\---

Martin rolls his eyes. ”Blossom. Yeah. That’s the right word for it.” He gently takes the bulk of what he’s pulled from the office to set beside the front door. “And— Just so you know, we’re not getting it over with. I’m looking at everything.”

\---

"Great! My nightmare. At least I lived here, as an adult. It was. Hm. I'm very, very glad we're not in a time capsule to when I was a teenager." He starts to trail to the back of the office, where a set of stairs lie, and he gives another flourish of the hand for Martin to go first.

\---

“Oh, if only. Too bad you couldn’t come with me into the Spiral time-warping nonsense,” Martin says as he climbs the stairs, looking back over his shoulder down to Gerry. “Mostly I’m just excited to see if you have any pictures I can fit in the locket. I’m on a quest.”

\---

"Dunno if I do. We can ransack my mother's bedroom if you'd like. I haven't touched it since she died." They reach the top of the stairs and Gerry points to a bedroom to the left of the hallway, which has been shoddily painted black and is chipping and peeling in places at this point.

\---

“Is this one yours? Looks like you,” Martin teases as he steps closer, but the smile betrays his fondness. He doesn’t waste any time twisting the handle and stepping inside.

\---

"Good guess." Gerry says, and rolls his eyes, stepping in behind Martin. The walls have the same ancient maroon wallpaper, but it's scattered and broken up by posters and art pieces and what seems to be splatters of paint in a few spots, either covering up something that used to be more eligible, or just a fit of boredom and rage.

The posters are, predictably, from various black metal bands and industrial and grunge, and the art is eclectic and occult. None are his art; those pieces went to his mother, or else went unfinished and sit in one of the corners in an array of canvas boards leaning against the wall, next to a book shelf.

Black bedding, with a dark and satanic tapestry pinned to the ceiling above it, each corner thumbtacked in such a way that it droops in the middle and gives it some texture.

It's cluttered, more than he normally was in his life, because he was leaving for America and was in a bad spot and was sick, and the nightstand has dusty bottles of whiskey and a half smoked pack of cigarettes, a few open notebooks and pens, and a box of protein bars.

The bookshelves are filled to the brim, one that seems for research solely if the notebooks are any indication, and the others more of the same old tomes that emit... something. there is a bookshelf that seems to be nothing but fiction; mysteries and pulpy dramas and fantasy. It's the smallest one in the room.

\---

Martin stands at the threshold of the room, and tries to soak everything up. Where he might have had a depressing, childhood in a depressing room, this one just feels...

...sad. Abandoned, a ghost of what is what or maybe never could quite be. A home that feels slightly stilted, and smells stale, though he knows that isn’t Gerry’s fault. Sad, in the way that makes him wish that Gerry... that he could still... that he was alive. Alive the right way. 

He moves across the room like he’s afraid of disturbing anything, not like he’s afraid of it. A tomb. It’s a tomb. Weird feeling to have about a bedroom. 

He sits on the edge of the bed, ignoring the dust, and for a moment he’s somewhere else. Somewhere familiar. Somewhere bigger, but smaller all at once. Somewhere with a friend who has a mother that isn’t his, with high expectations. This room is a lot less bright than that, and he’s a lot older now, but he asks the same question. If in a different tense. “Did you like it here?”

\---

Gerry turns to look at Martin, and tilts his head as though confused. "Never thought about it. didn't matter. it just… Was. I guess... Not really. Here, I guess. I was comfortable, as much as I could be." He shrugs. "Never had an opinion either way. It was where I had control in a house I had none."

\---

Martin steeples his fingers. “Do you... Do you want your own bedroom? In the house? Not just, you know, a bed... but, I mean, Gerry’s room. Your space.”

\---

He shrugs. "I guess. If there's room. If there's not... Guess it doesn't really matter, huh."

\---

“Of course it does. It—“ Martin’s shoulders slump. “I want you to feel— feel just as human as the rest of us.”

\---

"... But we're not. Human. None of us. Maybe Michael. We're not, though."

\---

“Ugh. Yes we are.” Martin pinches the bridge of his nose. “Okay. Not human, sure, semantics, whatever, Gerry. I mean person. Like... you talk, you move, you - you read, write, everything, so if you want a space to be around and not bothered, just - just private time, that’s what it’s about.”

\---

"... If there's room, yeah, I'd like that." Gerry says it half under his breath, almost just a rumble of ghostly interference.

\---

“Is that you being shy about it, or is it you just— not actually wanting one, because— I mean, if you really don’t want a room I’m not—“

Martin sighs. “Sorry. I think I’m reading too much into this. I don’t know how important it is to you. Just— Just to me.”

\---

"I just hadn't-- Hadn't thought about it. I guess... Yeah. I guess I would. Probably. It'd be... nice." He looks around his room. "I wouldn't mind having most of my stuff back, anyways."

\---

“That’s why I asked. Anything you want with you we can take down together. So— Let’s see what you want, then!”

\---

"Well. All my books, for one. Might take more than one trip. Not like the bookstore's going anywhere." He turns, giving a soft hum. "Oh. You should look through my wardrobe and take what you like."

\---

“Right. Start with favorites, just in case? You never know when it might go somewhere.” Martin stands up to step over to the closet. He’s very excited about it. Secret treasure trove of Gerry’s life ahead of him.

\---

Gerry hums and starts to pull a few tomes off the shelves. A couple of the more real occult books, a couple of the more scary speculatory books, a few of his journals, and the entire collection of Lord of the Rings off his fiction shelf. He stays busy, ignoring where Martin's looking; he might not have brought it up, but he's not keen on Martin's snooping. Or at least, he's embarrassed. 

His closet is dramatically undercolored. Blacks and greys and a few dark red pieces, but very little in the way of variety. Band shirts with scrawling, complex and violent logos and images, hoodies and a couple thick, heavy leather jackets with metal loops and too many zippers.

\---

Martin... has no idea what most of this stuff is. As far as logos go, he really was raised in a cave, so half the bands he’s seeing are completely foreign. He thinks they’re charming, though. Charming—

Oh. Wait. Wait, wait.  _ “Wait,” _ Martin says, breathlessly excited all at once. He pulls something at random off the sparse few hangers - it’s a tiny closet, seems like it’s for a few of the bulkier things with everything else put away in the actual dresser - and clutches it close to his chest. It’s white, which explains why his eyes gravitated to it enough to pull it off, and he recognizes the logo. Fleetwood Mac. 

He’s not interested in that right now, though. They might’ve been sitting here for so long, but Martin still brings it up to cover his entire face so he can inhale deeply.

\---

Gerry spins where he is and squints, scrunching up his face. "Are you-- What are you doing, Martin? What-- Are you  _ smelling _ my closet?"

\---

Martin turns around, the lower half of his face still buried behind the hoodie, eyes squinted with what might be anger or joy. Impossible to tell without the rest of him visible. “I’m smelling  _ you.” _

\---

"...Oh. Okay." Gerry continues to stare at him. "Do you... Do you like what you smell?"

\---

Old cigarettes. Gravel. Smoke from paperbacks up in flames. If he focuses, he can tell it wasn’t washed before the last time it was hung back up. Not dirty enough to throw into a basket, but he can smell sweat and far-away cologne that barely had a scent to begin with. No feverish sickness lingering there, just something he can so vividly understand is Gerry’s. He shuts his eyes against the soft fabric, and he knows how he looks sniffing someone’s clothes, but who cares, he’s trying to imagine—

Martin nods against the hoodie, almost nuzzling it. “I’m keeping this one.”

\---

"Be my guest. That's-- oh, hey. I got that because I got, just, really into Stevie Nicks when I was... When I had the time to start thinking about gender and shit."

\---

“I like her, too.” Once he hears how muffled his voice is, Martin finally pulls it away from him. He blinks up at Gerry like he’s just come out of a deep stupor. Aaand, back on track. He walks toward the wardrobe with it slung over his shoulder. “How organized is everything I’m about to find? I always imagined you as either the messiest person alive or— weirdly neat. Leaning to neat, now.”

\---

"Usually neat. Had my moments." He pulls another book from the shelf and inspects it before tossing it to the bed, the keep pile. "Tended to be messy before big trips. Whirlwind packing. Never brought much with me, but always ended up tearing my room apart somehow anyways."

\---

“Ahuh.” He loves snooping, he’s decided. Always been a snoop, but usually very limited. Now he has full-access to Gerry’s insane t-shirt collection. The ripped pants. Most of it is too big for him, but he can definitely get some sleep shirt mileage out of—

“You have a whole drawer full of— what, jewelry?” Martin says with a hint of laughter, looking down at the incomprehensible (note: not because it’s disorganized, but because to Martin it looks like so much) pile of black and silver he opens one of the smaller drawers to. “You’re insane, Gerry Keay.”

\---

"How is jewelry  _ insane, _ Martin Blackwood?" He pauses in his packing to come step over to Martin's side by the drawer, looking down into it. "Just because  _ you  _ only have a locket to wear doesn't mean other people aren't fashionable."

\---

“No, it’s just— Heavy stuff, it’s not—“ Martin inhales sharply. “Goth jewelry! It’s different. Like—“ Martin loops a few fingers around something black and pulls it from the mess, hanging down from his hand like a snake. “The world’s smallest belt.”

\---

"The world's--" Gerry stares at Martin in mute silence for three beats, and then immediately starts laughing, leaning forward to swipe it out of Martin's hands.

"Oh my God. You really are dog-brained. Moron. C'mere." He holds it in both hands, one end in each, and steps forward to press the collar to Martin's throat, just to the front of it, resting against his Adam's apple to exhibit what it is. "Not a belt."

\---

Martin just barely stops himself from stepping back in fear, instead going intensely silent and motionless where he stands. He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it, then... opens it again, this time more cautious. “...Wh— Why do you have  _ that?” _

\---

Gerry laughs again, holding it where it is, unmoving. "Dunno. Fashion. People wear 'em for different reasons."

\---

Seems they’re at a stalemate. Martin swallows against the heavy material. “Reasons?” Okay, that’s a confused squeak. He clears his throat. “What  _ reasons?” _

\---

"What rea-- Martin, are you going to  _ really _ have to make me explain this to you? Are you--sex? Sex reasons?"

\---

“Sorry, it’s— You had this for sex reasons?” Martin’s voice gets higher with every word. “Wha— Why?”

\---

"I didn't! Oh my God. I told you it was fashion." He rolls his eyes, and gives Martin a look that tells him he absolutely knows what his position in front of him looks like. "But it can be. For sex. Sometimes people are animals. Or want to be ordered around. Or whatever."

\---

Well. We’re not getting into an argument about the separation of fashion and sex today, evil poltergeist. Instead, we’re going to stand here looking floored and irredeemably stupid. 

Martin returns the look with something confused, eyebrows pushed together low over his eyes with a wobbly half-smile. He points at himself.

\---

Hands otherwise occupied, Gerry kind of tilts his elbows up, like a makeshift palm-open shrug. "Happy fucking Christmas, indeed," He murmurs, and wraps the rest of the leather around Martin's neck. "Can't believe you didn't know this."

\---

“Know what? I-I know, I do. Know. I know.” Martin tilts his chin up involuntarily, voice watery while his brain tries to sort itself out. “Seen them before, just didn’t really— register? Register, the, um, I just forgot. I know.”

\---

"You're really cute sometimes." Sorry, Martin. The books are momentarily utterly forgotten. "Could've come in handy last night."

\---

Martin tries to glare at him, but behind the blush he’s very much cowed. “I was— Is it— Don’t compliment me right now!”

\---

"Why not? Does it bother you? Even if it's true?" His smile is big now, eyes lit up.

\---

_ “No, _ I’m just— It makes it hard to - to talk, stop smiling!” Martin whines, tilting his head to one side so that he’s not locked on Gerry’s face. Ignore whatever metal sound just came from the thing around your neck when you moved, Martin.

\---

Gerry fastens it and steps back, his hands in the air as though he's the most innocent person in the entire world. He tries not to smile, but it keeps peeking through, and after a moment, he turns on his heel and deliberately goes back to the books. "I'll just turn away, then. Because I'm not gonna stop smiling."

\---

“I don’t even know why you would be,” Martin grumbles under his breath, and then he realizes Gerry’s actually committed to looking away. He tries to stand as close as he can without getting in Gerry’s way. “Wait, um— Do— I could do things on the walls, too, if you want anything taken down for... home.”

\---

He turns a little to look at Martin in confusion. "Do things to the walls? What are you talking about?"

\---

Martin looks at him pathetically. “The things, like— your posters, the art, if there’s anything you want to keep. I’m really not talking great right now, am I?”

\---

"Nope. You really aren't." He looks around the room for a moment, and then shrugs. "Mostly just wanted my paintings. Gonna grab the half-finished stuff, too. But the posters? Eh. Only if you want them."

\---

“I’m just really, really trying to make myself useful and busy right now because if I don’t I think I might just start walking around in circles,” Martin grates out next to Gerry like the truth is physically painful.

\---

"Oh? Well. Grab those canvases. I can scour mum's room for photo albums and we can leave."

\---

“Okay.” Short and sweet. Great. Martin can do that. Keeping the hoodie for now, they’ll come back for more of his clothes. He ties it around his waist to keep both his hands free while he takes the canvases carefully in hand. It’ll... definitely take multiple trips to get all this in order, but he thinks if he stacks it all right they can do it. “We can always look through them all back at the Institute.”

\---

Gerry nods. "Yeah. Yeah that works." He goes to the bed to start stacking the books he wants, pulling them close to his chest so he can balance them. Bit of a labor intensive project, but that's fine. He'll deal. At least Martin's managing the canvases, which are awkward and bulky at best.

\---

It takes several minutes, and several ups-and-downs along the stairs, but eventually everything is stacked nicely at the front door. Martin even takes a few minutes to re-organize everything nicely in the box so it fits better. Easier to carry. With that out of the way, and covered in a considerable amount of dust, Martin calls up the stairs. It echoes uncomfortably in the dead halls. “Did you find anything?”

\---

"Yeah." Comes Gerry's answer after a couple seconds of silence, the door of his mother's room not closing, because he never opened it to go in. He was in and out just long enough to find two promising photo albums, the Eyes on his body pointing him in the right direction, and then he was on his way.

He walks to the top of the stairs and waves two black bound albums. "Guess she did have some photos. Suppose it makes sense; she  _ was _ trying to make a dynasty."

\---

“Hopefully they’re not too crazy,” Martin beams up the stairs at him, reaching out to hold them once he’s close enough. Real gentleman, or something like it. “Ready to go?”

\---

He takes one last look upstairs, and then nods. "Yeah. Whatever. We can come back again later, I guess." He squints down at their collection. "You have everything?"

\---

“It’s not that far, it’ll be easier once we actually have the house, but...” Martin continues to watch him, eyes bright and happy. Excitable. He finds the handles on the box and tugs it up against his chest with a grunt. “Just about. Had to balance a few canvases awkwardly on top but— I think I can carry it all.”

\---

"Cool." He pulls the albums close to his chest and leads the way to the door. "Leave first. I'll lock it and meet you out there." He sets the album carefully on top of the canvasses. "Can't believe you only took two articles of my clothing."

\---

“I can’t fit any more! We’ll come back for the rest, they just take up— a lot of space, and I wanted to take what I could carry!” He says it all while actively leaving the building, nudging the door open with one foot to make it through. “So next time I’ll just... make sure to bring a suitcase or something.”

\---

"Or a car. We actually have a commute to the Institute now. Could do with a car." Gerry waits for Martin to exit completely before closing the door and locking it, phasing through the time-worn wood and recollecting the albums from the top of Martin's pile when he gets outside.

\---

“I like when you do that.” Brief, thoughtful pause. “And yeah. Yep. Car. Wouldn’t that be nice? A car. I’m probably over my fear by now. Um, also, speaking of— I don’t have hands. Need help calling a cab.”

\---

Gerry does just that, thankful beyond belief that ride sharing apps don't need a voice on the end to call a cab. The ride is quick, simple. Gerry does not open the albums, but he does watch Martin a lot, still utterly amused at the hoodie and the collar.

They reach the institute, and Gerry quietly thanks the driver before pushing on Martin to let them both out towards the great steps, and oh, it'll be nice to get rides back to their  _ home _ soon.

\---

Martin is starting to enjoy semi-normal cab rides and semi-normal public interactions in general. Everything is quiet. Everything is okay right now. Okay enough that he spent half the drive comfortably pressing his cheek against Gerry’s shoulder at every opportunity, and the other half excitedly looking down at the bundle of life in his lap. 

He’s all but forgotten what he’s wearing, how he must look, the comfortable weight doing wonders to keep him stable. A purely unconscious thing, too preoccupied with hauling the box up the rest of the way. He doesn’t read Gerry’s mind, of course, but it seems they’re on similar tracks. “Imagine not having to carry things up floors of lifts to get to the bedroom.”

\---

Gerry hums happily, and shoots him a small smile. "Do wonders for how much energy I'll have in the day. Honestly. It's-- exciting. Never had a house that wasn't hers."

\---

Martin returns the smile, calm but emotional. Don’t happy-cry again, Martin. “I know exactly what you mean.”

\---

"I mean-- our house. Feels like a dream. Gonna wake up in the Hallways, or something."

\---

“You can’t even go in the Hallways, Gerry!” Martin snorts, hovering at the edge of the office with his eyes on the door. No hands to open it with. “It’s real. Dream come true. Pinch me.”

\---

"I'll save the pinch for when you deserve it." He opens the door with his sandal, swinging it open for Martin to go in first.

\---

“Thanks,” Martin says blandly to both actions. He drops the box carefully beside the couch. “And now we’re the proud owners of all your art and books on poison! Go us! I’m so excited.”

\---

"Poison. God. You really do characterize me as a witch." He sets the albums down on the desk. "Okay. I do have a book on poisons."

\---

“You’re a witch. Nothing more to say about it.” Martin grins up at him, then steps over to the door to the bedroom. “Are you two up yet? It’s Christmas and I brought back— We got Gerry’s old art!”

\---

"Early," Jon whines from the bed, pressing his forehead deep against Michael, who is slowly sitting up and yawning. The former of the two wisely braided his hair before bed, so it doesn't look unruly, while the latter has blond strands flying every which way, their very own feral lion.

Michael blinks when he sits up, his eyes suddenly very, very awake, all the sleepy muscles very, very alert. "Hello, Martin! Happy Christmas to  _ Michael!" _

\---

Martin smiles brightly back at him, but not as bright as Michael just is by default. "It's really not that early. It was early when I got up, and we've been gone for a while, so-- Hi! Do you--" He holds the doorknob with one hand and the frame with the other, ready to move the second he's asked to. "Do either of you need anything?"

\---

_ "Yes.  _ Yes yes yes, I do, I need you to come here so I can touch your throat, you  _ dog." _ Michael laughs, and that gets Jon to sit up some, furrowing his brow in confusion until he looks at Martin and widens his eyes.

"Okay. More than Gerry's art."

Gerry, shitty little clown he is, just stands slightly behind Martin. Beaming.

\---

“Touch my... What?” Martin lifts a hand up to his neck, but he figures it all out before his hand connects. Not enough to stop the motion, the very real sensation he just remembered existed around him, but enough to have his eyes wide and face hot with embarrassment. And definitely too stuck in his thoughts to make it to the bed. “I— Oh, I forgot I was still— Still wearing this, he— Gerry has— had, I-I guess, the...” He can’t even anxiously rub the back of his neck, because it’s right there. “...drawer.”

\---

Michael laughs, and laughs, and crawls across the bed to be closer, his eyes wide and excited. "I like it. You're cute. Very cute. It fits you. Oh, this is better than morning coffee. I  _ knew _ you'd like this stuff."

\---

... Right. Martin takes a few careful paces forward, now that Michael’s closer, wringing his wrist with the other hand over his chest. “It’s not a— It’s not like, if you mean it like -  _ like _ like.” How eloquently put, Martin. “It’s a fashion thing.”

\---

"Uh-huh. Is it? I think you're  _ lyyyyying. _ I sniff a lie. Is he lying? Bold move, lying to the Eye. Tsk tsk." He talks fast and almost slurred in his excitement, and he takes Martin by the hands, pulling him closer to where he sits on his knees on the bed. He leans forward and kisses his cheek.

\---

“I’m— I’m not.” Martin pouts, which technically is a lie, but it’s more of a whine, so the distinction gets a bit muddied. He allows himself to be moved around nonetheless. He hasn’t been this shy since... well, hm. He’d have to think on that one. Nowadays he gets shy for a few seconds and moves on. Not the constant, confused sheepishness. “You’re so excited about it.”

\---

"Yeah. Cause it's cute. And funny. And gives me so, so many ideas, Puppy. So many ideas." He grins in Martin's face and leans forward again to nose at his nose in a butterfly kiss.

\---

Martin caves, just a bit, to nuzzle back against him. Then it turns out  _ just a bit  _ paves the way for everything else, as everything with Michael is a slope more slippery than a water slide. He lifts his head up so Michael can look or - or whatever he wants to do. “I’m - I’m listening?”

\---

"I know you are." Michael brushes his thumb underneath the leather around his neck, and is about to go into deadly detail, but Jon comes closer and frowns at them.

"Really? It's still morning. Can't we do weird sex things later?"

"Its fashion, according to Martin," Gerry says, bemused.

\---

“It’s not a  _ sex thing,” _ Martin sighs deeply and leans against where Michael touches him. “It’s heavy. And it’s Gerry’s.”

\---

"It was mine. I think it's found a new home," Gerry says, and shares a completely complicated look with Michael that's full of way too many mischievous emotions to keep track of.

\---

Martin, oblivious to whatever the fuck those two are doing, places both palms just above Michael’s knees. “Just— Just don’t make fun of me. I don’t know what this is. I-I mean, I know, literally, what it is, o-obviously, but... but, I don’t. I don’t know.”

\---

"I'm not. I'm not making fun. I promise. It's good. I think it's fun. Okay? I just think it's fun." Michael runs his hands up and down Martin's arms. "Fun thing to wake up to. Okay?"

\---

“Okay,” Martin acquiesces, lowering his head to rub his cheek against Michael’s. And press a line of kisses against his jaw, because he feels like going the extra mile today. It’s Christmas. “You were saying?”

\---

"I was saying, this will be fun in the future when it's not Christmas and not sacrilege."

Gerry rolls his eyes. "Ever the catholic. Ugh."

\---

Martin is quiet for a second as he tries to sort through what, exactly, he wants to tackle about that. He goes for, very quietly, "You're not Christian. We didn't even get a tree. I'm going to cuddle Jon."

He weasels his way out of Michael's grip to all but tackle Jon in slow motion, using the fact that he's still in bed to his advantage and nuzzle up against him.

\---

"I was," Michael mutters, and does have the audacity to pout about it.

Jon at the very least accepts it, blinking as it happens like he knows it's coming. It's because he does, and he's absolutely okay with that. "Well. Good morning."

\---

Martin shoots Michael a self-congratulatory, cheeky smile from where he dotes on Jon, but is otherwise content to just do exactly that. Dote on Jon. "You'll love the books we brought back, Jon. New material for you," watching Michael from where he's partially obscured by Jon's neck, "fetched it and everything."

\---

Michael sticks his tongue out and wrinkles his nose. There goes all that chaotic and excited energy he had. Now he's just gonna go pout in the bathroom while he does his hair. He stretches and starts to pull himself off the bed.

"How much was there? Surely you didn't get it all," Jon says.

\---

Martin pouts right back at Michael. That’s the opposite of what he wanted out of that entire exchange. He deflates against Jon and falls off to his side. “Loads. We only brought back a few. Figured maybe we can get the rest once we, um, actually move in? No one’s touched the place.” Brief pause that seems to pick up his mood again, just a little. “Gerry’s bedroom is fun.”

\---

Jon pulls his head up to look over at Gerry, and he smiles. "I bet. How much was tacky black paint and shitty posters?"

"So I'm hilariously on point for my aesthetic. So what."

\---

“I can’t say what posters were shitty or not. You’d know more.” Martin pulls back from Jon enough to unwrap the hoodie from around his waist and put it on. “I like Fleetwood Mac. You like Fleetwood Mac. And I know what Gerry smells like now, too!”

\---

"Fleetwood Mac man, huh?" Jon leans in to press his nose to the hoodie. His sense of smell is not as good as Martin's. Chalk it up to smoking and not being part of the Hunt.

"Who isn't," Gerry says, and comes to the bed to flop down on it, laying next to them.

\---

“He smells like a campfire at a skatepark,” Martin all but purrs. He rolls onto his back between them, eyes up to the ceiling. “I think I’m happy.”

\---

Jon's smile to him is almost watery. "Me too. Weird. Isn't it?"

\---

“Very.” Martin sighs. No more claustrophobic Institute walls with unfamiliar watching Eyes. Just the ones he knows. Home, den, house. “Feels like it doesn’t have to be, though.”

\---

"I don't know. It feels... Strange, to be happy when I know-- when so much is about to happen."

\---

“We can handle it. We’ve handled everything else, to, um, greater and lesser degrees of success, but they’ve always been... successful. But you know it’s coming and we can do things differently.” Martin presses his lips to the center of Jon’s forehead. “We just have to keep our eyes on it.”

\---

In lieu of arguing, and ruining Christmas, or the holiday, or whatever they're celebrating, Jon just wiggles closer to him, pressing himself tight against Martin, and humming deep, deep in his throat. "Good thing my eyes are always open."


	86. Chapter 86

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having a normal one on packing day.

Packing is a whirlwind nightmare of each of their worst and best qualities presenting themselves simultaneously. Luckily for all of them, it's not an entire house what needs packing, but their makeshift living situation that is more like a facsimile of living than actual homely domesticity.

Michael is far more adept at moving than would seem on the surface; give him a reason, and he can use the latent muscles of a tomboy with something to prove. He also gets incredibly bossy and snippy when any of them try to do things in an order his brain hasn't organized quite yet, and is prone to walking away in the middle of a task to "collect himself". Which usually implies smoking or else zoning out and napping in one of the stairways until he stops snapping at everyone.

Jon, arguably gifted with a strength far greater than the rest of them due to his particular inhumanity, is about as useful as he was when he brought furniture into the institute. His excuse is something to the effect of hating to sweat, and he ends up organizing and reorganizing the files he wants to take with them, organizing and reorganizing the boxes full of their books, organizing and reorganizing all his office supplies. He's not taking everything; he's still the Archivist, after all, and needs an office space that exists with what he needs, but some stuff is going with them, and it does give him the excuse to deep clean the office after months of chaos.

Gerry's in and out, demanding to be woken up each morning, getting the moving truck ordered, getting boxes and supplies, and ordering about Martin and Michael when they're amicable to be ordered about.

All in all, very little archival work is being done. Consider it a holiday, where the end result is just going home somewhere new. Very exciting. Very  _ stressful.  _ They all need naps.

Martin, specifically, maybe more so than the others. He tries to do as much work as is possible so he can inevitably crash the day they actually move every last thing in. Not this back-and-forth between the Institute. He’s desperate to make it a  _ home. _

Desperate enough that this morning starts with him heaving a heavy container of various kitchen supplies they’d shoved into the break room over the past few months down the halls. The box is practically spilling over with tea boxes, the kettle is blocking his view in front of him, it’s heavy beyond all hell with various pots and bowls they bought to actually make a few things with, but he’s persevering. 

Gerry is the first one who sees him. Someone else must’ve woken him up earlier to help, and he’s getting good at extending his reach past the locket, considering it’s currently jangling around  _ Martin’s _ neck. Martin ends up smiling up at him in that way he knows he’s been caught doing something stupid, and like clockwork Gerry scrunches up his nose and stops heading whichever direction he was going to block him off. 

“Idiot. Come on. You’ll trip before you even make it to the stairs. Hey—“ He snaps twice, back towards the open office door, then whistles loudly. It vibrates harshly through Martin’s ears. Seems he’s kept better track of where everyone  _ is _ today, too. Martin can barely pin anyone down. “Michael! Get out here. Martin’s trying to kill himself.”

"He better not!" Michael pokes his head out of the office, and then grimaces at Martin's awful boxing decisions, making his way quickly over to him to pull a few of the more precariously balanced things off the top of the box. "I could have gotten a cheaper house if we needed less room. And  _ you  _ could have grabbed something. Useless ghost."

Gerry squints through a thin smile. “Someone has to delegate.  _ This _ is what happens when I’m not around to show you how to pack like you’re not insane.”

“I’m right  _ here,”  _ Martin growls like he’s out of breath, because he probably is. Stubborn. 

Gerry lifts the locket from around his neck and places it over his own. “And you probably wouldn’t have gotten very far after that.”

"Whatever, whatever, ugh, you two and your spats. Judt delegate us to where we're putting this stuff." Michael leans forward and tugs on Gerry's locket with his free hand, and then kind of meanly pats his cheek, scowling. "No need to set Martin up in a mood all day because you're grouchy."

Gerry bares his teeth in a mock growl close to Michael’s face, proudly ignoring all the other shit Michael just pulled. “You did what I told you, didn’t you? My grouching pays off. Put that one up in the back left corner of the truck, then come grab one of these.” He taps the edge of a taped up box, one of several labeled ‘BOOKS’.

"Real grade-a asshole today." Michael glares at him but, well, yes, he does do what he says, angling his head for Martin to follow.

See? It all works out. He might be an asshole, but he’s productive. Gerry watches them set off on their merry way, checking to make sure they can actually balance everything as it is, and then starts to take one, two, three steps in the opposite direction.

He grips the locket with one hand, fingers skating over individual charms, gauging their weight. His other hand starts to pull anxiously through his hair until the black unsettles itself, blonde at the roots and working outward until his frayed ends start curling over one another. 

Michael pulls a cigarette out from the package he’s kept in his back pocket. It’s Jon’s, actually, but he won’t care that it’s gone since he’d replaced most of them into an empty box that hadn’t been thrown out yet. 

He balances one hand on the railing as he bounces his way up a few flights closer to the roof. He sniffs, as though readying a good sob, and finally whips out the lighter to set the end of a cigarette alight. 

After a puff, then two, getting his lungs in order, Michael lifts the locket off his neck and balances it on the edge of an electricity box. It hangs there limply. 

Teary-eyed and tired, he wraps his free hand around his arm to cover himself. “I sure hope an ugly, mean ghost doesn’t come ruin poor Michael Shelley’s pity party.”

"The ugly, mean ghost wouldn't have to be so if you summoned me nicer." Gerard greets, sitting on top of the electrical box. He bends to grab his locket, pulling it around his neck. It jangles a little. He's getting used to the sound. Comforting, almost.

He has his hair pulled back again, since even though it won't get tangled in moving, there's a physical sensation that it _ should,  _ and so he comes prepared.

"What's your problem?"

Michael blows out another exhale of smoke up at Gerry. His hair is remarkably unbrushed, or at the very least a mess from the move, slung over one shoulder a certain way that makes him look very small by comparison. 

"Nothing." He sniffs. "Maybe I just wanted company. Going feral put patches on Martin's lungs and I'm not inviting our  _ Jon _ to sit on the stairs with me right now. He gets so..." Michael sighs. "Broody, broody, broody."

"And what do you call this?  _ Brooding."  _ Gerry wrinkles his nose. He can't help but look a little longingly at the cigarette. At least Jon doesn't blow it in his face. Michael's rubbing it in.

Michael watches him look. Stares back at him, eyes red from tears that never fell. He flips the cigarette deftly around between his fingers. "You can try, you know. It's all in your head, anyway." He giggles bitterly. "My humors are unbalanced today, is all."

"I don't have lungs." He squints. "What are you crying for? Thought you'd be all... Manic and excited."

"Oh, yes, I forgot! You're a doctor!" He pulls the cigarette back, inhales, then offers it up again. Wiggles it a little in Gerry's direction. "Wait, no, that's not right-- a nurse. Just a nurse, Nurse Keay. Shouldn't a nurse know what mania turns into? Don't mind Michael, he's having an..." He lowers his voice gravely. "...episode."

Gerard searches his face for a good long moment, confusion etched into his expression, until it clears a little, and he nods, and takes the cigarette from him. He doesn't take a drag, instead stabbing it into the top of the electrical box and flicking the butt off the edge of the roof.

"Right. An episode. Well Nurse Keay can't do shit if you don't tell me  _ what _ is causing it."

"It's..." One problem, two problems, three problems, four. This one is difficult to get a grip on. Slippery. "Strange! I hate that word!  _ Queer. _ We can use queer. That one is funnier. Michael Shelley buys a house and lives happily ever after and nothing bad ever happens again. That's the end of his story, is it? Not Michael Shelley was nothing did nothing gets eaten the end?"

"Bit more complicated on both fronts, isn't it?" Gerry peers at him again, and then hops off the electrical box and turns to face out towards the street, leaning against the roof's wall. "Happily ever after-- we both know that's naive. Plenty more stories in the barrel. Plenty more not-nothings. Plenty more chances for Michael Shelley to make sense for once."

"Naïve," Michael hisses out like poison. "Maybe.  _ Maybe, _ but what can I do, anyway? Ghosts and gods and guard-dogs but what am I?"

"Human. Pretty lucky, if you ask me." He shrugs. "Seems to be a scarce commodity, these days."

He starts to nervously card a hand through his hair again. Some of it is falling out. Call it stress. Michael looks down to the concrete and mumbles. "We moved the kitchen things out this morning. What do you want done next?"

Gerry turns and gives him a look of alarm. "I want you to go take a nap. Jesus, Michael. Maybe a good meal. I can make you something."

"Make me--" Michael's eyes widen into twin saucers. It certainly perks him up. "Like what?"

He shrugs. "Sure we have something in the kitchen I can make into a stir fry, or something. Or soup. Or whatever."

"...Okay." There's some hesitation there. "You're a sweet ghost today."

Gerry hums. "Yeah. Yeah, that's what they've been saying, lately. Sweet as can fucking be. Let's go. If food'll get you to stop crying, so be it."

"You can just admit you want to watch me eat, Gerrrry," Michael says with a sly little grin. "That's your solution to everything! A video of my eating habits for our little goth freak to watch live? Is that it?"

"Yeah. Sure. Uh-huh. Good job pushing it off on me, and not you tearing up until I mentioned 'soup'." He pushes off the wall and starts for the stairs. "You all make it sound so weird, anyways. Me liking to watch food. It's natural for someone with my condition to miss it."

“Oh, your terrible  _ affliction. _ One that can easily be alleviated by Mukbangs. Bah. Try being a blonde.” Michael stands upright, starting to trot off to the stairs.

"Jeez. Bitchy Michael. Carry too many boxes in your delicate arms?" He takes them down, veering off to the kitchen once they get to the right floor.

“Buying a house and decorating it? The first thing on my shopping list is a fainting couch for all the fatigue. Poor Michael. Not bitchy Michael. All  _ you _ do is delegate!”

"All I do is get things organized so you all don't run around like chickens without your heads. None of this stuff is mine, anyways."

Michael doesn’t argue beyond a soft, dissenting hum. Of course not. None of it at all. Not a single thing. He sits down in one of the chairs, bent forward over the wooden break room table with his hair cascading around him. What a pathetic and miserable reject he is.

Gerry moves to the small stove and rummages through the cabinet to the left until he finds a can of soup. He doesn't check what kind it is. He's pretty sure Michael will eat whatever, and if he doesn't, then so be it. He pours it into a pan and turns the heat on, then turns to face Michael. "Relax. Few more days and you'll have your own bed."

“Oh joy,” Michael sighs, just barely a wisp. He still tilts his head to squish his cheek against his palm and look up, smile a little. “I won’t be sleeping in it.”

"Sure you will." Gerry snorts and stirs the soup. "Can't always sleep in the master bedroom, hm?"

He continues to cook, and after a couple minutes, there's the sound of shoes against the tile, and in walks-- "Jon?" 

Sirius hums in displeasure. "Not quite. Are you cooking? Cook me something as well. I am quite hungry."

“You might as well give him my pity lunch,” Michael says after a moment of forced silence. He rolls his eyes at Gerry. “Eye servant.”

Sirius' smile grows as he regards Michael. "No, no, by all means. Let Mr. Shelley here have it. I can eat something else. Hello, Michael."

Gerry squints at them both. "... Okay."

”Mr. Shelley?” Michael laughs. Absolutely  _ brightens.  _ “Do you even eat? I’ve never seen you eat.”

He cocks his head. "Of course I can eat. I just do not need to often. I'm hungry now, though. We must give in to our vices sometimes."

Gerry turns back to stirring the soup. "Right. Always forget that you two talking is nightmarish."

“Oh, you’ve never seen  _ them _ talk. Blegh. It’s worse than Jon and Martin.” Michael laces his fingers under his chin, crossing one leg over the other under the table. “If only your worst vice was  _ food, _ dog-prince.”

"Dog-prince." Sirius grins at him. "What is my biggest vice? Hm? Care to elaborate, Mr. Shelley?"

“Has spending so much time with Martin made you forget your mission? Hm? You don’t remember that one? The one that made you drop out of the sky? Just a teeny, tiny vice.” Michael turns to Gerry, laughter on his lips. “Do I look like I could be a  _ Mr. _ Shelley?”

"Well you are a man, so I'd imagine that's the honorific you'd use," Gerry says. He doesn't turn to either of them as he stirs, merely listening. Something is strange. And Sirius is acting less serious than he should.

Sirius' smile stays plastered to his face. "Of course I remember. And I truly live to see the day such a grand future bestows itself upon your eyes."

Michael watches Gerry’s back, his smile drooping. His eyes flit back to Sirius, staring and staring and staring, trying to gauge something from him. Anything at all. “Boo. No more apocalypses.”

"Just the one. Just. The one." He cocks his head. "All these silly little games until it's time are just that. Games. I am thoroughly enjoying it." He blinks. "A house was bought. I am... Excited."

Michael squints until it morphs into the right sort of pout for his face. ”I bought us a house. You’re welcome! First rule of Michael’s house; no more of Sirius-Archivist’s freaky Eye games! They’re not fun!”

"I do not conduct games. Not a ringmaster." He slowly sinks to the floor in front of the sink, near Gerry, pulling his legs up to his chest. "What is fun, then?"

Michael frowns. “Soup.”

He scowls. "Soup is not fun. It is food." 

Gerry rolls his eyes and pours the pot into a bowl. "It's fun when it means listening to you two talk nonsense."

“It’s fun when it’s alphabet soup. A’s and B’s and S’s and T’s, and all the other little letters, right? Pah.” Michael says, vaguely sing-songy, even as he continues to bore holes into Sirius’ eyes. “You never get fun with nonsense, ghost. You probably made lentils, too.”

Gerry blinks and picks up the can, and then shrugs helplessly. "So it is. Lentils. Maybe it'll set you straight for two seconds. An S, an A, a N, and an E." He brings the bowl and a spoon to him and sets it down loudly. "Eat."

“That wasn’t funny,” Michael grumbles, jumping slightly at the impact of metal. He picks up the spoon just to hold it tightly in one palm. “And not if you’re all going to gawk at me.”

"Make me food as well, Gerard," Sirius says, and tilts his head backwards near the cupboards to look up at the ghost. "I will not watch. I am merely... here. Listening. Speaking to you."

Michael grimaces, and... eats. Sort of. There is no stomach to store it, but he swallows anyway, revolted and confused. He isn’t a fan of lentils. Absolutely not a fan of lentils. It keeps him quiet, though. Quiet and concentrated.

Sirius keeps flitting lovely little smiles at him. This game is fun. Pity Gerard can't know. At least the ghost listens and works on making him food.

Michael does not like his smiles. And he  _ loves _ smiles. These are Knowing smiles, which are different from knowing smiles, and they are all caustic. With Gerry turned away, Michael finally takes the bowl with both hands and pours all the rest down his throat. 

“Thank you, Gerry,” he tries to add with a particularly flirty purr, one that will say that he is fine now. Never better.

"Not gonna sob on the roof anymore?" Gerry asks as he stirs Sirius' soup. "'Episode' over?"

“Who, me? No. Nope. Never. I’m happy.” He stands up from the table, purposefully sidestepping Sirius’ side of Gerry, to press a kiss to Gerry’s cheek. “Good luck with him.”

"He's not the one acting out for lentils." Gerry turns and returns the cheek kiss, his eyes a little narrowed. "Get some sleep. Or at least relax. Don't need you having a breakdown right before we move."

“Mmm, fine.” Michael backs off, only to glare at Sirius from behind Gerry’s back as he makes a quick exit.


	87. The Proposal

Jon is perfectly aware that actually moving into the new house will require, still, several days and weeks of organization, work, and tedious labor. That doesn't stop the excitement that fills him on the ride to the house, permanently. The move-in date itself.

Michael is beside himself, Gerry is quietly trying not to grin like a maniac and looking like an entirely different sort of maniac, and Jon is... Trying not to let tears fall. He holds Martin's hand, his thumb rubbing over the back of it, a self-soothing stim that keeps him from being too fidgety on the way.

Michael's driving, and as he pulls up to the house, he gives a whoop of success, one that has all of them smiling. The institute will be a place to convene, still. But it's better than  _ sleeping  _ there.

Jon gets out to stretch, beholding the house in front of them. He'd been there a couple times in the days leading up to the move, wanting to eyeball it for himself. It's gorgeous. Old wooden porch painted marvelously-- could do with a fresh coat, but that's a project for later. Strong, Victorian beams leading up to old shingles. It's a house befitting them all in the best of ways.

\---

Their chaotic mish-mash of style into a barely comprehensible, gaudy soup. And Martin is... excited. Almost to the point of numbness at everything around him, actually. It’s almost circled back around. He’s very happy. Happy with Michael. Happy with Gerry. Happy with Jon. 

His hands have been shaking all day. Since the moment he woke up between Michael and Jon, throughout all the packing he did, breakfast and lunch and - and, and now it’s starting to breach the point of sickness. 

Martin exits the car after Jon and rests one hand against his lower back as he takes in the house. It’s more to ground himself than anyone else. “Does this sort of feel like a movie to you?”

\---

"Very much so," Jon says quietly, looking up at the house some more, and then turning to smile happily at Martin, leaning in to press the softest of kisses on his cheek. "One of Michael's genres."

\---

“I don’t think Michael owns that,” Martin scoffs, trying to keep an eye on what Michael and Gerry are presently up to while also soaking up all the attention. “Need anything from the trunk, Jon?”

\---

"Um-- not currently. I think-- I think I might lay down for a bit. Collect myself. I'm - - I've worked myself up quite a bit."

\---

"Wh-- Lay - Lay down? Um, do you want anything? I can get you-- If you need anything."

\---

"No! No, I meant-- I just meant it's overwhelming. You know? Like... The bubble's popped. We're here. It's ours. It's--" Jon shakes his head. "A lot?"

\---

_ "A lot. _ You love calling it that. Yeah. Yeah, it's-- a lot! Um, do you want-- Do you want company? Or are you, you know, napping, like you need it... quiet."

\---

"No, it's-- I'll be fine. I'm just. Excited? We can go in... I'll be fine." He grimaces. "Sorry. I'm being weird."

\---

“You’re not! Being weird. I just— Want to be...” He casts an awkward glance at Michael and Gerry, then rolls his gaze right on back to Jon. “Close to you.”

\---

"Yeah.  _ Yeah.  _ Wanna walk in... together? Officially our house? Together?"

\---

“Uh— Uh, yeah! Yeah. We can—“ He laces his fingers with Jon’s and takes one step forward.

\---

Jon follows, his steps slow and cautious, like crossing this threshold changes everything. It feels like something is about to change. Something he can't quite gauge and thus his brain gives him a vague and generalized _ Knowing. _ Like anxiety but founded utterly in reality.

\---

Martin does  _ not  _ remember, in this exact moment, that Jonathan Sims is essentially a walking lie detector and/or motive detective at this point. He’s too busy looking at the house, brushing his free hand past the posts, gripping the front door knob so he can open it up for the both of them. “You know, now that we have a house, we could start thinking about pets. I’m sure Charlotte would be an excellent roommate.”

\---

"You want to bring a  _ spider? _ To our  _ house?  _ I'm sure a big house like this will-- Martin, there's plenty of spiders, I imagine!" Jon says, incredulous, almost.

\---

“I’m _ kidding,” _ Martin says as he bumps one shoulder against Jon’s. “About the spider part. Not the pet part. I’m certainly not planning on spending much time in the Institute from now on.”

\---

"Mm. Employed in all but duty," Jon says, and does not say anything about pets, because that is a conversation he's not having on their doorstep right now. "Fine by me."

\---

“I’m only the Institute’s because I’m yours, anyway, so I’m fine doing work for you. I was never cut out for Archival work in the first place. Taking care of you? Maaaybe slightly more qualified.”

\---

Jon colors slightly and smiles, leaning in to dart a press of his nose against Martin's cheek. "Maybe it'll make all of us less workaholics."

"Doubt that, somehow," Gerry says, and backs up a little from them, hand wrapped around Michael's wrist. "We'll start getting the truck ready to unload."

\---

Martin shoots Gerry a smile that is somehow excited, relieved, and horrified all at once. “It better. We’re still close enough that I can come drag you home if I need to, Jon.” 

He takes them inside, and everything feels so very real, and clear, in a way he’s not sure he’s felt before. It’s foreign enough to scare him but familiar enough to keep him from having a full blown freak out.

\---

"I hardly think that would be necessary, Martin," Jon says, and wrinkles his nose at him. "I will still have long work days, and besides, the Apocalypse waits on no one!"

\---

“I said if I need to. Here.” Martin reaches out to twine both hands up with Jon’s own, facing him in the center of their brand new living room. “I—“ 

There, looking just slightly down to meet Jon’s eyes, Martin gets lost in them for as long as he’ll allow himself. It takes a delayed pause in all movement for him to realize how he looks standing there like that, and another still to get embarrassed about it. “I should— L-Let me get us some drinks? New house?”

\---

"I-- sure?" Jon cocks his head, watching Martin fondly. He's still got that static that  _ something _ is coming, and it makes him stand a little straighter. "Are you-- are you okay?"

\---

“More than okay,” Martin sighs, relieving himself of some tension and trying to adapt to Jon’s tells. He knows but he doesn’t but he  _ does  _ but what does he  _ know? _ Martin has no clue, but he knows he doesn’t know all the way. And that’s like not knowing at all. “I’ll be right back!”

He makes his way to the kitchen, and it’s not until he’s out of breath and staring down into the sink with both hands gripping the counter that he realizes he’s out of his mind with something frantic. It’s not the Hunt. It’s not the Spiral. Not the Eye, the Web, the Corruption, it’s Martin. Martin Blackwood. How would that even work out? Jonathan Blackwood? Jonathan Blackwood-Sims? Martin K. Blackwood-Sims, God, Christ, and everything else. 

Martin pushes his hair back. It’s grown out, but not by much, dark brown curls starting to reappear in the aftermath of his last shoddy haircut. He dressed nice, but not too nice; one of his favorite sweaters, one that’s comfortable but most importantly long enough to cover his pockets, where he’s kept the box all day, and a few days prior, not waiting but just— just feeling the weight of it there. 

Martin can taste static, too. 

He forgets the drinks.  _ Obviously. _ He doesn’t even make it to the fridge, or the box of cups on the counter, or or or—

Martin suddenly finds himself out of breath and standing in the archway to the kitchen, right back where he started. He’s using his grip on the doorway to hold himself up, mostly, eyes wide and cheeks flushed as he stares wide-eyed across the room to Jon. He tries not to give either of them a chance to say anything, once he kicks himself into gear, he starts to fumble with his pockets. 

They really should have cleared the way better in here, because his haste to cross the room without taking too long forces him to stumble over their collection of packed up books, and— and he’s not watching the ground, obviously, just Jon, so—

He trips, catching the box in both hands, barely, just short of reaching Jon. He doesn’t fall over, and he doesn’t drop anything, but he still freezes where he stands. He sounds like a fucking wreck, and it’s so bad he can tell even when he only gets one word out. “Um.”

\---

Jon doesn't know what's about to happen, until it does. Static _ Knowing  _ pushes awareness to his mind, something big, something important, and there's no tape recorder, but it's as though his mind is one. On. Aware. Listening and searching.

His eyes widen when Martin returns, the pieces falling into place one by one until cosmic lunar Knowing fills him so completely and so Right that he can't help but freeze and stare and Behold the image of Martin's return to him. He doesn't even laugh at his stumbling; in this moment, nothing Martin could do would be considered clumsy, or profane, or silly, or weird, just... Good. Wonderful. Lovely. Breathtaking.

"Oh," He breathes, when Martin comes close, his eyes wide as saucers. Full moons. "Hello."

\---

“H—“ Stop bringing  _ moons _ into it, Jon, he can’t concentrate. “Hi.” 

Martin snaps the box back to his chest, protecting it carefully cupped between both palms. “I thought— I mean, I-I kept thinking, where I should— What I should— Sort of hard when you can figure things out, r-really quickly, and I’m not the most subtle about... about what I’m feeling, and I-I-I would really like to  _ not _ stutter right now, and I know it’s all ceremony, we’re sort of— Connected, I mean, but— I figured, I mean, I think the idea of you wearing it is— It’s all—“ 

His teeth clack together with how hard he shuts his jaw against the torrential downpour of words, focusing instead on the gravity of Jon’s eyes. He doesn’t get to one knee, he falls on both, surrounded by boxes filled to the brim with meaningful things and walls that are theirs and might keep them safe. He doesn’t open the box, more just... pushes it towards Jon’s hands with his own.

\---

Jon is slow to respond, but when he pulls together the will to-- breathing non-existent in this moment, anything not utter rote instinct gone as he takes this in, lives it-- he places one palm first on Martin's cheek, pressing firm, the other slowly wrapping around the box to pull it close.

"You-- I--" He fumbles with it one-handed, not wanting to let go of Martin, and slowly gets it open. Seeing it, the ring, his eyes fill with tears and his expression crumples into a million little emotions that knit together into a quilt of utter love and devotion.

"Do you want-- oh, Martin, I love you-- do you... A ceremony?"

\---

Martin tries to smile out his smugness at having blindsided him, but it figures he could only manage that by making it the most impromptu and shaky thing imaginable, so it's not very smug at all.

Can't be, with Jon looking at him like that. Touching him like that. Impossibly warm. "I-I mean that it's all - it's all tradition, right, getting  _ married,  _ but I-- Yeah, I think-- Just a small thing, really, just to make it official, since it's already official by monster-god-impossible terms, it might as well be by human terms, since the definitions get muggy and I still think you're human in enough of the sense that I'd-- I love you too, sorry, I-- My hands were shaking too much to do the whole... the whole thing, I'm not making this very romantic, am I?" 

He takes a sharp inhale and tilts his head against Jon's palm.

\---

Jon tilts the box to catch the ring in different lights, and strokes his thumb along the crest of Martin's cheekbone, before pulling away from him and slowly taking it from its cradle. He holds it out to Martin.

"Put it-- put it on me? I can't-- you know, these things have decorum, you know. You're supposed to-- put it on me." His voice is tear-clogged. Married in the eyes of the cosmic horrors, indeed, but it's not like that was something they really _ knew  _ at the time.

\---

Martin jolts. “Oh! Right. Right. Sorry, I’ve never done this before.” He takes the ring from Jon’s hands and lifts it from the box. He knows exactly how gorgeous it looks out in the open,  _ exactly _ how it catches the light, for how much time he’s spent judging it. 

He takes Jon’s hand and slides it over slowly, like he wants to keep them perpetually suspended in this moment. But like everything else, this too has an end. “Do you like it?”

\---

"More than just about everything." He spreads his fingers to see how it looks on his hand, and his smile grows, still watery but pleased, happy, relaxed, almost. Like it's meant to be there. Meant to be a signifier that he's Martin's. "I'll have to find you one."

\---

“Oh. Yeah. I was— I was so caught up in getting you one.” Martin watches the ring, effectively hypnotized. “I didn’t think about me. Michael told me not to get you anything too gaudy but I thought, I thought it was the right amount of gaudy. So.”

\---

"I don't think it's gaudy," Jon says, quietly, his gaze still transfixed on his hand. "And what does he know about gaudy, anyways?"

\---

“You are what you... what you eat?” Martin finally breaks the visual hold the ring has on him to wrap both arms around Jon’s waist, his head sideways against his stomach. “I want to stop the end of the world with you.”

\---

"That's-- that shouldn't be romantic, but it.... It really is. And I-- I love you, Martin. This is... thank you. Thank you."

\---

“I love you too.” Martin squeezes Jon’s waist. “Every part of you. Alright? All of it. I’m okay with it.”

\---

"You too. The same to you. Always and forever." He leans in to press a kiss to Martin.

\---

Martin maneuvers himself back to full height so he can cradle Jon’s face between both hands and deepen the kiss, almost tilting Jon backwards with the force of it. His voice is muffled when he speaks, not willing to actually leave Jon’s space.  _ “Mine.” _

\---

Jon hums into the kiss and goes nearly limp, letting Martin hold him up. "Yours," He breathes around their bond, and he sounds relieved.

\---

Quiet washes over them, and the gaze of Eyes is pleasant, even calm here. Not like the oppressive Institute Watchers that are cold, distant, uncaring in their multitudes. Martin only cares for a few sets of Eyes, and all of them are here in this house. "Still want that nap?"

\---

"No," Jon says around a smile, pulling back to do just that. Watch Martin. Take him in. Know him. "Too excited now. Do the others know?"

\---

"Oh! Um, well, they know that-- They know it's going to happen, but-- I'm guessing, yes? I think Gerry got the hint. I have... I have no clue where they went."

\---

"We're waiting for you two to finish being  _ gay!" _ Michael calls from the open door to the house, and steps in. "Coast clear, Gerry?"

Gerry hums. "Always an imminent threat around here."

\---

Martin frowns, lopsided and flustered. "How much of that did you hear?"

\---

"Depends on how much of a deal you're gonna make of it!" Michael says.

Gerry rolls his eyes. "Most. It's fine. You're in love, or whatever."

\---

"Or  _ whatever," _ Martin scoffs, and there's no heat behind it whatsoever. His hand tightens around Jon's waist, mostly for comfort. "I haven't cried yet. So-- So I'm doing great, I think."

\---

"Jon has, though. So-- yeah. You have one up on him." Gerry snorts.

\---

Martin sticks his tongue out at Gerry. He's decided to be on Jon's side today. Who knows why. Couldn't have anything to do with the most recent events to transpire in their house. "So that's... that's all the Christmas presents except one. Charms, house,  _ ring, _ coat, record, and..." He looks at Gerry expectantly, mischievously.

\---

"Tomorrow. Not today. Bright and early. Gift from all of us, but mostly me because I'm the only one who knows how to coordinate anything."

\---

Martin squints. If only he could read minds. “Fine. And I think Michael coordinated this better than any of us did.”

\---

"Yeah, but he can't keep a secret, so." Gerry shrugs.

"Can to. I love secrets. Favorite thing in the world."

"Lies aren't secrets, Michael."

\---

“It— It doesn’t matter! Tomorrow. Sure. Sure, sure. Let’s just— Let’s unpack, then? I’m very much awake. Very, very awake.”

\---

"Yes. We need to unpack so I can play tag in the hallways and stairs with you ASAP, Martin." Michael grins.

\---

Martin takes a long, careful pause. Torn between his normal, human adult capacities and a game all sides of him like, well, it’s no surprise what wins out. When he speaks again, it’s vaguely devious. Controlled only because of how he’s still holding Jon close. “You can’t outrun me, Michael.”

\---

"It's not about outrunning you, dear," Michael purrs, and half-lids his eyes in excitement. "It's about how long it takes and who catches me."

\---

Martin tries to lock up instead of going full tilt. He breaks his faintly-obsessive glare at Michael to clear his throat, all business, and look down at Jon. “Do I have permission to chase Michael through the house, Mr. Blackwood?”

\---

"Hm." Jon hums, and scratches his chin, like it's the biggest decision he's ever made in his entire life. His eyes are sparkling, amusement and glee pouring off him in waves. "I suppose I can grant my permission, Mr. Sims."

\---

Martin brightens. “Oh, I’ll be using that one for _ months.” _ He gives Jon a quick, passionate kiss before locking eyes with Michael. Like Jon’s just given him immeasurable confidence. “You get a five second head start.”

\---

"Oh.  _ Shit." _ Michael blinks, his eyes widening and growing as he realizes they're going  _ now, _ and he slips off his sandals and takes off as fast as he can down the hall. He knows the house better than anyone; he's banking on that being his advantage in this game. He runs for the stairs; it's an old, strangely laid out house, and he's certain he can serpentine his way into the basement somehow.


	88. Chapter 88

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If that trauma has carnivals and clowns it's NOT vegan, Archivist.

Moving in becomes its own micro-existence, the type that leaves Jon exhausted but satisfied, muscles sore in the way that his body probably  _ definitely _ needs. Not that he needs to be stronger, needs any earthly protein and exercise enrichments, but the physical part of him still remembers. 

Regardless, Monday comes, and he's tired, but largely in a productive, world-turning way. Better habits from new environments, and all that. Commuting to work is strange, but grabbing an iced latte and getting an excited look from the barista down the way that knows his order when she sees his finger adorned with a ring is nice. He feels  _ seen, _ and more and more, the existential horror of being seen has turned into something positive, almost good. 

He arrives a couple minutes early and has time to look around the emptier office, his head cocked. Room for more bookshelves, he supposes. Filing cabinets. It's an office again, not a living situation. And for an office, as he pulls out his computer to check his emails, he has meetings. He has employees that have been sorely left in the dark. 

The other men can work on unpacking today; Jon has a meeting with Tim, to discuss the current status of things.

\---

It’s not a great Monday to be Tim Stoker, of several recent bad Monday’s. You get rid of the fun part of the outfit, only to have the worst one be your boss. Really sucks. Really, really _ sucks.  _

He’ll keep in touch with Keay, obviously. Now it just means he has to visit. The _ horror.  _

“Right, okay, let’s get this over with,” Tim announces as he all but barrels through the unlocked door a minute late (purposefully), moving across the room in one swift motion to rest both hands on the back of the guest hair. “Roomy.”

\---

"Hello, Tim," Jon greets, and looks around to the emptier room. "I know. It's-- Strange, isn't it? Odd? I've gotten-- Used to it, even if it wasn't the standard of living for most of my tenure here." He shuts the laptop closed, and gives a tight-lipped smile to Tim. "How-- How are you?"

\---

Tim returns an uncanny mirror image of that smile. “You called a meeting, to ask ‘how are you?’. Fantastic, Jon. I’m bloody  _ fantastic. _ Keeping myself busy. Doing my job. _ Investigating. _ That sort of thing.”

\---

"I called a meeting for-- for other things, Tim. But I sort of thought pleasantries would be-- okay. You're fantastic. Great. Sorry I asked." Jon scowls.

\---

“You look like you’re doing great.” He tilts an eyebrow at the new ring. Hard to miss, that one. “Married, now, eh? Good stuff. What do you want?”

\---

"Engaged, I think, um-- keep an eye out for invitations? And--" He sucks in a breath and tries to exhale all the nervousness that Tim always, _ always _ without fail pushes to the forefront of his mind. It always makes him look like a child.

"I think we should get on the same.... Same page, you know? About what's coming. About this gun of yours. And it's capabilities."

\---

“Sure. You want to wring it out of me like a wet rag, or see for yourself what it does? I could take my shirt off for you, show you the big one,” Tim says around a light sneer. He should calm down. But it’s hard, hard when Jon is so stupidly, _ frustratingly _ open about this, when he could’ve been open about what mattered instead.

\---

His eyes latch on to Tim's torso immediately, and it wasn't, actually, what he was thinking of asking about, but now it's on his mind, and his eyes are glittering. "I wanted to talk about the Unknowing. But-- yes. I do want to know what it's doing to you."

\---

Tim rolls his eyes. “I lost a few fingerprints, the first time.  _ That  _ one was more like a binding shot. Made friends.” He starts to pop the buttons along his shirt. “The second, did anyone even tell you? The table. I did it. I killed it, the thing in there. When you told me a million times not to, that I’d die, it was a prison, whatever, right? I’m still here and it’s not.”

\---

"... Yes, yes, I was told about that." He blinks. He'd forgotten,  _ forgotten _ the quick snippets Oracle had told him in between weakened breaths, of being shot in the head and killing the beast on the table. "To my credit, I wasn't expecting a Deux Ex Machina rooster gun to make a home among us."

\---

Tim opens his shirt just enough to reveal the wide burst of scorch marks at the center of his chest. And that’s far enough. No strip tease for the Archivist. Not in the mood. 

He pops the question before he even senses that his mouth is moving. Compelled, almost. Not quite, but... it’s something potent in the air. “Do you think I’ll make it long enough to run out of bullets?”

\---

Jon's eyes rake over Tim's exposed body, his expression stuttering into something displeased, worried, frantic, but he clears his throat at the question, sitting back. He looks uncomfortable, because he  _ is. _ "If we--if we're smart. And don't repeat last time's mistakes."

\---

“I don’t know what those are,” Tim says flatly, fixing up his shirt. “So it’s looking more and more likely that I will.”

\---

"Well," Jon says, and holds out a hand for Tim to sit. "I thought we could talk about that. We already have a much more accurate weapon than last time."

\---

Tim sighs, world-weary and exhausted. He pulls up to the guest chair and sits down properly. “I’m listening.”

\---

"Right." He gives him a thin smile. "Last time, we used bombs. With the intention of blowing the entire circus up. It succeeded, of course, but it very nearly didn't, once Nikola's hold on us began. I didn't...  _ We _ didn't... Know who we were. We very nearly failed. And then we lost you, and another woman, when we... Remembered, and you were able to use the detonator."

He clears his throat. "Now, it worked, but your gun might be more accurate. We can shoot for Nikola herself, and deal with her underlings once the Unknowing is well and truly failed."

\---

“Okay.” Tim says, quiet on the edge of a storm. “I was already saving one for her, but what’s stopping the rest of them from getting a quick revenge in the aftermath? Kick a guy while he’s down? I’ll be... I won’t be  _ good.” _

\---

"We have bigger enemies that deserve the bullet. I'm sure we can handle the rest of them without the Desolation's gun. We still don't know what the third bullet will do to you."

\---

“Or the fourth. Or the fifth.” Or the last. “It feels random, so far. The hands made sense. This one didn’t. I’m... I’m  _ literally  _ playing with fire here, and I’m not complaining, of course, I like it, but... you can’t just, you can’t just _ know _ how it works?”

\---

Jon blinks, and tries, really tries to know. The cascading roar of water behind a door prevents his full awareness. But there's always most, always the slow trickle of some knowledge, however esoteric. His eyes pull out of focus as he speaks.

"I know it'll be bad. I know it will hurt you. I know that the fire that dwells within you is breaching the surface and making itself physical with each press of a confident trigger. I know that you would be alright with the fire consuming you, and the gun knows this, and wants to manipulate that. A Rooster of Fire will protect his flock until long after his tail feathers have been torn from his body, long after his final pecking breath has been written down as finality." His exhale is heavy, coming back to himself.

\---

“...Hold on.” Tim huffs, frustrated, nervous, genuinely nervous. He’s usually  _ so _ good at keeping that under wraps, too. “What— Manipulate me? It’s a gun, Jon, not— Not some ancient, cursed amulet. Why do you have to say it like  _ that?” _

\---

"I don't mean to, Tim, it just-- you asked me to Know. That's what Knowing was provided to-- to me. Like... Like a vessel." He scowls. "I don't mean to talk like a prick, you know."

\---

“Okay. Okay, sure, we’ll— I’ll take it. At least you know how it sounds.” He shakes his head. “Back to business. It’s not manipulating me. Not whispering _ ‘kill them all’ _ in my ear. Not making me a maniac. Not turning it against any of you. Can’t it just be a really cool gun?”

\---

"A really cool gun that causes extensive burns that we don't know the extent of, yet, yes. A really cool gun that has  _ claimed  _ you, yes."

\---

“Hey, hey, it was mutual!” Tim holds up both hands defensively. “Okay. Yes. Obviously it isn’t the safest thing a guy could have. But it’ll come in handy.  _ Has. _ You can...” He hesitates, just slightly. “...take a peek, if you want.”

\---

Jon nods. "Please. You didn't let me look at it too long before."

\---

Tim hums. “I thought you might take it. Helps now that I know you can’t.” He reaches down to pull it free from the holster he’s kept on him as of late, one that is definitely impractical but strangely subtle where it sits on his hip. Usually he can conceal it well enough with a jacket or his shirt undone, but hey, it’s better to have it on him than to have accidentally left it somewhere. He rests the gun gently on the center of the desk.

\---

Jon leans forward to watch it, to scrutinize it, to follow the grooves of the Rooster. "By all appearances, a gun. But it smells more powerful. Looks it, if you can see... See what I can. Red. So red."

\---

Tim can't help leaning forward to squint down, just as curious. "When I use it, it sort of smells like a campfire. You know, I-I travel sometimes, on my vacations. Hiking trails, right? It smells like that. Just the campfire part, really. Burning brush. It's a good smell." 

He inhales, trying desperately to see something new along the silhouette of the gun. "I don't see red. Not on it, anyhow. I see red. When I'm mad, but not just... it's a state of mind."

\---

"Yes. I don't mean red... Literally? It's like. A flavor. A taste? It tastes of thick, blood-clot red. Angry, forge-fire. Hm. Yes. A wildfire out of control, in the wrong hands." Jon cocks his head and runs a finger down the metal.

\---

"I'm angry. But I'm not out of control." Tim kicks back in the chair, both feet up on Jon's desk. A childish display of a lack of respect, maybe. "So who's hands am I in, not-boss?"

\---

"I think... That's up to you to decide. Your hands are already burnt. I'd choose... Cautiously."

\---

"Vague. Painfully vague. Okay. I'm done with the vague game, actually! If I'm left to my own hands, I really don't think it's ending well. For me, specifically. not that staying alive is more important than stopping everything, but, I mean, I'd like to be helpful as long as I can. But--" He grimaces. "I still don't like you. It's hard to plan to stop the end of the whole world with someone you... kind of hate a little more every day. Sorry. Monologuing."

\---

"Then don't." Jon's expression twitches. "Put yourself in my hands, that is. Probably for the best, a-anyways. I-- I wish you didn't hate me, but-- putting yourself in my hands probably won't. Won't, um, help?"

Not to mention the metaphysical. These bonds, verbal or not; how do they transfer to the creature that lives inside him, who seems to grow more energy and more will to exist on his own terms, more and more each day? No longer merely summoned or showing up during important bits, but just... Coming. To be awake, to live. How do these bonds transfer? Look at Gerry and Martin, so intertwined with him already, due to bonds originally meant for Jon.

\---

"You think I _ want _ to hate you? Who else knows more about this? Seriously.  _ Seriously. _ Not me, not Sasha, I doubt it's Martin, since he looks like he gets most things done by accident, and you have all the answers I want! Not all the answers for every question in the world, just-- You--" Tim puts his feet back down, leaning forward over the desk again. "I wish I could trust you, and it would've helped. But now we're here, and I'm stuck here, so I don't get much of a choice, do I?"

\---

"I'm making it a priority that you live through this. That we all make it through this. We have-- we're in a much better standing, this time. And you-- you're not using a bomb. Much more controlled. Much more-- just better." He tries to hold back his sigh, but he can't manage it.

\---

"I don't want to live through it if this is all I have after it. Still in this job. Still  _ hating _ it. How is--" He laughs, the sort that echoes discomfort off the walls. "-- this better than what it was, anyway?"

\---

"It both is and... Isn't? It feels-- it's nice knowing what to plan for. It's nice-- knowing there's people that I genuinely can trust. This time. But--" He clenches his jaw. "You can leave. You'd just... You know. Need to blind yourself."

\---

Internally, Tim wants to say, oh, having people you can trust? Good for you, Jon. Good-for-fucking-you. But he can't. Not when his jaw is clenching tightly enough that he'll feel it tonight, when he's trying and failing to fall asleep. Not when all he really manages to grate out is a steady stare and a low, "Fuck. Off."

\---

"I didn't mean-- you don't  _ have _ to, it's just. Okay. Fine. Get pissed at me for telling you a solution. As usual."

\---

"Get pissed-- Get pissed at a  _ solution?  _ You think that's a normal, rational solution? 'Sure, Tim, if you want out, just go take a stapler to your eyes. Easy!'. Now what? Can't ever get a job again? Can't work in the field you put your whole life into? Can't see any of the people you care about, or make sure they're real? Don't  _ 'as usual' _ me, you pompous ass. You don't know anything about me that isn't about my _ trauma!" _

\---

Jon sits up a little straighter, an annoyed gleam in his eyes. "This isn't a normal, rational solution. I don't know how many times I have to tell you this! This isn't normal. We're not normal. And I know it-- it's shit, but it is the reality of our situation! Do you think I don't spend hours and hours a week wishing I'd never taken a job here, of all places?"

He sucks in a breath, and then shakes his head. "I know what you've told me. I could know more, but I don't, because you haven't told me."

\---

“Because you never gave me the chance, Jon.” Both elbows to the desk, both his hands find his hair and tug with his face out of sight hidden beneath them. “You’re either looking down at me or afraid of me. And whichever one it is that day changes, and I don’t like either of them.”

\---

"I don't look-- I respect you, Tim. I'm just-- I just always say the worst things, to you, and I'm scared of my own mouth, around you, since it seems I'm always setting you off."

\---

“Then— Just— Stop being a coward and talk to me, then! I’m a person, like,  _ genuinely,  _ a real flesh and blood person, but treating me like a bomb or an animal that’s about to bite you freaks me out! So obviously I get defensive, and - and start living up to that!”

\---

"... I don't know how to not be scared, Tim. It's all-- it's all I am." 

\---

"You can be scared, just-- Don't be scared of me. When did I-- When have I ever hurt you? I-- I haven't hurt Keay, I saved Mike, I've had enough smoke sessions with your Michael to make the hippies jealous, I care about Martin, what more do you want from me to not be scared of something I didn't  _ do?" _

\---

"I'm not scared  _ of  _ you, Tim, I-I'm scared of pushing you to do something stupid because I can never say anything right! I want-- I like you, I always have, there's a reason I chose you and Sasha. But even now, even-- trying! I'm pissing you off because I'm saying things... Wrong, and it's-- I'm not scared of you, I'm scared of myself.." He kind of deflates when he finishes.

\---

"Well, get over it! I'll do something stupid whether you're scared of yourself or not, and that's my choice, Sims. But you need to figure out how to put it away, and you need to figure it out fast."

\---

Jon hums and slowly nods, one of his hands toying with a loose strand of hair. He supposes he does. And fast. Seems every person he comes into contact with, even those he loves, get bound to entities left and right because of his actions. Tim's Desolation is just the newest. The latest, in a line started by the Hunt. In a line begun by marks from the Corruption.

"I will. I'll-- try." He swallows. And changes the subject to something equally unpleasant with the clearing of his throat. "For the sake of transparency, I need you to-- I know you've met him. You need to be careful around him. When he's awake and I'm not. I know you don't want to talk about it. But I-- I do need you to exercise caution."

\---

"Your funny little alter ego? You know, you're really not that different. He's just more openly a know-it-all. But at least he's honest, right?" 

\---

"He's not-- Tim, it's not an alter ego. I'm not just-- it's a possession. I'm-- he's the Eye. Or at least, was. He's honest, because he's a  _ god." _

\---

_ "I know.  _ I'm just calling him that because it gets you going. I'm not an idiot, I have a few friends with something kind of like it. Not the Eye, but-- you know, like Martin? Had another friend in uni who had, like, six of them. I'm just trying not to think about it too hard, because I--" He looks down at the gun. "--am in the possession of a very deadly weapon."

\---

"Mm. Well. Save that bullet for later." Jon says stiffly, and gives a very thin smile indeed. "I didn't know you were-- okay. As long as you know. That's all. Martin's calmed him some, but-- I don't want him hurting anyone."

\---

"Right. Well, we won't get any better through avoiding it, right? So there. It's all-- trying not to freak out. Putting it away. I can do that, to save the world. I just--" He pauses to wring his fingers a bit. "--would've liked to be friends."

\---

Jon shoots him a miserable look. "Me as well. I'm... Sorry."

\---

Tim goes quiet, almost like he's waiting for something that never ends up coming. "...Well, since I'm not scooping my eyes out and you're still technically my boss, and you've just run out of readily-available harem assistants, we could start with work. You hired me for a reason, eh?"

\---

"I did." Jon nods and clears his throat again. "The most pressing need right now is figuring out when, exactly, they're planning the Unknowing. I've-- I have vague... awareness of its closeness, but the Confusion that surrounds it barrs me from just... Knowing the planned day."

\---

"So, what? You need an inside man? Find one of them and host an interrogation? You think it's not the same time as last time?" Great rapidfire questions, Tim. So helpful.

\---

Jon shakes his head. "Everything seems to have accelerated, this time. It was next year, erm, last time. But I can feel it's closer. At least we can hopefully mitigate me being kidnapped and tortured this time. We need-- oh, an interrogation might be useful."

\---

Tim squints. "Then who?"

\---

"Who to host an interrogation with? I don't-- we don't have the Not-Them this time."

\---

“Nobody else? You can’t think of anyone we could find?” He pauses, his mouth open as the gears in his head work. “Would he know?”

\---

"He--" Jon snaps his mouth shut. "Potentially. Maybe."

\---

“Would he tell us, you think?”

\---

"I don't know. I-- it just depends on what his games in this are. He's-- he's keeping certain information from us. But he freely gives others."

\---

”Ugh, this sucks. Can’t any of this be simple? Just go to a circus and ask any of the clowns what’s— Okay. I’ll just... keep watching the wax museum, and then keep watching the wax museum, aaaand... that’s all I’ve really got, here.”

\---

"I-- I mean. You can ask him. I'm telling you I don't know because I don't want to say he'll say something and then he doesn't. Taking someone and questioning them, if they know anything, would... It would help."

\---

“Sure. What’s the worst that could happen? I run off and be best friends with the thing in your head who’s actually, kind of, just you? I’ve really got nothing to lose. Set him on me.”

\---

"... Right. Um, alright." Jon frowns a little. He's never called him forth by himself. Not really. But something's changed, since that night with Martin, under the moonlit howling, and while the Archivist--  _ Sirius-- _ had always been a felt presence, it used to be foreign, separate, filling him like an uncomfortably overfilled stuffed animal.

Less so, now. The lines between Jon and Sirius are blurred, if only just a little. Soft lapping currents that go in opposite directions, or used to, that are now beginning to mix their waters. At least Jon's door is still closed. Who knows what will happen once it's flung open and their torrents mix with no hope of separating once more.

Regardless, he hardly has to call. He merely closes his eyes and feels around and tries to See what sits in his mind, what sits in his dreams, the wasteland with a bloodshot Eye to watch them over, and Sirius smiles at him, curiosity gleaming in eyes that have never, ever had a chance to be human, and takes over quite readily.

Sirius opens his eyes, and he straightens in his seat, pushing back his shoulders. Tsk tsk. Jon's posture, as usual. So harmful to the body. "Hello, Tim."

\---

Hi again. So, did you hear all that, or do I need to give you the whole spiel? Unknowing, interrogation, blah blah blah, all-knowing Eye?"

\---

"You wish to interrogate a member of the Circus." Sirius cocks his head. "Quite exciting. Will you lose your head? Or your trigger finger, as it were? You're not a clown's greatest friend, I've gathered."

\---

"No, I'm not. And I'm not playing any mind games, either, so if you know anything, and you don't want the world to end in the image of a screwed-up skin-clown, you should start talking. If not, don't waste my time. Clear enough for you?"

\---

_ "Demanding. _ You are lucky I'm in good spirits. Such disrespect is not normally so tolerated." He scowls for a moment, and then sighs, leaning forward to lace his hands together on the desk. "The patience of those touched by fire always gets frayed so thin, hm?"

He looks up to the ceiling. "There's several members of the Circus we can look for. You already know of the wax museum. There are two movers who would be useful. Another, maybe, but I will not tell you of that one."

\---

"I've never been too patient to start with," Tim says as he quirks his brow. "Two movers, and one you're keeping to yourself. Why's that? Someone special?"

\---

"Someone who’s games I currently enjoy. I imagine they'll grow stale eventually, and then they will be eliminated. For now-- plenty of other fools in the Circus to play with." He cocks his head. "I think I like games."

\---

"Good for you. Here's a game. You give me names, and I'll make a big show of stopping all this clownery, and then we don't have to talk again! That sounds great to me."

\---

"A deal that is great only if I don't wish to talk to you," Sirius says, and his smile grows. "The Circus will be stopped. No worry about that. Breekon and Hope."

\---

Tim has to bite his tongue to avoid some scathing comment about that first bit. Business, Tim. Business. Don't let him rile you up, it's not worth it. "Breekon and Hope. That sounds... familiar. Okay. Sure. Thanks. Any idea where I can find them? I'm assuming you don't have them on speed dial."

\---

"Hm. Jon informed me they sent their Singing Coffin to the Institute once. I suppose not in this timeline. Perhaps your museum. They have a van."

\---

"Singing... coffin-- What? Why don't you just Look? It would probably take, like, thirty seconds!"

\---

"Must I do everything to further the plot? I swear, Magnus has created an Institute of the weakest servants of the Eye." He sighs. Closes his eyes. And searches. It isn't terribly difficult, once one wades through the disorienting confusion those touched by the Stranger emit like noxious gas. Perhaps Jon is, as usual, too overwhelmed to try.

"Other than your museum, I will write down several other addresses I can foresee them coming near. I suggest taking only one; they are bound together, a single-double entity. Getting one alone will weaken them significantly." He pulls a notebook closer and clicks a pen in his right hand and begins to write.

\---

"Blame it on all the incompetent bosses around here," Tim mutters under his breath, watching him write it down. Good to know, that all it takes is some prodding and a willingness to be degraded ever so slightly. It's funny to hear Jon-but-not-Jon insult him, actually, so it's really no harm done. "At least you don't take much convincing. Jesus _ Christ. _ Trying to get information around here is like trying to read dear old illiterate Jimmy's notes from the 1800's."

\---

Sirius looks up from his scribbling and smiles. "If you ask for information I am willing to give, I see no reason to hide it in the shadows of darkness, Tim. You and I merely both want the same outcome, here; the Unknowing's timely end. With it out of the way, we can truly make the world what it is meant to be."

\---

“Oh, yep. Yeah. You’re evil.” Tim nods with the wisdom of a sage. “Seriously. All you’re missing is the big bad laugh. You’re all expecting me to take a  _ lot  _ in stride.”

\---

"You act as though the world owes you pity. Perhaps it does. I suggest you begin to... Take it in stride... If you want to persevere." He shakes his head. "I'm not evil. I merely want to eat."

\---

”Pity? If you think that’s what I think the world owes me, you’re really bad at the whole all-Knowing-fear-god schtick. And there’s a phrase for what you are.  _ Neutral evil.  _ Still evil.” He folds both arms over his chest, a proper delinquent. “I’ve stated my case.”

\---

"Evil implies an essentialistic morality, Tim Stoker." He smiles. "You are fun. No wonder my Spirit enjoys your company." He holds up the paper with the addresses on it. "If you want this, you should give me something in return."

\---

God, he hates this guy. Still more useful than Jon, but just as much of a dick. Just in a different way. Like if you switched it up and made it Dr. Hyde and Mr. Jekyll. “My morality is pretty essential, yeah. What do you want, takeout?”

\---

"Hm. Of a sort, yes. I'm quite... Peckish." He leans forward across the desk. "Just a memory will do."

\---

Tim leans back. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

\---

"I want your trauma, Tim. A memory. I  _ can _ just... Take it. But I'm being kind, asking your permission."

\---

"Uhh, I can get you coffee, or dinner, or a really nice sweater, or, I don't know,  _ save the world?" _

\---

"Then I suppose you can find your Breekon and Hope at the wax museum."

\---

"Jon knows all my baggage. You can just read him. He'll tell you, I'm sure." He holds out his hand. "Give it."

\---

"It's different, when I get to live it." He shakes his head. "An exchange is an exchange."

\---

"Ugh, you're just as bad.  _ Fine! _ What, then? What could you possibly need  _ so bad  _ from my head, you weird little freak?"

\---

"I'll let you choose. You'll feel it. Come here. I need to touch you." He leans across the desk eagerly.

\---

"Give it to me, first. I'm not giving you anything until I know it's mine."

\---

Sirius searches his face for a long, long moment, eyes jumping to see if he's telling the truth. No matter, really, if he is. A promise is a promise. A deal is a deal. He always gets his way. "Of course." He slowly lets up on the slip of the paper, and slides it over to Tim slowly.

\---

Naturally, Tim's not lying. He thinks he could probably reach for the gun and train it on him before the guy could react, but that unfortunately would also kill Jon, which would lead to a series of events he really can't stomach. Alas, if only that murder existed in a vacuum. 

He reaches for it. Not as slow, but careful, like he might get bitten before he can pull it off. "So, what, I'm just supposed to think of something? I don't just keep a folder of everything that's ever gone wrong in my life, you know. I put things away like a normal person."

\---

"Don't worry. You'll find it when I touch you. When I search. Come closer."

\---

Tim holds out one arm across the table, exactly the way you'd arm wrestle. He doesn't like this game, and he's not planning on repeating it, ever, never again, but he's been playing a few games of risk as of late. He can't say it's not addictive.

\---

Sirius gives him a pleasant smile, and reaches out to take hold of his wrist, caressing his thumb along the inner palm. He breathes in the feeling of Tim's presence for a moment. The rage, the anguish, the sadness and depression that circles him, and  _ that’s _ addictive. Volatile. A shot of the most high quality fire whiskey one could find.

And then he searches, sifting lightly along the surface of Tim's mind. Prodding, at memories that could be potent, could satisfy him. He just needs Tim to say yes.

\---

Oh, his glare is  _ potent.  _ Stubbornly clinging to anything that keeps him present, like he could tough this out by sheer will alone without having to offer anything up. Like they’re evenly matched, even though he knows they’re not. Knows he couldn’t possibly... couldn’t possibly... Tim realizes he’s stopped glaring, and so he doubles down. 

Down... where, exactly? Not here, there were stairs, a staircase, made of stone, but it was— he’s outside, but he can’t really tell because the Ferris wheel is blocking the moon and the sky is black, not a soft blanket but a rough cloth sack, and the darts are popping balloons with that sick, squeaky sound and it’s really starting to make him nauseous, that smell of ten different food booths in every direction and - and - 

“Get out,” Tim growls.

\---

"A deal is a deal," Sirius says quietly, and digs in deeper, pressing the proverbial fingers in hard enough to hurt. He wants this one, this memory, and tries to lose himself in the sensation. Food and sound and sight and nausea and fear, oh my.

\---

Tim bucks against it as long as he can reasonably manage before the very human amount of mental weight he can handle reaches its natural limit. He would like to think he held on an admirable length of time, if he thought anything at all outside the bubble he’s now in. 

He was  _ supposed _ to hold his hand, supposed to keep him from running off. But that was the thing about Danny, he always found some way to run off. Somehow their hands had slipped, and it was the weekend at the fair and a kid so small could get swept away in the crowd and never come back out. In reality, they were probably never more than a few feet away from each other, separated by only a few strangers’ bodies, but things are always so much more dramatic when you’re kids, aren’t they? 

He hated the sounds, the way that peppy music droned on, and on, and on while he searched and called and cried, he’d  _ cried, _ and that made it all the much worse when he found him and Danny didn’t know why. Was too young to know  _ why. _ He just got scared. He hadn’t been, as he walked unchaperoned through a foreign land, but the look of abject horror on his big brother’s face just made him sob right back. Two pathetic kids in a looping stimulation overload of feverish terror and joy and relief and exhaustion and bright light bulbs flickering and grabbing his shoulders and - and remembering what it feels like to touch him when he hasn’t had the chance in years.

\---

The Archivist's expression crumbles as he lives this memory. There's something raw about childhood, so emotionally new and terrifying that feeds him well. Oh, he eats. He eats indeed. And it is a delicious meal that will satisfy him for some time.

But the fear feels different, this time. The lights of the fair sensory overwhelming and the very adult pain of touching one who hasn't lived for some time full of a sorrow deeper than Sirius has yet experienced first hand. It's as though he's feeling everything more. Some empathetic twitch that simultaneously lets him eat to his fullness, as well as make him feel so dreadfully nauseous afterwards.

He pulls away from Tim slowly, tears sprung to his eyes and a small smile playing on his lips, and he lets it all swirl, and swirl in dazed contentment and curiosity in his mind.

\---

At first, Tim does nothing except sit there, dumbfounded, with his own painful tears embedded in the corners of his eyes. Ashamed, afraid, so very seen in a way no one has ever been able to glean before. Not even Sasha, who’s held his head while he sobbed ugly, snotty tears about several other things that impact him so greatly, someone he trusts. 

Once it wears off, though, the way he ignites is almost audible. Is audible, in fact, by the way he growls from across the desk, proceeds to lean as much of his body he can over the wood and grab for the front of Jon’s shirt so he can pull as hard as he’s able.  _ ”Why?” _

\---

Sirius tries to scrabble back, his eyes still wet and now wide, wide in how unexpected such physical action is, and a whine escapes him, hands flying up to try to pull Tim off. He's strong, of course he's strong, he's a god, but he's also scared, and after a moment, he goes limp in Tim's grasp.

"I need to  _ eat," _ He says, like that's everything.

\---

Tim reaches forward with his second hand to strengthen his grip, hyper aware of the warm metal weight of the gun pressing up against his stomach where he leans. “I don’t care, go on a diet, if you—“

A door slams across the room, the safe room that, for this purpose, is a dark void and not a room. It doesn’t make Tim let him go, but he does flinch tightly where he grips. 

“Boys, boys, _ boys. _ Really? What’s got you two all twisted up like this?” 

Helen tilts her entire awareness, somehow, a grimace and a smile stacking atop each other as she regards just one of them. The other can wait. “Ah. Hello, _ Archivist. _ You’re in quite the predicament, aren’t you?”

\---

The Archivist is very, very still, his hands still wrapped around Tim's. His words are their own kind of growl, one of anger and quiet, blue flames. "This fiery mutt conceded to a deal and then has the audacity to be angry at me for it. I should think I will have to cast the Desolation far from my domain, if this is how its denizens conduct themselves."

\---

Tim is about to throttle him with genuine force for all his shitty royal roleplaying - maybe he can wring it out of him - when Helen puts a hand on his shoulder. He physically recoils, some breathless sound he can't help falling from his throat. Her grip is tight, nails not digging into flesh but stronger than they look, and Tim's hands go slack. 

"Now, now, let's try this again, shall we? You sit back, right, there we are." She pats him on the shoulder when he hits the back of the chair. Her earrings flicker in the light, fractals that don't quite follow all the rules. "Hm. Archivist, is this any way to treat your assistants? You'll run out of ones that aren't broken faster than the last one!"

\---

"Breaking them is not as permanent as once was thought, if Shelley is any indication," He says lightly, and slowly leans back himself, the anger in his eyes slowly quelling along with the fear. He tilts his chin up. "Is it a crime to eat, Distortion?"

\---

"Oh, I love questions with  _ so _ many answers. Not to you, of course, but there is a time and a place!" She wags one finger at him. "So much fuss over a few addresses. You'll have to forgive him." She addresses Tim with that one, giving him a little wink he's still too confused to return. "...And, I shouldn't have to remind you that you lack the creativity of your last archivist, so I do very well think you would break them permanently! So dreary, so...  _ serious." _

\---

"Is there a point to your intrusion upon my earthly domain, Distortion?" He sits up a little straighter, narrowing his eyes. "The time and place is whenever I see fit to those who are mine. At least I asked."

\---

“Deals are much more fun when you don’t know the consequences, aren’t they?” Helen hums, and then draws out a long, thoughtful silence. “The point, I think, was to nudge the story along in a more exciting direction. I thought it might be fun to see what sort of mess you were in today! Well, get you out of it at the last second. And meet this charmer. Hi! Helen.”

Tim seems to have lost his tongue along with his voice. Poor thing. Not so built for so much in one day. He even looks a little scared. “I thought he was much more talkative.”

\---

Sirius shrugs rather consciously. "People don't often talk when they cry. I suppose we can't blame the poor human."

\---

“I. Am not.  _ Crying.” _ Tim finally grates out, moving forward to wipe his arm over his nose. He reaches forward for the gun first, holstering it as Helen watches with a cheery little smile he doesn’t want to see. Not right now. Then he finds the paper where he dropped it on the desk. “Great meeting. Now, if you’ll, uh, if you’ll excuse me.” He stands up.

\---

"Yes. Thank you, Tim. It was a pleasure to formally meet you." Sirius smiles. He quite likes his rage, when it isn't aimed at holding him physically.

\---

“We’ll meet again soon, dear!” Helen calls, voice bouncing off the walls that are too real to know how to absorb the sound. She hops up onto the desk, one leg crossed over the other as she perches. Her fingers lace together. 

“Ah. Adorable. I love this little band of miscreants. You do realize he’s about to call Martin, don’t you? You’re going to catch  _ quite  _ the earful, soon. Tsk, tsk.”

\---

"... For eating? I hardly think-- what would you know?"

\---

“I’ve been keeping track since the first episode, Archivist. He’ll call Martin, snotty-faced and afraid, not to speak to him but to your lovely ghost, but— oh, I don’t know if I should tell you.” She giggles. “It’s just a guess, after all.”

\---

"You should tell me. But  _ what, _ Helen?" His voice is full of compelling force, annoyance and anger again.

\---

“No, I won’t spoil the surprise. You’ll love it. But you  _ are _ in trouble.” She hops back onto her feet. The sneakers are so much more fun than the heels. She can move as freely as she wants. “This one’s going to cause you quite a few problems if you’re not careful, dear. “

\---

He squints. "You are far more sure of yourself now that you're her. It's... Rather annoying." He scowls. "I was going to give Jon back the body, but I suppose that will need to wait."

\---

“You’re  _ grumpy _ today. No fun. Taking it out on poor, sweet Helen, who might have just saved you from a dreadful end at the hands of your little monster hunter.” She smiles again, bright and excited. “Why is that? It can’t be to spend time with me.”

\---

"If I am to be in trouble, I am not going to wait." He slowly stands, and gives Helen a slow look. "You may join me, if you are so addicted to drama."

\---

"Oh! An invitation? Lovely. I'd say we could go right there, but, well. You can't go through my doors! The suspense. The horror. Will our dear Archivist be bitten? What a redundant question. Of course he will!" She moves to the front of the office, peeking her head out to make sure Tim is gone. Coast very much clear. "But by  _ who, _ is the fun question."

\---

"By..." He squints as he begins to leave the office. No telltale sign that he realizes Jon came here to work, and it is very much barely nine in the morning. "Tell me. Tell me what you're hiding. I do not enjoy your games."

\---

"I'm not hiding anything! They're hypotheticals, Archivist. Just hypotheticals. You could very well step outside and fall on the stairs, and that would be the end of you, couldn't it? I'd say that's less likely than a hunter giving you an awful flesh wound." Helen seems content to play in these hallways, now that she's been invited. So dull, so bland, so easy to watch without any tricks of the eye. Boring! She might like to change that some day. "I just like to make you think I know something you don't."

\---

"Your madness has such a sanity to it," Sirius says after a long, long moment, content with her answers. He's starting to get it, and that eases him somewhat. "Jon rather likes you, you know. He has thought of you often."

\---

"Aw, does he? He's so very charming. Won't be long until the other half of the whole feels the same way, hm? I'll have to make it harder for you, you have an advantage. I do know some things." She puts a finger over her lips. "Secrets."

\---

"I also have secrets. I suppose I can live with you keeping yours." He leaves the office door open as he walks down the halls. No longer a place of living, but merely a workplace. How odd. In a way, he was born here. Ah. 

"You are very old, Distortion, and I am... In a sense, very new, despite my... Cosmic age. I find it interesting that we are still similar. In our construction."

\---

"Oh, but I'm so very new, too! When has the Distortion ever been a Helen? Or even a Michael? Several years, at most. Much less so for Helen. I'm only a teeny,  _ tiny  _ facet of something much bigger than me, but I so like where I am now. I have so much to play with."

\---

He cocks his head. "Will I become a Jon? Martin has named me, you know. I don't think I would like to be a Jon. Not fully."

\---

"It's not a matter of who's Jon or not Jon or named-otherwise, but whether or not you're both the Archivist, isn't it?"

\---

"I suppose. He's so very reluctant. I have had so much work to do. So many secrets to hide. And I do not-- enjoy secrets, in my nature. But my nature has been... unraveling." He is not taking the elevator. The stairs it is.

\---

Helen so very much enjoys the stairs. The way the walls echo and close in without threatening collapse beyond illusory tightness is wonderful. Much better than the hallway. "Mm. Keeping secrets." She gives a mock gasp. "My, what will they say when they find out?"

\---

"... I imagine they will not like it. At first. But I do so play favorites. One would hope they adjust." He smiles sideways at her. "Your circle has wiggled its way into my favor. Lucky day for you."

\---

She gives him a wicked smile. "It's always a lucky day for me. I can't believe with how poorly all of you are handling this nonsense, that you'll actually... probably win! I do have faith in you. General you."

\---

"I do not need faith. Merely facts. But nonetheless; in whatever capacity you mean. Thank you."


	89. Chapter 89

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Edgar Allan Poe (the dog).

Martin had kept his end of one particular promise. Not that he doesn’t keep his other promises just as well, but _ this _ one he’s keen to pay close attention to seeing through. In the morning, the same Monday that Jonathan Sims experiences elsewhere, the moment Martin rolls out of bed he calls for Gerry. They still only have the one mattress, with more furniture coming in, one that all of them had been content to pile into at the end of the night. They got a lot of unpacking done. 

Well, Martin did. Michael helped, too, enthusiastically. Jon was just sort of bad at it, but in the charming glow of having just proposed, Jon couldn’t possibly have done anything to be short of perfect. Gerry, as usual, spent a good chunk of time ordering this and that around and telling them very frankly whether something looked awful in one corner or good in another. Michael helped plenty with that. 

All-in-all, he’s sore when he wakes up, the best way, and the only thing putting a damper on his mood is-- No, wait, it’s two things. First, that Jon’s still a workaholic and still decides he needs to go into the office. 

Second, Gerry has been in  _ suspiciously _ high spirits since he woke up. Martin has never benefited from Gerard Keay in a full kitchen before, but he cooks breakfast, and it’s good, and he walks around the house like he knows something nobody else does, and it’s infuriating, and Martin’s patience nearly snaps at just the right time for Gerry to announce he’s going out, and that Martin is coming.

Jon, ever the hypocritical avatar of knowing that somehow manages to remain completely oblivious to all things going on around him, is too caught up to think anything of it. To prod, to ask questions that might turn out to have been important.

This is all a long-winded way of describing what Martin doesn’t want to get to the part where he has to admit. So here it goes, band-aid off.

It’s a  _ shelter. _

Not good enough.

It’s a  _ shelter, _ and he’s currently  _ crying, _ and on the  _ floor,  _ snotty and embarrassed but too distracted to properly feel shameful when a little dog with massive paws and ears that won’t stick up and a tail wagging faster than the human mind can comprehend has made its home on his chest, licking up his face like it’s trying to make him laugh all his other emotions away. 

\---

Gerry's never really done dogs. Well, it's a little more complicated than that. He wouldn't have  _ minded _ a dog growing up. Or even a cat. But with how often he and Mary traveled, it was just never a smart decision.

Not to mention even a little attention away from Mary would likely anger her.

But being in the life the way he has, he hasn't really had a chance to be around dogs much, either. So when the puppy currently licking Martin first jumps on him, he very nearly goes in to wrench the thing off, and only stops himself when he remembers, oh yes, the tail wagging is a happy thing.

He sits criss-crossed on the floor in front of Martin, watching him cry with what he hopes is happiness. "You like this one?"

\---

Martin has always wanted a pet. He has, technically, had many, if you count the various strays and bugs and creatures he’s made friends with throughout his life to imitate human relationships he lacked, but it’s not the same. 

He’s never gotten to  _ choose _ one. Never gotten to even entertain the idea of having one of his own, one that really cares about him or - or that he can care about, without fear of it being taken away the second it’s found. Never had that sort of bond. Never had money, or time, or space, or help, or, or, or—

There are so many dogs here. Big old geriatric shepherd mixes, little things he doesn’t like that don’t even want to look at him. Puppies that sit in corners and shake, and once upon a time he might’ve chosen one of those out of sympathetic understanding, but—

But it seems his track record with animals is that they like choosing  _ him.  _ This one almost has eyes the same color as his own, just tilting into the browner side, tick marks and splotches of brown over white and— 

He’d say they’re like freckles, but that’s almost too much. Martin hoists the dog up above him with both hands, and it wriggles around like a funny-looking worm. Still trying to get at his face. “I think he likes me.”

\---

"I can see that. He-- he certainly likes to get his saliva all over you. Is that-- he's cute. How big is he gonna get?"

\---

“I think all dogs like that.” Martin sits up, placing the dog gently on the ground. It turns into a flurry of motion, crawling into his lap and rolling as much as possible with a weird series of fake growling noises. “I think you go by paws. Big. We don’t have to tell Jon that. I’m about to have a heart attack.”

\---

"I think Jon will when he realizes how big it's going to be." Gerry snaps his fingers, trying to get the puppy's attention.

\---

Both Martin and the puppy look up to see what he’s doing, though Martin is self-aware enough to quickly look back down to the dog. One of its ears perks... almost straight up. 

“Great. Now you’ll...” He wipes away some of the tear tracks on his cheeks. “...have something else to order around?”

\---

"What a great distillation of my personality, Martin." Gerry crouches a little closer to the ground and holds his hand out for the puppy to sniff. He's trying to stay as solidly mortal as he can manage.

\---

The puppy leans forward, that stage of development where any motion is bumbling, to investigate. It tries to comprehend something in front of it, but somewhere along the line it gets confused and licks his hand instead. 

And then it sneezes all over his palm, quickly losing interest to run back into Martin's lap, trying to gnaw on the locket hanging down from his neck.

"I like that he doesn't respect you at all, actually. I think that's a good sign!"

\---

"I don't think puppies know the concept of respect." He reaches forward to wipe his sneezed hand onto Martin's pants, grimacing somewhat. "There's a lot of... Jon's gonna hate how messy this thing is. I think he's cute."

\---

"Of course he thinks you're cute," Martin directs to the dog, who does not understand a word of English or any other language. "Don't let him trick you. He's a big softie." 

Back to Gerry, a wide smile and a faint blush blooming on his face. "Jon will love him by morning."

\---

"We can certainly hope." He's summarily ignoring the rest of Martin's statements. "Got a name picked out, yet?"

\---

"Not yet. I'm-- I'm bad with names. That's why Sirius is called... all that. And  _ Charlotte. _ Hm." He picks the dog up again. Reverse Simba, so he can get a good look at his face while the dog tries to get close enough to lick him. "Not very Growly."

\---

"Not at all. Thank God. Can't have two growlers running around the house. We'd go absolutely insane."

\---

"We have to name him something Jon can't hate. That's how we'll get him." Martin puts the dog down, and after a few seconds of watching him expectantly it gets bored and runs off a foot or so away to chase its tail. "Maybe--" 

It barks, while it plays, but it-- It sounds sort of like shit. There's no other way to describe it. A hoarse croak of a bark that... 

"Ohh, I might have one. Wait! Wait, ah, hold on, I'm really good at this, I just need a second." Martin starts mouthing out words to himself, getting more excited. "Oh! Oh! It's even set in winter! I just-- I just started thinking about the Raven. The poem. Jon likes gothic stuff."

\---

"You want to name him Raven? He's like-- red." Gerry wrinkles his nose.

\---

“No! Not— Not  _ Raven.” _ Martin grimaces, and then pats the floor so the dog comes back over. He scoops it up and presses his cheek against its own, squishing all the puppy fat still rounding out its face. It loves it. “Poe?”

\---

Gerry cocks his head, and then a slow-formed smile crawls across his face. "Edgar Allan. A little Edgar Allan. Okay. Yeah. I'm good with that."

\---

“What, he gets three whole names? He already fits right in.” Martin gives the dog a stern look. “Edgar Allan Poe when you’re naughty, Poe when you’re sweet, and Allan for business.”

\---

Gerry barks out a laugh. "Alright. Alright, yeah, I'm good with that. Edgar Allan Poe. C'mere!" He raises his voice a little when he says it, snapping his fingers again to get the puppy's attention.

\---

Poe - we’ll go ahead and call him that from now on, since he responds - falls over several times on the slippery floor in his haste to reach Gerry, immediately trying to gnaw playfully at his hand once he gets close enough. 

“I... I think that means it works, right?”

\---

"Think so." Gerry reaches forward to pet him in between the gnawing, a small smile on his face. Pros of being a ghost; no feeling the distasteful spit and other doggy debris.

\---

“So we...” Martin seems to get lost in watching the dog, that smile still stuck on him. “We sign the papers, and— And that’s it, we own a dog. We have... wow. A house. And a  _ dog. _ And  _ you.  _ And you’re the only one in this family who can keep a secret. Michael would’ve cracked.” 

\---

Gerry's smile is beaming. "Lot of things to gain in a few months. Definitely didn't expect a family to come after dying."

\---

“Ha! Wow. Yeah. Guess not.” Martin hums, somewhat nervously. “We should go do the papers right now so I can kiss you as soon as we leave.”

\---

Gerry snorts. "What. Can't kiss me before the papers? Afraid I'll get the kiss and leave empty handed?" He slowly makes his way to his feet, leaning forward to dart a hand through the puppy's soft ear fur one last time.

\---

Poe wobbles slightly, like any motion could topple him over despite being reasonably sturdy. Martin reaches forward to hold him again, and the dog seems perfectly content to come along for the ride when he stands up. “No,” Martin mumbles, “I just don’t want to passionately kiss you in the middle of a crowded animal shelter.”

\---

"I see." He still gives him a little drive-by kiss on the cheek on the way out of the small meeting room, laughing softly. "Merry Christmas. Or Hanukkah. Or Solstice. Or whatever we're celebrating."

\---

_ “Merry whatever, _ it has a nice ring to it,” Martin says after a moment, finding it hard to balance flustered shyness and a dog cradled in both hands. 

Signing over the dog is easy, almost miraculously so. Makes him feel like he’s stealing. The shelter has a full area at the front to buy starter supplies, and it’s all a mostly manageable mess that sorts itself out with Poe contained by the carrier and one extra bag for Gerry to carry. 

The kiss he gives him in the parking lot is passionate but definitely clumsy, considering there’s a portable crate between them both, but Gerry’s tall and it all works out and Martin definitely does not talk to the dog like an insane person the entire way home. It’s kind of like how people say when you talk to plants they grow better, probably. About where they’re going, who he’ll meet, and Gerry gets a taste of how he’s always been with animals. 

Maybe he wouldn’t be that bad of a dad, if he got all his shit together. He tries not to think about that. 

When they reach the front steps to their house - their house - Martin rings the doorbell with his elbow, crate in both hands and a dumbstruck, all-too-pleased smile on his face. Michael should still be there, hopefully, probably.

\---

Gerry is utterly and entirely in love. He knows this already, but there's been so many small reminders lately. Reminders like how fond he is that Martin talks to the puppy as it stares out of the bars of the crate with wide, curious eyes and wags its tail at Martin's voice, reminders like the clear as day expressions that always blanket his face. He gives another kiss to Martin on the back of his head as they wait for the door to open on the porch. Affectionate today, Mr. Keay.

The door is flung open with gusto, and Michael's pleased scream is done with all the more so, dropping to squat in the doorway and shove his fingers into the bars of the crate and coo at their new baby. "Cute, oh my God, so cute, the cutest in the world, this is  _ ours? _ Hello? Hi! Oh my God,  _ baby." _

\---

Martin is about to lean back against Gerry’s contact when the door opening makes him snap back like a rubber band, the crate suddenly very hard to carry with how much the dog tries to lick at Michael’s hands and somehow melt through the bars.  _ Baby. _ This is really bringing out all the mushiness he desperately wants to see out of all the people he loves. Martin is in heaven. 

Over the audible thumping of a tail hitting each side with enthusiastic excitement, Martin says, “You can thank Gerry, he’s - he’s an enabler, and we’ve got to get him situated before Jon can come back and say no. Can you - someone open the back door? I’ll let him loose.”

\---

"Yes yes yes," Michael chants, and moves to do just that, eagerly wanting to make this little creature chase him in the frozen grass. Momentarily even forgetting how much he hates the cold, he flings the back door open and goes outside barefoot, almost vibrating with excitement himself.

\---

Martin follows suit, placing the crate down the second he passes the threshold. The dog seems to be completely oblivious to how cold it is, or inspecting where he is, too blissed out on the attention and excited noises to care. 

“I don’t think he’s been scared once,” Martin says once the creature has burst from the unlocked crate, some subtle parental pride in his tone.

\---

Michael stands in the center of the yard and crouches, slapping his palms to his thighs and whistling to get the puppy's attention. This is the best day ever, he's certain. The puppy is the cutest that's ever existed.

"He really hasn't. We could do with less fear around here." Gerry says.

\---

Considering Michael is the most exciting and vocal thing in the puppy’s radius of awareness, he’s basically Poe’s favorite. If him bounding over to immediately try and attack his hands with the least aggressive fake snarls to exist is any indication. 

Oh. Right. No more puppy in his hands. Martin grabs at Gerry to get him to face him, and then reaches up with his hands on either side of his face. It’s his favorite way to kiss him, because more often than not it earns him an adorably soft smile.

\---

Michael falls back onto the grass purposefully, giving the puppy a little ego trip. "Oh, woe! He got me!" His hair splays all over the ground and he squeals at the puppy's overexcited wiggling all over him.

Gerry falls into the kiss with the softest of hums, utterly pleased with the morning thus far and overwhelmed with love to have anything even approaching a bite to his tone, or his expression. "Love you," He murmurs.

\---

“Love you too,” Martin sighs, lingering there just long enough to savor it. “I have to go wrestle our dog now.” 

He makes it across the grass to get to his own knees next to where Poe is playing with Michael. When he reaches out to pet, the dog rounds on him. “What do you think of ‘Poe’, by the way? Honest opinions only.”

\---

"It's cute. Makes me think he's gonna be this little forever." Michael leans across Martin to grab and lift one of Poe's paws, wagging it in the air while the puppy tries to bite at his wrist. "We both know he's going to be big."

\---

“Just don’t tell Jon how dogs work,” Martin mutters conspiratorially. “Maybe he won’t notice if he gets big slowly.”

His phone starts to vibrate at his back pocket, and he almost ignores it. But... Jon’s at work, that would be mean, and it could be important—

“It’s Tim.” He announces, vaguely confused, as he stands upright.

\---

Michael stays on the ground, but he does look up at Martin, cocking his head curiously. "That's not a normal phone visitor?"

\---

“I don’t know,” Martin says, like he doesn’t actually know. His mind just blanks, for whatever reason. 

“Hi? Tim?” He starts once he brings it up to his ear, and... and it’s not long before he’s pacing around a small stretch of grass with a series of ‘mhm’s, each one getting more strained. By the time he gets to the first _ ’Right’  _ he’s holding the phone tight enough that it almost hurts. 

“He  _ what?” _ Martin growls, making eye contact with Gerry that’s positively furious. Not  _ at _ Gerry, of course. At something else. “I’m— I’m sorry, Tim, I’ll— Yeah, no, I-I know, yeah! I’m going to talk to him. We’ll talk— Let’s talk later. After I— Yeah. Great. Bye.”

He turns off the call, and pockets his phone only so he doesn’t throw it. His voice sounds raw. “I’m killing Sirius today, actually.”

\---

"You're-- why? Did you say that was Tim?" Gerry looks worried, all at once. "I can't imagine him being around Tim would be... Well. Productive. That's--"

Oh. Of course he doesn't have time to get a gauge one what happened. The front door opens; Gerry can hear it through the screen door, and he turns to see the murder-victim-to-be with... Helen? In tow?" Well, you might want to choose your murder weapon now. He's home."

\---

“It’s my teeth,” Martin growls, more the human way than anything else. 

“Hello, lovelies! It’s a gorgeous house, and—“ Helen jumps with an ‘oh!’ of surprise as she looks at the dog, who’s stilled on Michael’s lap with all the upsetting commotion. “There’s the adorable little secret.”

\---

Sirius jerks to where Helen is looking, and his lip curls back, confusion and shock winning out his bravado. "What is  _ that?  _ You've brought a hound to this home."

\---

Turns out Poe is the smartest dog in the world, if only for how he curls up into a tiny ball over Michael’s lap and looks very sweet and nonthreatening. 

“No, you don’t get answers first, _ you _ took a memory from Tim! I’m surprised you’re still here!” Martin huffs, unafraid in how he closes the distance between them to face Sirius head-on. “Hi, Helen.”

Her smile softens. “Hello, Martin. Would it be less of a surprise to find out that it really was almost a disaster along those exact lines, and I came just in the nick of time?”

\---

"He would not have done that. Tim Stoker agreed. It was... An exchange. A..." He cocks his head, eyes angry, searching for the word. Ah. There's one. "Quid pro quo. I gave him something he desired. He gave me something I desired in return. Put your teeth away." The last bit is growled out.

\---

“He can’t agree to something he doesn’t know is a  _ thing! _ And that’s— He’s obviously not happy about it if he’s coming to me, like I—  _ Ugh.” _ Martin does not put his teeth away. He steps closer. “What could you have possibly given him that was - that was worth traumatizing him? Seriously?”

\---

"I did not traumatize him. He already held that trauma deep within him. We merely relived it." He takes a step back, his jaw tight. "He wanted information. I gave it to him. A fair deal; You need to have more respect, Messenger."

\---

“No!” Martin closes the same space.  _ “You _ do. Tim works for you. He works really, really hard. Tim is trying to stop something that killed him last time, for everyone else! If you want anyone left to care about you or work for you or - or do anything for you, you won’t just— Whipping out your trauma senses shouldn’t be the first choice!”

\---

"I must eat. And those in that paltry Institution are mine. You and Jon might have different methods, but you can not impose them upon me. You do not have the right." He bares his teeth and steps closer to Martin, fury in his eyes. "You do not have the _ right  _ to be angry about my methods. You do not have the _ right _ to come upon me with your Hunt-teeth bared. You do not have the right to _ threaten _ me. The Unknowing will be a blip upon our existences. Have trust, and do not question me."

\---

“It’s my _ job _ to question you! No one else will, o-or can, but you— You still need to hear it! You’re not invincible. Tim could  _ hurt _ you. You need to be  _ careful. _ And if you wanted someone who didn’t ask questions you should have gotten rid of me a long time ago!” Martin keeps his hands to himself, but God, this is making him angry. “You wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me. I don’t want to regret that because you - you just want to act like a brat.”

\---

"If it weren't for you? A  _ brat?" _ His eyes light up more, and he advances upon Martin, getting right in his face with an angry finger. "Watch yourself. Just because you fancy making me some facsimile of a weak and teary-eyed human does not mean you have tamed me as your own. You are mine. Everyone in this house is mine. Tim Stoker is mine. Regret all you want; I am not here to stroke your fragile ego."

\---

Martin grabs his wrist and holds on tightly when he gets close enough. Caught up in whatever confidence he’s manifested out of thin air to keep from cowering. “You’re mine just as much as I’m yours. If wolves didn’t howl at the moon, it’d just be a big useless  _ rock.” _

\---

"Let go of me." Sirius hisses, quietly, as flat as he can muster. This is the second time he's been grabbed today, and he's really not a big fan. "If wolves did not howl at the moon, it would still change the tides, illuminate the night, and exist on the celestial plane. Your analogy is wrong and you will let go of me."

\---

“Without anything there to worship you, you’re just— sad.” He grips tighter. “I’m doing this so I don’t use my teeth. Why can’t you look in my head and understand why I’m so angry? Why can’t you use that for something better than making the world an awful place for everyone around you?”

\---

"I understand why you are angry. I just merely think it is a useless reason." He tries again to pull away, using much more of his strength this time. "I am molding the world into what I see fit. You have gotten it into your head that you are in any way fit enough to be a part of that decision making. You aren't. You carry my message, you do not influence it. Messenger, are you not devoted? I can find a new one. One who will  _ listen." _

\---

“Who?” Martin tries to steady his breaths, to avoid growling. He doesn’t want to growl anymore. But he still doesn’t let go. Red. Red,  _ red, red.  _ He doesn’t feel like Martin. “If I went at your throat right now, no one here would stop me for any reason except that _ I’d _ feel  _ guilty _ about it. Not for  _ you.  _ And that’s your fault. You’ve scared away anyone who might care about you, despite how much I’ve tried to help.”

\---

"You would kill both myself and Jon, for the mere sin of eating? Yet Helen walks free, despite her... Appetite. Mike Crew walks free despite his. But you cannot pretend to control either of them, and so you lunge after me. Ungrateful. Despicable. A fool. Let go of me, or I will find something in your head to incapacitate you for hours."

\---

“It’s not - that - simple! You’re hurting all the people I care about and they’re the only ones I have!” Martin shakes his arm, slightly, more of a yank than anything else. 

He rounds on Helen. Plucks a string. “How do you eat them?”

She tilts her head from where she currently sits with her legs crossed over one of the new patio chairs. She looks quite sobered up, for the Distortion. “I... do try to make it quick, these days. No, I don’t let them wander... not for too long. I can make do with a decent cardiac arrest.”

He turns back to glare at Sirius. The Archivist. Whatever.

\---

"I have not killed anyone. I hardly think a reminder of trauma you already possess is worse than the actual killing of someone." He glares right back. "You want to keep me tied with a lead. I will not adhere to that. I will not be collared and shackled by one that is supposed to listen to me."

He turns to Helen, though, and gives her the smallest nod. "I appreciate you deescalating Tim earlier. It... was much obliged."

\---

She smiles so very sweetly. “His teeth aren’t nearly sharp enough. I like this much better. So much more fun!”

Martin doesn’t let that conversation continue. He just starts rambling. Makes it easier to not let himself go nonverbal in the worst of ways. “It’s worse than killing, because they have to live with it. It haunts you. And I would know! Because I let you feed off me so you won’t make other people feel the way I do! You’ve done it to me without any deals at all, just because you were throwing a tantrum! You took Gerry’s voice. You took mine before. If you want to - to threaten me into going comatose, I want you to feel exactly how it feels, too. Not just know it.”

\---

"A tantrum. You treat me as though I am a child. Let go. It is your last warning. You would not be upset with a creature warning you over and over to back off, only to be stung because you did not listen."

"Archivist, Martin, can't we just--" Gerry's voice is wavery, unsure of what to do, and The Archivist rounds on him, glaring.

"Do not meddle, spirit."

\---

“Don’t  _ talk  _ to him like that. I’m - I’m warning you, too. I just want a week without having to clean up a mess  _ you _ made! To just— Be happy! Just— move in, and - and feel something, and be in love, and— that’s all I’ve ever wanted from anyone.”

\---

"I do not know what that has to do with me." He jerks his hand one last time.

\---

Martin doesn’t budge. “I keep giving you a chance to be part of it! And all you do is hurt people!”

\---

"You forget what I am. Let go. Last chance."

\---

“I didn’t forget. I’m just giving you a chance to choose to be better.” Martin’s expression softens slightly. “Please.”

\---

"I have to eat, Martin. You want me to starve myself to he 'better.'" He furrows his brow. "I don't understand your 'better'."

\---

“Some part of you does. Otherwise you would’ve left me behind a long time ago. And there’s a difference between eating and going out of your way to hurt the people around you when you could just talk instead.”

\---

"Let go of me." Sirius says. "... Please. I will think. But I do not like-- I don't like being grabbed. This body wants to flinch. I will not let it."

\---

Martin hesitates, at first, but eventually releases his hold. “We’ll have a house meeting later. You’ll have to apologize, but we’ll talk about it. Not right now.” He starts to walk away, back to where Michael sits with Poe. “I have a dog to settle in.”

\---

"Yes. A new creature." He immediately takes a step back, pulling his arm to his breast as though wounded. "I will apologize if I deem it necessary." After all, he did help in their pursuit of ending the Unknowing.

\---

Martin ignores that, content to ignore the Archivist altogether as a whole for at least the next few minutes. He's almost sorry that includes ignoring Helen, since every time they've met since has been under terrible circumstances, but right now Martin is angry. And he thinks he deserves not to be. 

So he sits on the ground next to Michael, and he bundles up Poe's cheeks so he looks completely stupid sitting there with his ears crooked and his mouth open and his eyes confused but not scared.

\---

"Is he staying?" Michael whispers to Martin, and holds out the puppy to Martin, hands under his armpits.

\---

"Who? The dog? Obviously, yes," Martin grouches a bit, easily mitigated by holding a baby puppy. How could you still be upset with this thing in your hands? "We'll have to see if he likes chasing you down the halls, too. Then you're really in for it."

\---

"Best game ever. Tag-teaming poor, awful Michael. Whatever will I do." He glances towards the Archivist and then back down to the puppy. Not a fan of that one today. Clearly in a very, very scary mood.

\---

Martin follows his eyes. Right. Of course the dog is staying. “If Jon won’t be coming back for a while, maybe you and Helen should go for a walk.”

\---

"I don't think she likes me." Michael hides his expression by pressing his face at the back of Poe's fluffy neck.

\---

"Wh-- No. Not--" Martin sighs the angstiest of sighs. "Not you.  _ Sirius." _

\---

Sirius frowns at both of them. "I'll give Jon back. I don't want to be here, anyways." He's got such a shitty borderline pout going on. Not the over the top one Michael does, but the closest Jon would get. More an advanced frown than anything.

He turns to Helen. "I do so hope this amused you. It is no longer amusing to me."

\---

Martin squints at the dog, refusing to make eye contact with him again until he's no longer there. No use feeding into it. 

"My, do you really hope so? It was! Very, very amusing. Lovely performance all around. Next time, do call me before the juiciest bits so I can get the full picture, hm?"

\---

"I won't. Part of this game is you must find it yourself." He scowls again and then sits down on the floor. He gives one more sour look in Martin's direction and then closes his eyes, and wills Jon to return from the place of the Eye.

He does so gladly, angrily, aware that much more time has passed than he thought would happen, but not sure how long, exactly. When he opens his eyes, it's with confusion at being not in the office, and he's-- home. Home, and Michael and Martin are on the floor, and Helen is here, and there is a-- "Is that a  _ dog? _ What is-- what is going on?"

\---

“Oh! There’s my cue. Good luck, boys.” Helen quickly rises to her feet, somehow rushing without any of the hurried force of a human fleeing the scene. She slips back into the house from the back door. 

Martin is still holding the dog up to his face when Jon speaks. His anger all but dissolves into blank-faced neutrality. “...No?”

\---

"It clearly is a dog, Martin." Jon grimaces and runs a hand down his face, turning to watch Helen leave, and then back to the dog, and then back to Martin, and then down to his hands and fingers, like his body could have changed since he's been gone. Wouldn't be the first time. "Why are we-- why did he bring me home?"

\---

“Sirius did something bad. And I... I yelled at him. So he left?” Martin slowly rounds his eye contact on Gerry, a silent plea for a cushion to whatever blow this might be in his face.

\---

Gerry looks as unamused as he possibly can, and he levels a look to Jon. "The Archivist fed on Tim. It was, from what I can tell, fucked up. And then he very thoroughly reminded us that he's an evil, fucked up piece of shit that we should do well to figure out how to either tame or get rid of."

Jon swallows thickly. "I-- I see. I-- I don't know how to do either of those things."

\---

“I think he’s still changing,” Martin mopes. “He kept threatening to— Hurt me, but he didn’t. I don’t - I don’t know. I felt mean. He deserved it, I guess, but...”

\---

"Of course he deserved it! He deserves to be-- oh, he's probably listening, isn't he." Gerry sighs, a little angrily. "Such horseshit. Jon, you've got to talk to him more, in your-- fucked up dreams, or whatever."

Jon huffs. "As though he'll listen to me. It's not my job to housetrain him."

\---

“Right. It’s my job.” Martin stands up with the dog, avoiding eye contact with Jon specifically. “His name is Poe, by the way. I thought you’d like it.” 

He sidesteps him when he gets to the back door, off to go hole up somewhere inside. Maybe he’ll find some fantastic secret places up on the top floor. Doesn’t matter.


	90. Chapter 90

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day of switching and coffee and plotting  
> .

They don’t talk much about the incident that day. Luckily, they have a puppy on their hands, and Martin busies himself running along after it, ignoring just about everything else. He figured it would be messy, and thankfully their house is mostly wood floors and they haven’t had time to buy nice rugs, but.  _ Well. _

It’s a good thing Jon’s going back to work to stick exclusively in the office however he can today. Michael was a great help the rest of the day, once he’d decided a few minutes alone was all Martin needed to pout. It helps Martin forget about the dread and gloom and move on to another; house training really is the  _ worst  _ job to ever exist. 

But they make do. They laugh, and Martin doesn’t cry, and the dog is charming, and the dog doesn’t have to leave. They make it through the day like they always do, and... 

The puppy is old enough to sleep through the night. Thank God, crate training at the shelter seemed to have been going well enough that they can still  _ sleep. _ Jon would’ve definitely kicked him out otherwise. 

He wakes up the second the front door to the house shuts behind Jon. He gets up a few minutes after that, if only to rattle the locket that sits on the nightstand. Sleeping, in a way. 

Crowded room. Puppy in the crate, three in bed most nights, one on the table. Really is quite a household. “Gerry? ‘S morning.”

\---

Gerry manifests behind Michael's sleeping form, sitting up against the pillows that have been pushed against the headboard when Jon woke up and idly scrolled his emails in bed before getting dressed for the day.

The room is dark enough with their curtains that his eyes glow a little brighter, a little longer, before fading, enough that Michael turns in his sleep to curl around Gerry, pressing his face against his thigh.

"Morning. Up early, today, hm?"

\---

“Yeah.” Martin blinks several times, flipping over to face them both. His hair is a sleepy mess over his eyes, but it’s not enough to obscure him from Gerry’s ethereal glow. “Yeah. Didn’t sleep too great. Jumpy. Ready to... erm, start the day, then?”

\---

Gerry snorts. "One morning with breakfast and you're addicted, huh?" He stretches, and slowly pushes Michael off him, which earns him a sleep-heavy whine but not much else.

\---

“You’re really good at it,” Martin says with a soft smile, sitting up properly in bed. “Should we wake him up?”

\---

"And risk him being a bitch for an hour before his coffee kicks in? No way. I'll make enough for him to eat when he wakes up." He pulls himself from the bed and covers Michael back up with the sheets.

\---

“Okay.” Martin slips out of bed as quietly as he can, and as soon as he does that thump-thump-thumping sound starts again from the crate. He’s quick on the draw, falling to the ground in front of it with a series of ‘shh, shh’ noises as he tries to maneuver the dog out without the loudest racket known to mankind. 

“Could you get the door?”

\---

Gerry laughs quietly and obliges his request, looking utterly amused at Martin manhandling the puppy. He waits for Martin to step out of the bedroom before shutting the door behind them, and starts down the hall. "You two make quite the pair," He says as he walks down the steps two at a time.

\---

“It’s about time  _ I _ had a sidekick, right?” Martin shuffles Poe into one hand so he can pet the top of his head and mess up his ears. “It’s like a toddler. But he’s been really well-behaved so far. Mostly.”

\---

"Stayed quiet through the night, even?" Gerry raises his eyebrows. "Guess so, if we didn't wake up to, like, a note scrawled by a quill pen about how dastardly he is or something. 'Oh, that Edgar Allen...'"

\---

“I think the name’s really doing him favors. It’s cute. Good thing that’s what we went with, and not anything as bad as some of my names. I hate them.”

Martin sits down in one of the kitchen chairs they’ve set up and holds the dog up to his face with a stern look. “You’re not allowed to align with anything. Okay?” 

Poe licks his nose. Good answer.

\---

"Think he's already aligned with you," Gerry says, snorting. He rummages through the cabinets to get a couple skillets and a flat pan out, turning to gesture at Martin with one of them, waving it like he's illustrating something about him. "And you're aligned to  _ how _ many of them?"

\---

“I’ve stopped counting,” Martin deadpans. “Don’t wave your kitchen supplies at me. Rude. He’s rude, isn’t he?” Back to the dog. “But you can bite him as much as you want since he’s a ghost. Get out all your puppy rage that way?”

\---

"He doesn't seem to be, um, opposed to me. Which is-- I worried, you know. That he'd sense I'm... wrong, in a way. Freak out." He places the pans down and then goes to the fridge to start foraging for breakfast materials. "But-- all good so far."

\---

“Back in America there was a dog that came too close and got scared, I couldn’t tell if— If it was upset about me or you,” Martin laughs. “Maybe he just reacts to confusion with excitement.”

\---

"You were in the throes of a violent, violent hunt. Bet you smell a little better now." He turns for a moment to watch the puppy in Martin's arms. "Maybe we just picked the best one. Brave little worm."

\---

“That’s what you are. Our brave little worm.” Martin spends an equal amount of time watching Gerry’s back and the dog with that smile he’s had all morning still stuck. “Edgar Allen Poe Blackwood-Keay-Shelley-Sims.”

\---

"Quite the last name we're slowly growing. It'll be unconscionably long if we have any other people join." He laughs as he stirs pancake batter in the bowl. "At least we don't have to include your Sirius' last name."

\---

Ah. There’s the frown. “I don’t think I want to.” Moving on at an appropriately fast pace. “What, do you have someone in  _ mind?” _

\---

He rolls his eyes. "Nah. Just seems to be a pattern, is all." He laughs. "And you're the one who gave him a last name."

\---

“I thought it was humanizing. Clearly that didn’t work. None of it did.”

\---

Gerry shrugs as he puts butter to the skillet and it sizzles. "Maybe he was having a bad day. I dunno. You've seen him in better lights than any of us. That just seemed... Par for the course to me."

\---

This is as good a time as any to start stress petting the dog. Perfectly handy. “I thought we were making progress. Now I’m just scared. I don’t get angry like that. And Jon doesn’t— He doesn’t seem to care. He even says  _ ‘us’ _ sometimes. About them.”

\---

Gerry tilts his head backwards, frowning. "I think he cares. You know how he gets. It's either a one hundred percent utter meltdown, or he pretends it doesn't bother him at all. The... us is concerning. It's-- are they communicating more? Is that it?"

\---

“I don’t know. I feel like I’ve hit a brick wall. You might— Would you be willing to go talk to Tim, at some point? Soon? I doubt he’s doing... great.”

\---

"Sure. Don't know how much I'll be able to calm the fire surrounding them, though. I mean-- I probably would have done something very, very stupid if the Archivist had done what he was threatening, yesterday."

\---

“I think he’ll probably just need someone to talk to.” Martin pauses. “I almost thought he would.”

\---

"I thought he was going to. He-- he stopped, last minute. See? Maybe you are changing him. He looked freaked out."

\---

“I just don’t know if he stopped because he felt bad, or because he knew no one would like it. I can hope, but—“ Martin looks down at Poe. “I’m afraid I’ll have to do something.”

\---

"... Like what? I mean-- we should have been working on getting rid of him from the get go. He's a thousand times worse than Bouchard."

\---

“The problem, Gerry, is he’s not exactly easy to take out of Jon. I can’t just— I don’t know how.”

\---

"Can't we just-- I don't know. Jerry-rig a ritual or something? You're good at those.”

\---

“What do we know that could even do that? I’d have to— Something awful would have to happen— Or I’d have to be pushed, but it’s— I mean, which one do I use? What do I— That’s a lot of pressure. Especially for... that.”

\---

"I suppose there's a case to be made that he is changing. I mean, that's the first time he's fed from someone in-- a while, yeah?" Gerry pours some of the batter onto the skillet, getting a spatula ready. "But at the end of the day, the world is steadily getting closer to being ended."

\---

“In a while. Yeah.” Martin goes quiet, focusing on the sounds of the kitchen while he thinks. “Do you really think we can’t stop it?”

\---

Gerry shrugs. "We'll try. I mean-- I'm more optimistic than Michael is. He's certain we're going to fail, for sure."

\---

"We really should have a... a meeting, or something. I'm sure we can figure it out, I just..." Martin is quickly realizing that petting the dog helps him talk. "When I start thinking about solutions, I can't help but start immediately thinking, 'well, it's going to obviously have to end with you killing Jon'!"

\---

"I mean, that's definitely the easiest route, isn't it." Gerry flips one of the pancakes and turns to him enough to grimace. "Would prefer it not to be our route, but-- hey, it's not like he hasn't tried to take himself out of the game before, right?"

\---

“That’s not the same.” Martin passes the grimace down to the floor. “...I just proposed.”

Ah. That’s not a good response at all, Martin. “A-And besides, we’re not doing that.”

\---

"No, no, I don't think it's-- I mean, we should definitely avoid that at all costs." Gerry flips one of the pancakes onto a plate, and then starts working on the next, throwing the plate in the microwave to keep it warm while the rest get cooked.

"I mean, it's not like he can usher in the Apocalypse himself, anyways. He's just... Trying to hurry it, right? I mean-- did the greater... Eye even send him? Or did he just... Push himself through? Pretty human behavior."

\---

Martin whines. "I have no idea. I know he wants it to happen, obviously, but I don't think we can really know that the Eye even wants anything other than, than being fed, right? That's all it wants. It doesn't care how it gets it. It doesn't have... morals. A life. It just... is?"

\---

Gerry hums. "Well. He's certainly developing morals. And-- things other than wanting to be fed." He flips one the batter angrily. "Prick, and he gets to try being human. All the benefits of being alive."

\---

“Oh.” Martin connects the dots all at once, and Poe is placed on the floor so he can step forward and wrap his arms around Gerry’s waist from behind. “Well. He has to live in Jon’s body.”

\---

"Jon's body isn't as terrible as you all make it out to be," Gerry grouses, and turns to look at Martin with the closest thing to a pout he has. Which is just a slightly more exaggerated version of his mouth being pulled thin.

\---

"I know," Martin sighs against his back. "Maybe some day we'll figure out a way, just-- we don't know how yet."

\---

Gerry hums, and in lieu of a response to that, flips the next pancake onto the spatula and slips from Martin to stick it on top of the other in the microwave. "Anyways. I should probably talk to Tim."

\---

Martin takes that as a dismissal, and moves to sit back down. He joins Poe on the floor. "I think he'd really like that. Well. Need that, more likely. I'm-- He respects you, a lot."

\---

"I'll text him. Provided he doesn't first." He pours a few spots of batter, for smaller pancakes, three on the skillet at a time. Michael had informed him in a very serious tone for absolutely no reason that he likes small pancakes.

\---

"I haven't heard from him yet, but-- My phone's all yours." Martin leans back against one leg of the table. It's not comfortable, but it lets him watch Gerry all the better. "I could live here forever, I think. Like-- Right now. Just this."

\---

Gerry snorts. "Breakfast forever? It would get pretty old after a while, hm?" But he doesn't disagree. There's a quietness to their kitchen that he likes. That makes him feel real.

\---

"I don't think so. You can do breakfast a million ways. Plus, it's you? I'd eat cardboard if it meant I could spend more time with you." Martin snorts. "Okay. I need to work on that one."

\---

"Well luckily for you I'd never feed you cardboard." He pauses. "Maybe Poe, if it was funny."

\---

Martin covers the dog's ears with his hands. "Don't listen to him. He'd never. Gerry Keay's too sweet for that."

\---

"Oh like he wouldn't have a blast chewing it up." Gerry rolls his eyes and then gestures aimlessly towards the entrance to the kitchen. "The sleeping beauty woke up."

True to his words, Michael trudge down the stairs, hair a mess and eyes half-closed, still half-asleep. "I smell food." He plops on the ground beside Martin and pulls Poe over to him, pressing his face into the soft fur on his head.

\---

Both Poe and Martin perk up at Michael's entrance, though Poe is more easily available for being picked up and moved around like a stuffed animal. He's still groggy enough that he's well-behaved. Saving up his endless puppy energy for after breakfast, most likely. 

Martin rests his head against Michael's shoulder. "Morning," he says tiredly, like Michael's arrival brought him back to a state of near-sleep. "I think holding a dog every morning will do wonders for the state of our mental health."

\---

Michael nods. "Yes. He's sleeping with us when he's old enough, too. No negotiations. You all always leave the bed and leave poor old Michael cold and alone."

\---

"I want him to sleep there, too. Just not the first night, not with-- Jon in..." Martin frowns. "Not the best mood."

\---

"I hate his moods. They're not even fun moods to play with. Just dour, and sad, and depressing." Michael frowns.

\---

"Yeah," Martin sighs, and then proceeds to stare at the floor for a very long time. Just listening to Gerry cook, to the sounds of the kitchen. "Me too."

\---

"Oh, he'll be fine after a day of work. Bet that was his problem. Despicable, rude, Sirius took poor Jonathan Sims from his workaholic den of sin." Michael rolls his eyes.

\---

"Maybe." Martin drums his fingers on the ground, then inhales deeply. A little buffer for what's to come in the form of oxygen. "I just don't know what sort of ritual you'd even do, in this case. It's more likely I'll just accidentally howl at the moon again than... than actually... you know. Separate them? I might just make it ten times worse, Gerry."

\---

"You wouldn't have to do it alone." Gerry brings two plates over to them on the floor, and there's a smaller plate with a fried egg on it for Poe that he also sets down. He takes a seat at the unused kitchen table. "I mean, it's only two of them that like howling, right?"

\---

Poe is quick to wiggle away from Michael to investigate the sudden smells he's allowed to get involved with. Martin lifts his plate off the floor to avoid the inevitable collision, where the egg has turned to a licked-clean plate in about five seconds flat. 

Martin is trying to hide his smile so he can question Gerry. "Two-- Two of who?"

\---

"Of you. I mean, and I guess Michael, but that's a conversation on crazy, not personality." Gerry shrugs.

\---

The gears in Martin's head start to turn the right direction, albeit slowly. He'll blame it on not having breakfast yet, though he's shoveling as much as he can of that into his mouth before he speaks again. "O...Okay. But aren't they all at least, a-a little Eye-aligned? I don't know if any of them would want... to do that. Badly enough."

\---

"Well so are you, and you're thinking about it, aren't you? Whichever ones don't like him might."

\---

He hates when Gerry has a point. Martin sends a cautious glance in Michael’s direction. Then back to Gerry. His voice lowers in volume by several notches. “I can’t just summon them.”

\---

"It's not that hard," Michael says. "I mean. At least some of them."

\---

“Then why don’t  _ you _ ask if anybody in my head wants to split the Archivist in half if it’s so easy, Michael?” Martin grimaces. “Go door-to-door like you’re making a sales pitch!”

\---

"Well one of them makes me nervous, Martin! I need to eat, first. Besides. It's not exactly science. Calling for one makes another pop right out sometimes." He frowns.

\---

Martin grumbles down at his plate. “Sure. Breakfast first, then we go prodding around Martin’s head for clues.” 

He sighs at himself. No use being such a jerk about it. “Sorry. I don’t want you to be nervous. This is— Um, really good, Gerry.”

\---

He shrugs. "They'll get better, the more I do it. Didn't cook for many people other than my mum before."

"It's more than I was given before you prodded around my guts, Martin." Michael huffs. "I didn't get breakfast." He stabs a fork into one of his pancakes.

\---

“What’s going on with you this morning, Michael?”

\---

"Nothing. Half asleep. Don't like seeing your Sirius much. He's not who I'd choose to lead the end of the world, you know."

\---

“He won’t,” Martin nearly growls. Testy. “We’re not letting him. And nobody else should, either.”

\---

Michael shrugs. "Someone will. It's alright. Just prefer it not to be him."

\---

“Don’t do that.” Martin finishes his  _ own  _ breakfast in record time, which he might regret later, and stands up to do his own dishes.

\---

"Don't do what? Talk? I'm bad at that.  _ Ugh.  _ Fine." He shoves another bite into his mouth. "Don't ask my opinions, then."

\---

"I mean don't act like the end of the world is just-- a fact. It's not a fact." Martin moves on from his own plate to the ones Gerry used to cook them breakfast. "It's only a fact if we make it one. And we have to-- If Jon won't-- If Jon's the problem, then we need to start being a better team. Um. Us three."

\---

"I'm on board for whatever we do." Michael says. "Live, die, lose ourselves to whatever madness we inevitably get trapped in."

Gerry scowls at Michael. "Knock it off. You're gonna get Martin all upset."

\---

"Oh, no, Michael's right. I'd love to get trapped in some awful dimension and get stuck there forever with no hope of getting out! Much better than the other option I was thinking about." Martin hums, keeping all his anger tightly locked up in the hands he's using to scrub the dishes clean. "A suicide pact is just - just boring."

\---

"It doesn't have to be an awful dimension. And we'd be too mad to care, anyways. If I could choose it, this time, it wouldn't be-- it wouldn't be the worst way to go."

\---

"What do you mean choose, Michael? It's either the end of the world or it isn't! Nothing any of them would make would be good!"

\---

"I meant if I could choose madness, Martin." Michael sits up to his full height, pushing his hair behind his shoulders. "End of the world has a million little twists and turns and choices. Pity the Spiral lost its chance. Better than the Eye's."

\---

Martin doesn't dignify that with a response. "If you want me to come up with solutions, I need help." He turns just slightly, enough to frown softly at Gerry. "All the 'rituals' I ever made up were out of love. This feels like hate."

\---

"Hate? More like self-preservation and love for the world," Gerry says.

\---

“Mmmh.” God, has he said that he hates when Gerry makes a good point? “Yeah. I guess. Sure. If there’s any time... or place to start working on a safety plan for if Sirius crosses a line, I-I guess it’s here. I’m just— Too tense. Right - right now, to start spinning wheels?”

\---

"Doubt he'll pull a stunt like that for a while again anyways. He clearly wasn't a fan of how upset you were with him yesterday."

\---

"I think all of us know that just because he doesn't like upsetting people, or - or says he doesn't, he still does it anyway, Gerry."

\---

"It's still a change. I think Michael should try to talk to them. Yours."

\---

“I-I said it’s fine, didn’t I? Michael knows more about it than I do. I trust him. Find whichever piece of me that’s creative, or whatever.” Martin runs out of dishes to do, so he turns around to face them both with his elbows on the kitchen counter. “Just don’t let me bite anyone? Please?”

\---

Michael cocks his head and then laughs a little. "Not him. Hunt-you likes Sirius." He slowly stands, stretching his back and then snapping at the puppy so he'll hopefully follow him to the living room.

\---

Martin pulls off something that can only be described as a frown-smile. He isn't sure which expression to choose, and neither option feels totally right. It's like an inside joke he knows is an inside joke, but doesn't fully get. But he gets enough of it to be conflicted about it.

Poe follows, because Michael is currently the most interesting thing in the room. Martin hesitates at the sink, upsettingly unsure if the snap was for him or the dog, but after a pathetic glance in Gerry's direction he steps into Michael's shadow, too.

\---

Gerry gets up to follow both of them, and there's definitely a sheen of curiosity in his eyes. Sure, he's somehow seemed to  _ name _ some of them, but Michael seems way, way more confident in getting them to show up. He sits on the couch across from Michael.

Michael bundles Poe up in his arms onto the couch with him, pressing his chin on top of the puppy's head. And then he trains his gaze onto Martin and he smiles, lazily, and says, "Might be a matter of gender here, dear. I mean, maybe it's a case of, like, that Lord of the Rings thing. 'I am no man...' and all that." That earns a laugh from Gerry.

\---

Martin crosses his arms and ignores the way Michael calls him  _ dear.  _ It always makes him blush. This time is no different. "Don't you think it's a little stereotypical for my feminine side to be the vindictive one? I haven't even been that since-- Since we put on makeup, and it all sort of fell apart."

\---

"It all fell apart because you weren't being, like, confident with yourself. You looked good, you know. And then you cut off all your hair! All that pink!" Michael sighs dramatically. He's holding his wrist and pressing a little. "It was sad."

\---

"It's getting longer again, we could pick something else." Martin cards a hand through his hair as if to prove it. Something in the air makes him shiver, and he tries to ignore it, to ignore how skin-crawlingly open it is to be standing here between them both. Their own personal little carnival creature. "I can be confident again."

\---

"You should be. I like it. I like when you're confident. It's sexy. I want to paint you again, you know. Make it real this time. Realer than just fake. Fake.  _ Fake.  _ Fake memories that sit in my brain and twist and turn all the time." He leans forward and smiles at Martin.

\---

"They're not fake memories, Michael. Not when they're in my head, too." Martin sighs. "I think about those paintings all the time. Dream about them. They're... good dreams."

He gets tired of standing, so he moves to his knees in front of Michael. And Poe, consequently. Pet the dog. All your worries go away. "Do you think we would have been happy if I stayed? Forever? Kelsie and Michael's marvelous misadventures, maybe?"

\---

Michael smiles, but it's a little sad. "Yes. Maybe. Depends on if you need it to be real, really real." He cocks his head. "We wouldn't have been able to stay. I would have-- remembered who I was. What I was. Eventually. And you would have been consumed. Lost. I would have kept you for as long as I could, though."

\---

“I might be okay with that kind of madness. Just a little. Don’t tell.” Martin winks. “But we have this one! There’s no shortages of canvases or dresses. Or alliteration.” He reaches up to brush his hand over Michael’s face. “Or confidence, hopefully?”

\---

Michael leans into the touch and smiles so sweetly down at him. "Plenty here. Plenty. Of all of it. I'll miss it. I will. When it ends. Being able to-- to just have nights where I get dressed up and be trashy and do nothing but have fun."

\---

“You can have that if we win.” Kelsie lingers at his face before giving him a soft pat. “But you know about that better than I do right now, yeah?”

\---

"We have to win, still." Michael pouts. "Not looking likely, where we stand now."

\---

Kelsie leans back slightly, eyebrows pushed together with worry. “Why not?”

\---

"The Archivist is going to make it happen. He's in Jon, and he's going to make it happen. Jon alone will make it happen. Let alone how fast now."

\---

“Oh.” Their shoulders slump. “That’s, um, no good, is it? His world wouldn’t be very fun.” They look across the room, over the furniture, through the woods, to meet eyes with Gerry. They haven’t been present like this. Not— Not so seamlessly. When did that happen? Michael’s so sweet. “Hi.”

\---

"Hi." Gerry tilts his head a little. "This one is--"

"Kelsie. We met in the Spiral. And no, it's not good. I mean-- his world really wouldn't be fun. All pain. Fear. Not even the fun kind."

\---

“Oh,  _ this one. _ Rude. We’ve met! Several times, actually!” Back to Michael. Much more charming. “So you want me to... do what? I feel like I should know that already. But I don’t!”

\---

Michael grins at Kelsie's jab at Gerry. Hah.  _ Rude. _ This is why Kelsie is his favorite.

"A ritual! Hopefully. You're good at those. I mean-- you got me out. That took-- honestly. I still don't know how we got me out. It doesn't make sense! Which makes sense, you know. We think... We think Sirius, The Archivist, should be separated from Jon."

\---

“It made sense to me. I just got closer, and closer, until— No more doors! But that was— I was made in there. And not on purpose, either?” Kelsie shrugs. “Everything I did was on accident.”

\---

"Can you accidentally rip him from Jon? I mean-- there must be a way. You're-- you're rather creative." Michael cocks his head and leans forward again, ghosting a smile against their cheek.

\---

Kelsie swallows. “Um. The dog catches eyes with its teeth, just squishes them like grapes while— No, wait, that’s not right. I mean— What I mean is— Can’t he go blind? It happened the first time. But then... Jon likes to read. That would be cruel.”

\---

"Jon's world will be cruel," Gerry says. He stays where he is on the couch, but he's pulled himself forward a little as he listens to Michael and Kelsie.

Michael nods at Gerry and then back to Kelsie. "Its a modern age. Audio books are all the rage! And-- maybe there's other methods. We don't-- thsts just the method we know."

\---

Kelsie sits down on the floor. “Okay. What about... What about...” Think. You can think. You’re good at thinking, but not at overthinking, because you’re you, and not someone else. “Jon sometimes— He used to talk about a door. That there was a door, and it cracked open, and there’s a... flood? That part’s confusing. You could... send him back? But that one makes me sad. I don’t like locking people behind doors.”

\---

"Could we--  _ could _ we lock him behind the door? Not Jon, just-- The Archivist? He's not even-- he's not even from Earth," Gerry says. "What is it? A door in his mind?"

\---

“I-I don’t know, I’d have to remember what he said, I don’t— This is sort of my first time.” Kelsie shakes their head. “You could keep him from getting more marks, you could— All of these things could really backfire. A flood, that’s massive.”

\---

"What would that-- do you know what that means? A flood? Is it just-- metaphorical, here?" Gerry keeps a steady, curious eye on Kelsie. "What do you mean first time? You've said we've met. I remember-- I remember."

\---

Kelsie wrinkles their nose up at Gerry. “I mean it’s my first time being so— Close. You know, present? Scheming, too. And— The flood. Isn’t. Metaphorical. At least, I don’t think it is. Shouldn’t you know that?”

\---

"I'm not an Archivist, and Jon isn't exactly crystal clear at the best of times." Gerry frowns at them. "I don't have a door, I died before I got one."

\---

“Maybe you’re a door, then.” Kelsie sticks their tongue out at him. “A door can’t go in other doors, can he? I think it makes sense. Oops, he died, the door opened a little bit, Archivist hopped on, and now— How can you open a door without inviting something much worse, right?”

\---

"Jon's the door. Jon is-- he is the ritual piece." Gerry blinks, and looks to Michael, who has a grimace plastered onto his face.

"I was akin to throwing a chair in front of the door and wedging it shut, then, I suppose. Oh, what a nuisance, naughty Michael." He giggles a little. "I would hate to be a door. It's awful business."

\---

“Is he the door? Jon’s not very good at explaining his metaphors.” Kelsie hums, trying not to laugh. “No, Michael, you’re like those doors that have a top knob and a bottom knob and you can swing the top one open— Oh, no! No! Wait! You’re like plastic wrap on an open door. Looks open. Attacks you.”

\---

"But I stopped it, you know. The Spiral's Apocalypse. They would have-- you know, the world would have been very, very mad if it weren't for me." Michael purses his lips. "Maybe we need to jam Jon's door."

\---

“...Jam it.” Kelsie pauses. “But the Archivist’s already here. If— What would happen, if he was stuck here? Permanently? Away from the Eye?”

\---

"Martin's been trying to make him all... Human." Michael wrinkles his nose.

"Mixed results on that one," Gerry says. "Who knows what would happen if his connection to the Eye was... Severed."

\---

Kelsie nudges Michael’s leg with a hand. “We’re good at that. He’s not that much different from you and the Spiral. You were just less black and white, he’s... rigid. Has to make a distinction even if there’s not much to make of it.” 

They lean forward to grip Poe, who’s been quietly watching them talk, by both cheeks. “It’s like he knows. It’s funny.”

\---

"Do you like him? I think he's quite the charmer. He'll be big. Good for rough housing." Michael hands Poe off to Kelsie, smiling.

"So you think it's possible then? To-- tame the Archivist?" Gerry asks.

\---

“I don’t know why you think I know everything. I’m just a piece of what someone wished they could be but never had the chance,” Kelsie says quietly, cradling Poe upside down like a baby. “I’m an optimist.”

\---

"Well." Gerry says. "I don't think you know everything. But you're good at putting pieces together. And speculating. And we need to speculate right now."

"And Martin gets all sad," says Michael. "Which I get, he's like.... His fiancé or whatever. But it makes it hard to plan when he ignores the things he knows in his heart."

\---

“If he wasn’t so good at lying to himself, he never would’ve made me.” Kelsie shakes their head. “I won’t get sad. But I’m really not— Not the best— Sorry. This is a little overwhelming. I feel silly.”

\---

"Silly?" Gerry starts, a flare of something like annoyance flooding his expression. We're talking about saving the--"

"Is there someone better?" Michael interrupts.

\---

“I...” Kelsie worries their bottom lip. “Think... Maybe? Probably. Yeah. I don’t know what you’re playing at.”

\---

"Someone who doesn't care about silly," Gerry says. "And who won't bark."

Michael sends him a glare. He's being rude and it won't help. "I know who." He digs the pad of his thumb lightly against his wrist.

\---

Kelsie watches him do just that, very sweetly ignoring the ghost. They also have just about as much excitement for continuing whatever this game is as Michael does. “It kind of tingles, when you do that. Did you know that?”

\---

Michael nods. "Does the same, when you touch yours." He reaches out to take hold of Kelsie's hand gently, turning it over to brush his thumb against their mark, too. Michael shivers.

\---

Kelsie mirrors the motion, goosebumps across their arms. “Is that why you howl when he does? Oh. Oh. Wait. You promised. You promised you’d play. That was ages ago.” They use the proximity to Michael’s fingers to loop their pinkies together.

\---

Michael tightens them, and he'd like very much to keep Kelsie here. It takes everything not to abandon this little quest. He longs for Kelsie. And this feels like the closest he's gotten, since the Hallways. Since the dress and the painting. Just glimpses, since then, but now--

"I guess I did. I wasn't lying, you know. I never really grew up playing board games. And the Distortion-- it just twisted me all up and made me confused about the whole thing." He pulls his pinkie from the promise to slide down his wrist again, smiling softly. "I don't know if we have any."

\---

One thing can be said of Martin and all his moving pieces. They can tell when someone is goading them on into something. The only problem is, that doesn’t make it any less irresistible to be goaded in the first place. 

It isn’t an easy transition. Nothing ever really is. It’s not one blip to another. Kelsie is still here, and not here, but there’s something else. Something bright and sharp and dark and soft all at once. “I have—  _ so _ many! Did you not see the tub? A whole tub. Filled with games. We’ve still never broken out Twister, or Mouse Trap, but you’d make new games out of either of those. Ones other people wouldn’t approve of. Of course we have games.”

\---

"I owe you a board game. You said so yourself. Find one for me? I only got to smash up Martin’s wee little game with the organs in it. That's all. That's all." He'll get lost with this one, but that's why Gerry's here. To keep them on track.

\---

“You owe me a whole life’s worth of board games. But that’s okay! I’ll go— I’ll be right back. Don’t. Move.” Bright eyes and childlike wonder sort of mask everything else, don’t they? Poe gets forgotten on the ground, and Martin, for lack of a better word, is quickly running off to an adjacent room to start rummaging through a large box.

\---

Gerry blinks once he leaves. "This one-- oh, I thought this one was just him being manic one time. Before the Spiral. When he was planning everything."

Michael presses his thumb to his wrist again and nods. "He's a lot of things. I don't know him all the way. Glimpses. Named him in the belly of the Distortion. Games. Games, games, games."

\---

By the time he comes back, Martin has sobered up considerably without any of the actual sobering up. He holds a big black satin bag and a board. “When I got Scrabble I decided there were way too few letters. Never enough to make all the words I wanted, but I added a second bag of letters and I mixed them in with the first so the game can keep on going and going without ‘asphyxiants’. I can hear you talking about me, by the way. Thin walls.”

\---

"It's nothing bad. Just talking." Michael says, and beams up at him from the couch. "We have to make words? Martin, what if I can't spell? What then?"

\---

“This isn’t normal Scrabble.” Martin says plainly, seriously. He grins at Gerry. “You can play, too, prophet-witch. Everyone knows you’re supposed to have 4 players for most of the best games, but 3 is fine in a pinch.”

\---

"Fine. I'll play. Get it set up." Gerry tilts his head. "Like Michael, I've hardly played-- games."

\---

Martin hums as he starts to unravel the pieces on the ground. “You play games all the time. Both of you do. There’s no point in pretending you don’t. You were just playing a game right before I got here! But I could always make it a little more familiar.”

\---

"I meant board games, Martin." Gerry scowls at him. "That's a little different than-- than the games we play."

\---

“No they’re not. Now, let’s see. Since you’re all going to be stubborn about it.” Martin dumps the contents of the bag all over the board. This is not how you play Scrabble. “Let’s have a seance! We won’t need a ghost, since we have that covered, all we need are questions and answers, right?”

\---

"And who's going to answer, without a ghost?" Gerry tilts his head at the board.

\---

“Whatever’s listening.” Martin smiles. He looks down at the giant mess of letters. “So. Test run. What’s another word for ghost?” He smears his hand over the letters, like he’s unearthing something beneath them all. When he clears the space, bored after a while of the tactile feeling of cold plastic squares, three letters remain in the center: ‘KEY’. 

“I think that’s close enough!”

\---

Martin squints, and Michael gives a peal of laughter. "Oh, I like this one. I do. Do one for me."

\---

Martin’s slyness has never been like a fox’s, but that’s what makes this so off. “Sure. What’s Michael Shelley’s greatest fear?”

His hand finds the pieces again, first moving them back to the center and then back out. They sound like shards of bone. This time, more or less evenly, three words are left behind: ‘TRY AGAIN LATER’. 

“Hm. Maybe I need a different question.”

\---

Michael looks down at the board and giggles nervously, shrugging equally as noncommittally. 

"How about the question we started with? How do we separate Jon and the Archivist?" Gerry asks.

\---

“We’re warming up. You’re slow. Why should I help you at all if you’re so eager to make me do all the work while you sit there and boss me around?”

He turns to Michael, like Gerry’s not right there. “I like making him mad.”

\---

"I bet he hates it. Infuriates him. How queer!" Michael laughs.

Gerry scowls. "He's right here. And it's your game. Your magic. Maybe I'm curious to watch you do it."

\---

“It’s our game. Our magic. Don’t you want to get to know me before you make me do tricks?” Martin pouts. “Maybe I want to know about you, too.”

\---

"More traditional séance, then. Ask the ghost your questions." Gerry slowly smiles. "I'm getting to know you already. Right now."

\---

Martin squints up at him. “No you’re not. Is it worth asking the ghost questions?”

The pieces skate beneath his fingers. ‘ONLY TRIVIA’.

\---

"Will it work for me? Anything?" Michael grins and reaches forward to move Martin's hands away, pushing the pieces back to the center. "What's your name? Do I just move them?" He tries to mimic what Martin has done with the pieces.

\---

Martin puts a hand over Michael’s as he moves, not slowing him down. Just touching. ‘GUESS’.

\---

He looks up and grins, fingers brushing over each individual letter like rosary beads on a string. "Are you the Gamemaster? I've tried to find you for a while. Elusive, you are."

\---

“I am  _ not! _ You’re just getting better at looking. I’m here all the time.” He sighs. “I guess it’s time to stop being a... bit selfish. You caught me. But I don’t want to kill him. Why don’t you just trap him in a bubble and make him stay there forever?”

\---

"If we make him better, he doesn't need to die," Gerry says. "No Apocalypse. But convincing him to halt what would be a perpetual feast for him..." He tilts his head. "Even morality doesn't stop hunger."

"A bubble sounds rather dreary," Michael says.

\---

“Oh, everybody’s a poet all of a sudden.” Martin rolls his eyes. “He’s not getting better. He was always sick. Now he just has a name for it. Sound familiar yet? He died and got one wish. Now he’s not accountable! Yay!”

\---

"Bit uncharitable, isn't it?" Gerry asks. "Not saying I disagree. But that would imply you don't want to just trap The Archivist."

\---

“I never said I wanted to do anything. That’s messy. But I don’t think at this point there’s much of a difference. It’s both or neither. I do like that you’re hiding this from him, though. What happens if he finds out his disciples are backstabbing?”

\---

"It's not backstabbing." Gerry gives a thin smile, holding his hands together, knuckles tight. "We're just discussing potential options, should things get... Out of hand. I want him safe. But I also want the world safe. I didn't die in Gertrude's pursuit of saving the world just to let Jon end it."

\---

“Potential options and fail safes he doesn’t know about. Important difference.” He hums, cycling through the tiles. “He’s not getting more human, he’s getting less. While... the Archivist does the reverse. Jamming a door might work, but... there’s rules! The energy has to work its way out somehow. Like how there’s still an Unknowing. Still died. Still got corrupted. If you find something as big as the Watcher’s Crown...”

\---

"A different ritual to end the world?" Gerry shakes his head. "We're trying to prevent that, Martin. And can't the energy just... Fizzle out?"

\---

“It might end the world. It might not. You could always make new energy, can’t you? Rooftop rituals and deep dark caverns and stage plays aplenty. Energy doesn’t fizzle out. It builds and builds and builds.” He swipes his hands over the pieces. ‘CREW’ is left behind. He quickly scatters them again. “Oh. That’s unrelated. Ignore that.”

\---

"It's not. Unrelated. Don't lie to me." Gerry scowls. "That-- I need more assurance than might. That's what we have now. a big fat  _ might."  _ He shakes his head.

Michael pulls closer to Martin, pressing his head to his arm. "But his mights are better than Jon's."

\---

“I’m not lying! I don’t lie.” He leans so he can rest his cheek against the top of Michael’s head. They look very cute together. “If you want more than a might, I need more from you. Don’t ask me what! I don’t know. But I can only do my best if everyone else plays along. Grumpy.”

\---

"I'm playing along. Skepticism isn't denial."

"He'll be like this the whole time unless we loosen him up," Michael whines.

\---

“You’re a ghost, and you’re still a skeptic.” He flicks a few tiles away. “I think maybe, maybe you could put him in more danger.” Flick. “You can hope something else decides to do something.” Flick. “Or I can play martyr. I’m always ready to play martyr. The Archivist didn’t know what would happen if I got all the marks. Maybe it’s looking nicer and nicer?”

\---

"How would you having all the marks make you a martyr? Doesn't that make you a-- just the same as Jon?" Gerry cocks his head. "What if we stopped getting any marks at all?"

\---

“It means—“ No, not too out of his head for that one. “You tell  _ him _ that. That’s what the Archivist wants. For Jon. That’s his goal, to end the world. The difference is I’m not aligned to the Eye like he is. I’m not the Archivist. I’m a tool belt.”

\---

"Ending the world is still ending the world, regardless of what it looks like. Eye or not. Yours wouldn't be better," Gerry frowns.

\---

“But you like me,” Martin pouts. “Right?”

\---

"Obviously." Gerry leans forward, softening his gaze. "I like Jon, too. Doesn't mean I want the world dominated by either of you. A home is enough."

\---

Martin looks down at the ground, staring at the Scrabble pieces guiltily. The word  _ bits _ comes to mind, but so much has happened he can’t even remember why that joke was ever funny. If it even was a joke. He feels tired. He doesn’t know why he brought out all these things. “Sorry. I don’t know what else to do. All I know how is— Throwing myself at something sharp until it catches.”

\---

"Works in the moment, until you're run jagged and bloody at the end." Gerry cocks his head. "I want us to be safe. That's all. If it means bubbling Jon, I'll do it. But I don't want-- I don't want any of you to end the world."

\---

“I don’t either, I just— there’s a point, somewhere, that he can’t be stopped. And I don’t know when that is. I don’t know what bubbling means.” He sniffs. “I just want all of you happy.”

\---

"I'm happy with you. Always happy. No matter what. Always happy," Michael babbles, still pressed against him as close as can be.

"We've got a decent start, at least. An open conversation. It's-- just something to keep in mind." Gerry says.

\---

“Doesn’t mean I like it,” Martin mumbles between them both. “We should start putting wards on the walls. Can we— Can we do that? Keep the Eye away?”

\---

"Would that bar Jon from rooms at this point? We can-- we can experiment, I guess."

Michael nods against him. "I have my paints."

\---

“I don’t think so, just— Maybe tape recorders won’t start spawning here?” His emphasis is a low whisper. “If we figure something out?”

\---

"One of the rooms, for the Eye, maybe. Just-- One Jon wouldn't go into? Michael's maybe? We don't--" Gerry squints, and has the decency to look guilty. "We don't want Jon getting Paranoid."

\---

“Right. We just want to talk about him behind his back.” Martin reaches up to wipe snot away from his nose. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

\---

Gerry gives him a long look and then reaches out to brush over the back of one of Martin's hands. "Okay. That's fine. I should probably-- I should probably text Tim, anyways."

\---

Martin nods. “My phone’s on the c—“ He looks up. “Where’s the dog?” And then he jolts upright, out of both of their grasps, suddenly alive with the energy of an overprotective parent. “Poe?”

\---

"He's probably just exploring a room, Martin it's-- Oh great, now Michael's up, too." Gerry huffs, and slowly pulls himself to his feet as Michael tries to follow Martin in pursuit of the puppy, grabbing the phone from the counter in the kitchen.

\---

Martin checks several rooms downstairs before he finds the tub he’d upended, apparently, on its side and spilling with his random assortment of games. Poe is quietly chewing on a wooden piece of Jenga, while the bitten shreds of the box and several other pieces sit scattered around him. The disbelief does wonders to his otherwise depressing mood. “How’d he do that so quietly?”

\---

"Guess we've got a real sneak on our hands," Michael chides, and leans forward to pry the piece from little Poe's mouth, waving it in front of him like he's so very, very naughty but so very, very cute.

In the kitchen, Gerry opens a new text, set to send to Tim. 'want to talk about yesterday? -gerard'

\---

Poe tries to steal the piece back, because he loves it and Michael’s moving it in the most exciting way possible for a larval stage dog brain. “We can’t let him get into anything Jon owns. Not— Not a single thing.”

‘Yeah. Please? Maybe coffee? Definitely coffee.’

A few seconds later, another one pops through. ‘You can’t drink coffee, can you? Fuck me.’

...Aaaand, third time’s the charm. ‘That’s not a request, by the way. Just clarifying.’

\---

'Clarification accepted. Would worry if me not drinking coffee is what really got you going. Just tell me where to meet you.' Well. Looks like Tim's in dire need of him, and he'd like to think about Martin and Jon and Michael not around any of them, anyways.

"I'm leaving!" He calls, unsure of where Martin and Michael disappeared to.

"Poe's eating wood! Bye, Gerry!" He hears from Michael.

\---

“Okay— Be safe, love you—“ Martin calls, strained as Poe tries to help him put Jenga away by destroying the rest of the box. 

‘No, it doesn’t.’ Not even a joke. That’s how grim this is. ‘Yeah, let me send you an address. Thanks. Seriously.’

\---

'omw'. Gerry doesn't have much to collect other than the locket, and then he's out the door without much more than a returned "love you".

\------

Tim is a wreck. And that’s being  _ nice.  _ It’s technically a no-smoking zone, but nobody’s sitting near him and no one’s said anything, and he’s already bought three cups of coffee that are definitely not decaf, and he’s still not jittery enough, so he’s allowed to have a cigarette in his lonesome isolation table. 

His eyes are red, and he wishes that was a good thing, but it’s not. He’s not even really aware of how awful he looks, and that’s the one positive he’s got going for him right now. 

Gerard is easy to spot. Not-so-surprise goth in an empty sea of grey this dreary, early winter morning. Tim gives him a slight wave that’s almost dismissive, but it’s really not. He’s excited. Excited to have  _ something.  _ Keay’s been helpful. It’s better than any other leads he has outside the wad of paper he’s trying not to crush into an incomprehensible mass on the table.

\---

Gerry comes to a standstill at Tim's table and gives him a look over. Once, twice, and then he slowly sits, pulling out the chair in front of him quickly. "You look like shit, Tim. Have you slept?"

He's still a bundle of energy himself. A lot happened this morning, and it's never a dull day when Tim's involved. He's got the locket around his wrist, and his fingers idly play with the charms that dangle from it.

\---

“If you’re asking that, you already know what the answer is.” He sits back in his chair, spine pinched against metal. “I talked to Sasha. I don’t know how much you know, but our archivist gave me a list of addresses. She said I can only investigate if I bring someone we can both trust along.” He flicks the paper ball slightly in Gerry’s direction. “That’s you.”

\---

Gerry takes the wad of paper and slowly unravels it, looking down at the addresses and tilting his head slightly. He sets it down on the table, and looks back up at Tim. "Right. You think today is the best time for-- well, what is this for, exactly?"

\---

“I didn’t say today. I just wanted to know if you’d say yes. I think I’d make a bad decision if I went right now. Without a plan. Just a gun.” He takes an unsteady, deep drag. “And a whole bunch of baggage.”

\---

"Of course I'll go. What is it? The addresses. Did he actually give you something-- useful?"

\---

“Potential hideouts for some guys named Breekon and Hope, mostly. Related to the Unknowing. Places we can find them. I think we should get rid of one and kidnap the other. If they’re— If it’s legit.”

\---

"... I see. That's... That could be a big lead. Jon's mentioned these guys before. They pop up, here and there. Have a-- a coffin." He looks back down at the addresses. "Do you think they'll know when it's happening?"

\---

“It’s a better lead than anything else we have.” Tim sighs. “I just want it over with, Gerry.”

\---

Gerry's expression softens and he nods. "Yeah. Yeah, I do too. You think me and you is enough to take these guys?"

\---

“I have no idea. But it’s worth a shot. Worst case scenario, we lose and I die and you end up at a secondhand shop for cheap.”

\---

Gerry scowls. "Well. We have an Avatar on speed dial. I'd prefer to enlist help and not have to get Jon involved in the manpower of this."

\---

“Who, Mike? Yeah. Sure. If he wants to come, that’d be swell.” He drums his fingers against the table. “I’m really trying not to kill my boss.”

\---

"Mm. Think we all are." He frowns. "Archivist isn't much fun."

\---

“Is that... Is that you telling me I should? Or you telling me I shouldn’t?”

\---

"You shouldn't. But I'm telling you you haven't suffered alone. Prick ripped my voice out for a week, once."

\---

Tim glares, through Gerry rather than at him. Something fiercely protective. “So why the hell is he allowed to walk free? He can’t  _ do _ that.”

\---

"He's a god, and he lives in our-- in our Jon. Right now? There's not much we can do."

\---

“They’re not that different. One’s just less burdened by morals.” Tim snorts. It’s an ugly, frustrated sound. “Did he tell you I almost threw him across the desk— and then, some— Helen? That’s Spiral, right? Why would she interrupt that?”

\---

"For fun, probably. She showed up, when he came home. Just to have her drama intake met." Gerry snorts. "She's dangerous, but mostly... On our side? At least for now. Less violent than Michael was, at least."

\---

“Not comforting.” And a particularly sour conversational topic. “Maybe Mike’s in the mood for coffee. You have his number?”

\---

Gerry nods, and pulls Martin's phone out, pulling up the text app. "Yeah. I'll text him."

'You busy? Me and Tim are planning a hunt. Meet us for coffee?'

\---

“Ghost with a phone. Really breaking boundaries.” Tim takes another sip of coffee. “But it’s so weird texting Martin to get you. Like he’s your pimp.” 

There is no immediate response.

\---

'It's Gerard Keay.'

Gerry hums. "I can text, but I can't call. Voice doesn't catch. Should probably get my own phone. Didn't matter as much, when we were living in the Archives." He pauses. "He's not my pimp."

\---

“Are you his?” Tim waggles his eyebrows. 

The phone is quiet for a long pause, and then it buzzes. ‘Sorry. Where?’

\---

Gerry sends him the address and a thumbs up emoji, and then looks up to Tim, squinting as he catches up with what he's trying to say. "Hardly. If I was his pimp I wouldn't have given the pass on Michael, and look where we're at now."

\---

“C’mon. Nothing wrong with Michael. He really seems like a swell guy. Aside from the whole, willingly living in a house with Jon Sims thing.” He points down at the phone. “Is he coming? Haven’t seen him since Christmas. Hope he’s alright.”

\---

"Oh, I like Michael fine. Sleep with him, don't I?" Gerry snorts. "But if you'd met him as I did, you might have had second thoughts about being bedfellows with what he was."

He looks down at his phone. "Maybe? He didn't confirm. But he asked where, so... Probably?"

\---

“Right. A Helen situation, I guess.” 

Whatever playful mirth Tim gained in that conversation dies quietly, over the next few minutes. Replaced with the antsy waiting game where all the answers are just a few steps ahead. Then a few more. And a few more. 

Mike does show up. Record time, too. He looks almost out of breath when he pops into view around the corner of the café, but aside from that he seems to be doing well. When he’s not compensating for some injury to his head or his arm, he doesn’t seem taller, but he does seem healthier. Pale eyes ice but not slush. Eyebrows turned in to make him look acutely aware of his surroundings, even though it’s just concern. He’s wearing the exact same coat and scarf he’d left in, but now those and his hair are dotted in flecks of snow that don’t seem to be melting. 

He doesn’t say anything until he’s right there, standing next to the table in view of them both, not taking a seat. “Hello.”

\---

"Hello, Mike." Gerry looks up at him from his seat, flitting him a small but happy smile. "Care to plan a kidnapping?"

\---

Mike stares at him, openly, curious but confused about... several things, though most of them are not relevant. 

Tim gestures to one of the empty chairs, kicking it out so he doesn’t have to pull it away. Mike takes it with a small ‘thank you’. “...Why?”

“They’ve got leads on the Stranger’s ritual. Hopefully. Coming up soon, by the way.”

“Oh. Okay. So you want... my help? That’s what this means?”

\---

"If you'd like to help, yes." Gerry gives a solid nod. "You'd be excellent help. We're not sure how strong these blokes are."

\---

“I... do owe you. For the help. Yes. I can. I can try, at least. I’ve never encountered the Stranger. Not directly.”

\---

"They're nasty. All of them. Always hated when we dealt with their ilk." Gerry grimaces in disgust. "Always hated confusion. These two... I'm not really sure how aligned they really are. They're-- strange, in the statements I've read."

\---

“Strange in a different way than... strange. I see.” Mike continues to sit there awkwardly, not making any moves to order something. “I’ve never read any books about them. Or from them. All of my knowledge is secondhand, but... in the face of confusion, something straight-forward?”

“Like a gun?”

“Oh. Yes. Like a gun. You’re only bringing one back alive?”

\---

"You want to use a bullet on one of them? Is that wise?" Gerry cocks his head. "We could bring them to Jon. Can't lie to him. Can't confuse a compelling."

\---

“Fuck no, Keay. God. I don’t— I’d really, really love it if we didn’t have to use Jon, actually.” Tim slaps a hand over his face and keeps it there. “If they’re important enough for him to write down, they’re probably important enough for that.”

\---

Gerry sucks in an annoyed breath. "I know you're pissed at him, Tim, but I'm not exactly keen on ignoring someone who can pull the truth from creatures stronger than you or I. We can kill them after we get information from them."

\---

Tim’s silence is stormy. “... Fine. But you or someone else needs to have a handle on him. I’m not losing this lead. And I’m not pissed. I’m hurt. There’s a big fucking difference.”

\---

"I'll control him. It'll be fine. We're all on the same side, here, regardless of... Methodology." Gerry gives a slow nod. "I just want to maximize our ability to get actual information, here."

\---

“I know.  _ I know.  _ I really hate how right you are sometimes.”

Mike chimes in. “This sounds like an exhausting way to live. I never thought the end of my solitary life would turn out this way.”

\---

Gerry snorts and turns to him. "It's not exactly by choice, Mike. And besides. There's some benefits. I have a house, now."

\---

“Congratulations.” Mike laces his fingers together with a curt smile, but it’s not exactly... ecstatic. “I’m sure it’s grand.”

Tim grins. Really tries to put his heart into it. “Yeah, for a den of sin.”

\---

Gerry kicks Tim under the table and scowls. "I think the den of sin moniker is a given considering we're all cultists."

\---

Tim kicks him right back. ”Jerk. Can’t take a joke, can he? Not even a fun den of sin. Just Martin chasing his tail while Jon commits crimes against life as we know it.”

\---

"It can be fun. We did a séance this morning. And we're puppy-training. You're just uncharitable to our lifestyle." Gerry snorts. _ "No fun. _ I'm plenty fun."

\---

"You're kidding, right? What's the point of a séance? You're a  _ ghost!  _ Pu-- No, I know this trick. You're just trying to make me all excited about it. I'll never visit, Keay. You'll never take me alive."

\---

"It's not a trick. We got a puppy. Christmas gift from the house to Martin. His name's Poe."

\---

"You named the dog Poe." He sighs dramatically up to the sky. "I really hope the seance wasn't for the dog."

\---

“The séance was for--" Gerry tilts his head. "Not for the dog. Something else. Answers to something else."

\---

"Cool. Vague. Love it, as usual." Tim crosses his arms over his chest and leans back in the chair, leveling Gerard with a deeply unhappy stare.

\---

Gerry gives him a flat look back. "For Jon. Alright? Not everything in my family needs to be transparent to everyone we talk to."

\---

"Your family." Tim scoffs. "You're the one who brought it up and dangled it in front of me like a piece of meat, Gerry."

\---

Gerry squints. "Okay. Fine. You've got a point." He squirms a little in his seat and turns to Mike. "You're feeling better?"

\---

“Yes. I can read again, which is a satisfying plus. I’d never considered there would be a time that I couldn’t read.” He smiles softly. “I was hoping you’d reach out to me again.”

\---

His expression softens a little, and he smiles, ducking his head a little. "I wasn't sure you'd want to keep in contact once you were at full health again."

\---

“I thought it would be the opposite.” He tilts his head. “After... I don’t eat for sport. It is a necessity to me.”

\---

"I know." He's quiet for a moment. "I was short with you all, that night. It wasn't fair. I was in... A mood."

\---

“Christmas Eve can do that. I do appreciate the apology, but it’s not necessary.” He fidgets with one of the buttons of his coat. “I would like to see Michael again, some time.”

“Aw, one brain injury and a bite from a rabid animal later, you’ve learned the power of friendship.”

\---

Gerry wavers slightly in a ghostly blush, giving Tim a small glare. He ignores him, and returns to Mike. "You could always come over. Better than the Institute. It's a... grand house."

\---

“I would like that.” 

Tim watches them, back and forth, back and forth. “Okay, okay, break it up. Back to work. We could start this weekend? Spend however long it takes to narrow down the addresses, get ready, gather supplies, have a sleepover, do our makeup.”

\---

Gerry pulls himself from looking at Mike and nods. "Fine. That sounds appropriate. Did Sirius tell you when they'll be here? Or just that they could?"

\---

“Just that they could. Bull for what I gave up in return. But with that guy, I’m sure we’ll find something at one of these.”

\---

"Oh, more than likely. He wouldn't-- I really don't think he wouldn't give you the best lead he has. He's not a liar."

\---

“Yeah. Just likes to twist it around. But I can hope. Not like he wants the Circus to win out, here. So. Yay, temporary allyship.” He pauses. “Uh, I think that was all. All I had for you. Except my deepest darkest worries.”

\---

"That's all you have business-wise. You can--" Gerry's voice is a little stiff. "You can talk about the other stuff, you know."

\---

“...Eeeeh.” Tim shrugs noncommittally. “Just opened a few old wounds yesterday. I don’t think talking about it more will make it hurt any less, right?”

\---

"Depends, I guess. Not exactly the king of talking things out, but-- holding it doesn't keep the anger away, huh."

\---

“Nothing will. But I have— I mean. Friends, ice cream, a gun.” Tim’s pause is loaded. “That was darker than intended. Hah.”

\---

"Well. At least after this weekend we'll hopefully have a date." Gerry gives a grimace. "And then we can get this over with. And move on."

\---

“We’ll have a—“ Tim’s eyes widen. “Oh! Right. Yeah. That’s— I think that’s, that’s all I want. And I’m not about to pop my eyes out to get it. Just... peace. With him. I think I’m close.”

\---

Gerry hums. "We'll kill them. No chance of anything for hundreds of years."

\---

“Oh, yeah. We’ll pull it off. No question about it.” Tim tries, desperately, to muster up a smile. Any confidence whatsoever. “Well. Lovely chat, I’ll, uh, I’ll see you both this weekend?”

Mike looks to Gerry, and then nods almost imperceptibly.

\---

Gerry hums, drumming his fingers against the table and giving Tim a nod, and then Mike a small smile. He pushes his chair out and stands. "Alright. Text me, I suppose. I'll text you Mike. Stay safe."


	91. Chapter 91

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gerry's baby photo album (evil).

Gerry doesn't dilly-dally in getting home, but he doesn't hurry, either. It's a nice winter day, he has plans to kidnap and  _ potentially  _ kill, and... Who knows what Martin and Michael got up to after their séance. Hopefully puppy duties. Hopefully-- something productive.

Bit naïve of a hope.

When he gets back, it's to the sound of Michael's laughter, and it's the messy, high pitched kind that Gerry knows means he's drunk, and shit, isn't it only like noon? He closes the door behind him and peers round the hallway walls, to see Michael and Martin in the living room, looking at something, a bottle of vodka nestled between them like a baby.

"You two got busy."

\---

Martin is slow on the uptake to comprehend Gerry’s entrance, but once he does he looks up and smiles; big, dopey, bright, and flushed. 

_ “Gerry,” _ he says, with several extra r’s. “Poe— Poe went down for a nap and— We started unpacking.”

\---

Gerry comes to rest in the doorway to the living room, cocking his head. "I see. What are you-- are those. What are  _ those, _ Martin?!"

Michael pulls from the bottle and rests it heavily against the table, pulling up one of the picture books. He taps a long finger against a picture of Gerry when he couldn't have been more than eight or nine, bright strawberry blond and smiling." You didn't tell me you were _ ugly, _ Gerry!"

\---

"Stop it," Martin whines, batting Michael away from the book so he can take it instead and keep it safe. "He was _ not.  _ He's sweet. Sometimes you still smile just - just like that, it's my favorite one."

\---

"Your favorite-- why do you have favorite smiles? You have them ranked? Why are you snooping?"

\---

"Because I like you," Martin scoffs, but there's no bite to it whatsoever. "They're not  _ ranked. _ And I-- I tried not to snoop, but we just started opening boxes and... and, um." He laughs a little behind his hand. Pats the empty seat on the couch next to him. "Come here? Pleeease?"

\---

Gerry hums, and thinks for a moment of just leaving them to it, but... No. He's not leaving them to look at his past without him. He comes next to them, and wrinkles his nose. "You two got an early start, I see."

\---

“I wonder if there’s anything in here you’d want to hang up,” Martin muses, ignoring that because his mood’s lightened up considerably. He leans slightly on Gerry’s shoulder, moving the book to his lap in the middle. Then everyone can see and Gerry can... move it around, if he wants. “I still want a picture for the locket.”

\---

"Well not one from when I was eight!" He scowls. "Christ. This is embarrassing already."

"You should have seen all my school photos. I looked like an angel. Cause I was one," Michael says, and grins at Gerry. "I would have thought you were  _ sooo _ bad and awful if I'd met you as a child, Gerry!"

\---

“Obviously not when you were eight! That’s just what’s right there!” Martin pats Michael angrily on the shoulder. “Would you stop that? You were a brat! I saw it, remember?”

\---

"I wasn't a brat! I was cute. And sweet. And you know what?" He points a finger in the air to illustrate his point. "I was even godly. That's better than I can say for you two. I bet you weren't even baptized."

\---

“Godly. Sure. We’ll find your baby photos and cry over them later, I wasn’t— I don’t think I was baptized.” He leans further on Gerry, smiling up at him. “I’m going to hell.”

\---

"Oh, we all are. Grand party. Best people go there." Michael grins and leans over to flip the page. Uh-oh. Gerry at ten with the shitiest buzzed head known to man.

\---

Martin almost gasps, but catches his tongue just in time. "Oh, nooo, Gerry. What did they _ do _ to you?"

\---

"It got all-- oh, I think--" He screws up his face as he thinks. "I think I got it all nasty with blood or something and cut it so bad my mum just buzzed it all off. Said I'd give the Keay name a bad look, looking like a clown." He snorts, leaning over to look closer at it. "I was so freckly as a kid, huh."

\---

“I like it,” Martin says after a long moment of absorbing whatever he can glean off one picture alone. “Not the buzz. They get more noticeable when your hair’s not dark. I liked that one outfit we made up.”

\---

"The--" Gerry squints, and then laughs. "That was certainly something you had in your mind." He tugs on the ends of his hair. "Short hair and everything."

Michael frowns down at the picture and then up at him. "I thought you were naturally black-haired."

"That's because you're an idiot, Michael."

\---

Martin lets Gerry have that one. "You look great with short hair, Gerry. Makes you look sweet and - and young. I think I want to see all the teenage _ real  _ goth pictures. Are they in here?" He starts to flip through several pages in rapid succession.

\---

Gerry makes a low sound in his throat. "Probably-- I-- oh God." Yeah. They're in there. There's not a remarkable amount of photos ever taken of him, but there's still enough to fill a scrapbook, he supposes.

He must have started dying his hair at fourteen. And oh God, hair dye wasn't as nice as it is now, and he didn't know how to take care of his hair, so it looked... bad. Thin and half the time just plain greasy, and it wasn't long enough to pull back until he was about seventeen.

He grimaces as he looks at the page. "This sucks. I look like shit. I didn't even realize I was miserable, yet."

\---

“Oh,  _ nooo,”  _ Martin whines, somewhere between laughing and crying. “You’re just a baby book hunter. Your hair— You would’ve looked so cute if you had help.” He sniffles. Ah, he’s emotional today. Between the turbulence of this morning and the alcohol dumbing down his senses, he’s allowed. He’s allowed to say this. “I think I want kids?”

\---

Gerry blinks. "Looking at shitty pictures of me makes you want-- you want kids?"

\---

“Yeah? I-I mean, imagine if she loved you like she should’ve, and helped you dye your hair, and— And took pictures of you where you smiled more often, right? And took you out places, just— Not for any reason.” Martin shakes his head. “I dunno.”

\---

Gerry cocks his head, and then very slowly smiles. "I could see you as a parent. You'd be-- you'd be sweet, I think."

"And me?" Michael asks.

"Hm. Better as an uncle."

\---

"Uncle Michael," Martin sniffles, turning his watery huff into a laugh. "Sorry, I just-- Got really emotional, out of nowhere, like it keeps hitting over and over again that we're a family now, and-- And that's hitting at the worst time, again, like usual, with Jon, talking this morning, but I just keep looking at you when you were tiny and it makes me want to cry." 

\---

Gerry looks at Martin for a long, long moment, and then decides to softly smile at him. "Yeah. Tim scoffed at me, today, when I said family, and I-- I had to ignore it, really, because otherwise I would have wanted to slap him."

\---

"He's just mad he hates Jon and that means he can't come visit without shedding his pride," Martin scoffs. Just brush away the tears, and everything will be alright. "He used to flirt with me. Me!"

\---

"He still flirts with me, so that's a point for Gerard Keay." Gerry winks.

Michael snorts. "That's 'cause of the goths, you're the sexiest, and also, you're not Jon. Or Sirius."

\---

Martin slaps Gerry's shoulder. Gentle. It's very gentle. His tone is not, though. Possessive, but-- there's a humorous tinge to it. "You're taken."

\---

Gerry barks out a laugh. "Oh! So  _ you _ can be a playboy, but I can't? Speaking of, I invited Mike to come over at some point."

\---

"I'm not a playboy, I stopped at Michael!" He leans against Michael's shoulder, this time. It's nice to bounce back and forth between them. From there, he can squint distrustingly at Gerry. "What does that have to do with flirting?"

\---

"Well, that's still three for you. And," Gerry says, and clears his throat slightly. "Guess it depends on what Mike thinks. But you know, I think he fancies me, when I'm more... Oracley."

\---

Martin sputters. Oh, he isn't trying to be defensive, not at all. Just protective, though he's completely unaware of how obvious that is. He never got to properly talk with Mike. But that... is his own fault, really. "Well-- Well, do  _ you _ fancy  _ him? _ How much do you even know about him, outside of, outside of being his nurse?"

\---

Gerry shrugs. "He's sweet. No one's ever fancied her before. Murderous intentions aside, he's kind." He bumps his shoulder against Martin. "I'm not opposed to him. And you're the keeper of my Book, not my dating habits."

\---

"I fancy her just fine!  _ No one. _ No one, he says. I'm no one." Martin grumbles. "Well, you don't need my blessing. Maybe he'll get caught in a bear trap and need to stay here for three weeks."

\---

Gerry raises his eyebrows. "Okay. So past the Hunt, you're just... What? You just don't like him because I do? Curious."

Michael laughs. "I'm loving this. I love domestics."

\---

"I didn't--" Martin pauses just long enough to glare at Michael. "Not what I said. I don't  _ dislike _ him. I just don't know him! And-- He's, what, an avatar? I... just... would have to get to know him! Okay? That's all. And you're-- Planning on going out, and doing something dangerous, again, with someone I don't trust. So I think I'm allowed to get... worried."

\---

"Worry accepted. But I'd like to remind you it's not my or his fault that you didn't get to know him." Gerry tilts his head a little as he looks at Martin, as though to say 'hello, duh'.

\---

Martin looks down at all the old pictures scattered before him and frowns. More to himself, than anything. "I used to be good with new people. And then something went wrong and I... I don't really know how to fix it. It would've been different if I'd met him how I met Michael."

\---

Michael squints at him. "What  _ did  _ make you like me? I wasn't exactly likeable, I'm sane enough to know that."

\---

"I just liked figuring you out. Just-- Under everything you were just, curious? And lonely? And I thought if someone was nice to you then... then that's a good first step. I doubted anyone was ever nice to you?" He shrugs, shoulders hiking up defensively. "Now I just growl at people."

\---

"Huh." Michael leans in to him and rubs his head like a giant cat on his shoulder. "That's sweet, you know. Really sweet. And I like your growls."

\---

Martin swallows to avoid the enticing impulse to do just that. “Or maybe I was never that great and - and you were an outlier. Tim and Sasha, the Hunters, all the taxi drivers and waiters, Elias, Mike, even Helen, I’m not even that great with Helen, either.”

\---

"Oh, yes, base your entire likeability on Elias' opinion on you," Gerry snorts. "That's healthy."

\---

“No, I mean talking to people!” Martin sighs. “It was sort of messed up that the only person I really spoke to for months after Jon came back other than him was the  _ Spiral.” _

\---

"Maybe you're just messed up, Martin." Michael shrugs one-shouldered, still pressed against him. "Which is like, fine. We've all earned being messed up, and I'm flattered you spoke to me. Even if I was mean."

\---

“You weren’t that mean. Just eccentric and hurting.” He angles his head to press a kiss to Michael’s forehead. Sweetness over with, he squints back at Gerry. “Then you should invite him over and try again, if you fancy him.”

\---

"I will. He's sweet, and liking him or not aside, I think he could do with some friends. And so could we." Gerry squints right back. "Even if you're rude about it."

\---

“I’m not being rude about it! I’m reasonably distrustful of a man with powers that can kill people.” Martin bites his tongue. “More friends would be nice.”

\---

"Hah! Like you and Jon don't have powers that can kill people." Gerry rolls his eyes. "I'll bring him over after me, him, and Tim do our kidnapping this weekend."

\---

Martin grimaces, mulling a few things over in his head like an overprotective parent who’s caving in. “You’ll probably have to bring Tim here if he uses that thing again, so I can— I can help you get things ready? And where would you even keep someone you’re kidnapping,  _ Gerry?” _

\---

Gerry shrugs. "Well. The office, probably. I'm not planning on letting him go."

\---

“Right. And who’s going to watch him, exactly? Or are you just locking someone in a room and hoping for the best?”

\---

Gerry raises his eyebrows. "I'm not planning on keeping him there. Martin. Don't be dense."

\---

Martin huffs, offended. “Dense?! I’m not being dense, I’m making sure you’re— You’re being responsible! When you kidnap people!”

\---

"It's not like he'll have time to worry about our kidnapping decorum. He'll be dead."

\---

“What? Why? Do you even know who this is? You’re, what, settled on killing someone you don’t even know yet?” Martin thinks on that for a second. Thinks about Tim. About his brother. About the Unknowing, about the end of the world, about a lot of things that fly by too fast to comprehend them. “Okay. But only if he can’t, you know, change.”

\---

Gerry shrugs. "Don't think he's ever been human. They have the-- don't know if you read those ones, but the Singing Coffin."

\---

“Good talk,” Martin mumbles, then flips to another page. He doesn’t want to talk about coffins. “I’m going back to baby Gerry. He’s a sweetheart.”

\---

"As opposed to adult Gerry, evidently." Gerry scowls at him.

"Baby Gerry is hilarious and weird, I think. You should go blond again. It's _ so  _ cute." Michael says.


	92. Chapter 92

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hope's no good, terrible, awful-bad day.

The bullets live to see another day. 

No one dies, either. No one on their side. No one who exists as a person, a  _ real _ person, dies. 

They lucked out, if luck could have anything to do with a string of coincidences where fate is dictated by actual, conscious creatures. Caught their targets off guard in a place they seemed to be on business. Transporting something, or en route to do so. No one should have known about it, and so no precautions were put up to protect them, just a warehouse at night and two behemoths passing for men organizing their strategy for moving forward. It really goes rather  _ well, _ all things considering. They planned, they worked together, they went quietly, they went seriously. 

The warehouse smelled like lightning. Burning wax. The upholstery in the van stinks of it. It’s seeping between every crevice, making Tim’s hair stick up with static discharge anywhere it brushes the driver’s seat. He’ll have to remember never to get on Mike’s bad side. It’s a miracle they managed to get him injured the first time, as sick as it sounds, because they likely wouldn’t have survived an encounter like this. 

He doesn’t ask if the thing that calls itself Breekon is dead. Seems rude, especially with how hard Mike was concentrating.

_ You don’t have to fight them head-on if they think the ground has disappeared. If they think they’re plummeting at a speed fast enough to obliterate every bone in their body, should they hit the ground.  _

The only difference is one of them is no longer in the open-air garage when their pocket avatar sets loose the storm, and one of them is. 

Well. Naturally, they stole the van. Mike is busy, and Gerry is keeping the atmosphere tight, controlled, collected, so Tim ended up on driving duty. He doesn’t have to do it often, but he can manage. Especially for this.

The drive back is painful.  _ Slow.  _ Enough so that Tim’s palms will hurt for days from how hard he gripped the wheel. But it’s worth it. They won. 

Gerry had checked the back, frequently, to make sure Mike wasn’t beaten into a pulp and the back doors weren’t swung open with Hulk-like indents where Hope pried them apart. To give Tim the all-clear, to keep him calm and quiet. They even talk in hushed tones where to go, where to turn, a handy GPS in the form of a  _ really _ good friend. They narrow down their options, and figure it’s safest, smartest, easiest, to head to the lovebirds’ nest. 

_ Joy.  _

Tim manages to get the van in their driveway, back doors facing their garage and not the street. It must be near midnight when they arrive, but none of them are taking any chances. He puts the van in park, considers it a job well done, and heaves an exhale like he’s never breathed before. He didn’t even get pulled over. Fucking wonderful. 

He turns to Gerry, a discomforting stoicism to his tone. “What now?”

\---

There's an easy calm that washes over Gerry when he's in situations like this. No panic, no fear, just resolute certainty to continue onwards, one step at a time, until it can be finished. He spent the majority of the ride sitting still, unless he was checking on Mike, drumming a slow beat into his thigh as he went over his mental plan over and over and over again until it became as ingrained as breathing once was.

Now, van parked and Hope in the edifice of his home, Gerry opens the door and starts to slide out. "Now we get him inside. It's late. Martin and Michael should be asleep. Jon probably will have figured something is coming, so fingers crossed I don't have to wake him up."

He leans back into the passenger seat to look back at Mike and Hope, and gives the former a thin smile. "Doing alright, still?"

\---

Mike does not look back. His shoulders rise and fall with breaths he feels he has to take to keep his focus against the strain. "Yes. This is difficult to control, but-- Yes."

Tim hops out of the van, trying to shut the door as loudly as possible. Maybe that will get Jon's attention, if they don't have it already. 

He swings open the back doors, where Mike stands on top of something solid, something wooden, covered by a thick tarp. Makes him look all imposing. That, and the way his eyes are glazed over, the source of a crackling whirlwind he's keeping out of Gerry and Tim's awareness.

Hope seems to be locked in a state of catatonic paralysis, gripping Mike's leg to hold on, not to break it. He isn't screaming, though his face makes it seem like he should be, fake lungs experiencing a fake fall in a fake bubble where there is a fake lack of air. If Tim focused on it, he'd be able to make all sorts of connections about the way Mike’s powers interact with the Spiral to create a horrific false reality. 

But he isn't. "How do we move him?"

\---

Gerry shrugs after a moment. "Mike? Are you able to move him? Or can I-- I mean. I could bring Jon out. He might have a better idea."

He watches Mike, and knows, now, how powerful he is. What a sight to behold, really. He knows, logically, these abilities stem from a deep, deep evil. But it's incredible, breathtaking, to see.

\---

“Bring him,” Mike says, before Tim can get a word in. Too big to drag, too big to knock out, too strong to fight. “I need help.”

\---

Gerry watches him for a moment, flicking his gaze down to Hope, and then gives a short hum and nods, turning on his heel to go in through the front door.

Most of the lights are out, but there's one table lamp in the living room still emanating light, so that's where he heads. Jon looks up at him before he reaches the threshold to the room, furrowing his brow in confusion that turns to awareness that turns to worry that turns to anger.

"Take it you didn't See us coming?"

Jon squints, and slowly shuts his laptop with a resolute snap. "Not after all those sigils were put up. Tampers with my senses. I'll have to work around them." He's quiet for all of two seconds, and then says, angrily, "You could have told me about this. I mean--this is a lot. And--"

"Bitch later." Gerry interrupts, and hikes a thumb over his shoulder. "He's outside right now, and we need him in here, locked up, so we can question him. Can you compel him to follow?"

It shuts Jon up. Curiosity and hunger leak into his expression, cocking his head as he thinks. "I... I don't actually know. Maybe? We should-- Yes, yes, I think I can." He stands and grabs a cardigan he had draped over the back of the couch. "I'll need to concentrate, probably. Mind Tim for me?"

Gerry rolls his eyes as they make their way back outside. "Seems I'm always minding someone, these days."

\---

Tim is currently keeping a dogged eye on Mike and Hope, hand at the holster on his side just in case it goes bad. It feels like watching paint dry with a hint of a sulfuric, damp smell to really set the mood. 

He doesn’t spare so much as a glance to both of them when they come back. He has better things to worry about than Jon, right now. The stakes are too high. 

He even takes a step back for them. Mike doesn’t look up, but he does speak from his pedestal. An attempt at being cordial. “Hello, Jon.”

\---

Jon comes to a stop in front of the van's back door, and in the dark, so close to so many arcane and magical creatures and objects, his eyes glow a soft, curious light, naturally flitting his gaze from Mike to Hope to the coffin in sheer passive beholding. "Hello, Mike. Can he hear me?"

\---

Man, everyone’s getting glowing eyes, aren’t they? Not that Tim wants some, or anything.

“Yes, I think so. I have his lungs, not his ears.”

\---

Jon mindlessly touches at his chest. He knows how Mike's... Powers... Work first-hand. He almost feels pity for Hope. Almost.

Just looking at him fills him with a deep, deep rage. Rage at the Buried. Rage for Daisy. Rage for a Tim that once died and an Unknowing that nearly happened. He steps closer, his hands resting on the lip of the van's interior.

"Good," He says, and takes a deep, deep breath, feeling the Eye wash over him, gentle like a wave. The door at a crack, water lapping at his ankles. It's an odd feeling; where it normally feels salty, the ocean, what spills from him feels like freshwater. It's the Eye, but it's something else, too, perhaps. The Eye so hardly interferes, you see, and is unused to being so active. It is and isn't the Eye. Nonetheless, his voice weaves power and command with it.

"Hope, walk inside the house and do nothing else. There is a room past the kitchen, and you will sit down on the couch and you will stay there." It feels  _ good. _

\---

There is a single quiet moment where all is at a standstill. Hope does not move, and Mike does not relent, until the moment Mike can feel that he is no longer fighting the way his legs slip out from under him to get  _ away _ from him, but  _ towards _ something. 

As Mike lets him go, the hand around his ankle releases Mike in turn. They’re both exhausted, though righteous fury still dances in the eyes of the being known as Hope as he is puppeted against his will by another form of control. 

He leaves the van, though it is a slow and grueling process that has Mike following cautiously in his shadow, ready to try again. 

Tim is not happy about this development, but we’ll get to that soon. 

Mike chances a look at Jon. “Should I still be ready?”

\---

Jon looks a little nervous; he's done this once and it was a short burst of a command, and it was on accident. This is a string of commands, and it's on purpose, and he's far, far more powerful than he was before, but it's still nerve-wracking. 

Something in his mind jumps as Hope begins to move, a small jolt of alarm and curiosity and worry and confusion. He's not sure what it means; it's not his emotions, his worry, his confusion. He doesn't know how he knows that, but he does, and he Knows, all at once, that the Archivist can't do this. That this isn't something the Eye should be able to do.

Jon won't let himself dwell on that, keeping a string of compelling control wrangled tight over Hope's proverbial throat.

He spares a glance to Mike and nods. "Best to keep safe. Yes. I don't believe he'll stray, but-- this is rather new for all of us, I think."

\---

Hope ends up on the couch, just where he’s told to go. In through the open door, a house over half of them have never seen. There are far less boxes in the way, now, and it’s almost starting to look cozy. Genuinely. 

Mike half-collapses on the ground to recuperate, rubbing at his ankle through his pants. Tight grip, that one had.

“Where do we start?” Tim asks Gerry, specifically, a glare and a plea wrapped up into the same expression. He’s the boss. Not Jon. It’s not Jon.

\---

Gerry comes to stand in front of Hope, crossing his arms as he regards the man, and Jon moves to sit in one of the armchairs, right at the edge and sitting straight up as he watches Hope like a cat hunting. 

Neat trick, Jon. Gerry's definitely going to have a talk to Martin about that one.

"Right. I think you've managed to understand we're not playing around, and it'll go a lot smoother on all of us if you don't struggle, or fight it. The faster we get our answers, the faster this is all going to be over." He smiles, thin-lipped.

\---

Hope's fists shake where he holds them in front of him, tied together by a new sort of paralysis. Something is wrong with his face, though Tim can't place exactly what it is. His teeth are too shiny when he grimaces up at Gerry's face. His eyes are too dark. His skin is stretched way too taut, when he angles his head toward the front door. "Why don't you take a dive down a deep pit?"

\---

Jon leans forward in the chair, and he curls his lip as he says, "Let's not threaten the Buried today, Hope. I've escaped your coffin before; it holds no power here." His voice is flat, calm, angry. Angrier than he was expecting. The kind of cold-ice fire that he so rarely has the confidence to wield.

Gerry turns to give Jon a look, tilting his head slightly, before turning back to Hope. "Here's what's going to happen. We're going to ask some questions. You're going to answer. If you decide to be thick, Jon here will just pull them from that meaty head of yours. Capiche?"

\---

Hope snorts out a disbelieving laugh, then tilts his chin up at Mike. "Did the runt kill him?" 

"...In a sense." 

"Try all you like, then. You get nothing from me."

\---

"I'll play nice. You have one chance." Gerry smiles so sweetly at him. "When is the Unknowing happening?"

\---

Hope pauses, like he’s thinking about it. Even hums, before he leans forward and aims his spit right at Gerry’s face.

\---

Gerry let's the spit hit him, if only to give himself the justification to get really, really pissed. He draws his hand down his face and then shrugs, turning to Jon. "Guess we'll need your services, Mr. Blackwood."

Jon gives him an amused look and then nods, a little more seriously, and straightens all the way. "Very well. I suggest you don't struggle, Hope. It'll hurt you if you do. I'll start easy." He draws on the power of his voice, to pull it from Hope. Something they already know. "Where will the Unknowing be taking place?"

\---

Tim stands against one wall of the room, arms crossed in front of his chest as he watches Jon. Then Hope. Then Jon again. A calculating little dance to fully gauge the situation. 

Mike watches, too, but he’s mostly watching for a cue. Sitting pretty. Captive audience, and all that. Pairs of eyes floating at a scene on every angle. What a show. 

Something is different, in this world. Some nosy little Archivist is nothing to someone so old, or should be. “England,” he says, and he sneers, but it’s a dead-eyed look.

\---

"Be. Specific." He raises the tone of his voice, tightening the control. It's compelling, and it's forcing, and the Archivist behind his eyes is really rather worried by this.

\---

"... Wax museum," Hope grates out, after a strained moment of tight static whirring through the air. He could strangle that one with one hand if he had the chance. "Yarmouth."

\---

Jon smiles, and looks really, very satisfied for a moment. His anger is still palatable, but now, he's being fed.

"Good." Gerry says. "That's a start. See. We don't actually need that much information from you. Not really. The big question, really, all we need, is when. When is the Unknowing?"

\---

"You'll kill me," Hope says, without much emotion at all, "either way. Think I'm done. Find out the hard way. On your own."

\---

_ "Tell me when it is,"  _ Jon says, and tightens his control again.

\---

Mike perks up, sensing something grow tighter and tighter in the air. Suffocating, almost. 

“It’s coming up,” Hope grunts out, fists balled up so tight he’d have bled his palms if he had blood to spare under skin that wasn’t so inhumanly dense. “I told you. Nothing from me.  _ Do _ it.”

\---

Jon's jaw goes tight, tight, and the waves lapping at his ankles rises, rises, the door inching just a little further open. Oh, it feels good. Vindictive. Angry. How dare he struggle against making the Truth known. How dare this vile creature try to hide from Him. How dare--

"You'll tell me.  _ Now." _ He doesn't realize he's standing, now. His focus is entirely on the creature before him.

\---

Hope shakes against his own will. Something beneath the skin struggling to keep still, claws digging into flesh from the inside, hooks in his stomach pulling out through his mouth. But it won’t work. He holds out, even at the cost of his innards being pulled out from the inside. Inch by inch. “Why don’t you ask Breekon?”

\---

Jon smiles. "Breekon is dead. You know, in another time, another world, it was him I had sitting here. I'd say he was commendable. He held out. But it doesn't matter. I got his statement. And then he played the stubborn fool. So he ended." He spits out the last words, and takes a step closer.

He tightens his grip. But his voice is softer, even as the power that pulls through him to Hope is as its peak. "Tell me what you know. You don't have a choice. Tell me, or it will get worse."

\---

Oh, but he does have a choice. It’s just a particularly gruesome one. 

For a moment, there’s something near-human in his face. Loss, regret, maybe it’s grief, for a half that is no longer whole. Is it human, to mourn what made you real? Or is it simply a need for survival in a creature beyond humanity? Something that played a much greater part in these games, once upon a time. Something that delivered a table and a lighter without all the sneaking pretense that this timeline requires. Everything this timeline ruined. 

He can feel, somewhere deep down, that this is not the way things are supposed to be. That none of the people in this room should be here, in this house, and especially not together. That someone was meant to be in a coffin, someone who has not met any of these people yet. Two of them should be dead. Another should be dying soon. Everything is wrong, but the lie is so embedded into truths that to separate them is impossible. 

“It can’t,” He says around teeth that chatter, and that is one truth wrenched from him. Nothing more. 

Tim is blinded by it, an instinctual hand over his eye before he can do anything else. 

Mike gets to see, though he is puzzled by it. Almost a flurry of snow, but intentionally violent, starting at Hope’s eyes and traveling across all the facsimiles of veins across his body. Static light surging from the inside out, ripping and tearing and erasing what lies above it. He shuts his eyes before the final climax. It’s worse than lightning.

\---

Jon watches. He's seen this before. It doesn't scare him, like it did the first time. The first time, when that anger and vindication felt so new, so scary. Now, there's another fear there; it feels right to feel this.

The static light washes across his face and he watches as Hope, too, ceases to be, and he smiles. He didn't get the information he needed. But he will. And the world will be free of one more lying, deceiving thing.

As the light fades, he looks around at the others, and lets out a breath, something to ground him back to this world. The flood gates are momentarily quelled. Droplets, instead of a summer torrential.

"I'll find the date. I promise. He wasn't going to tell me. His choice." He says at length, and ignores the look Gerry shoots him.

\---

Upstairs, a dog starts barking. 

Tim doesn’t have the spare mental capacity to think about that. It’s all going to a horrified, shocked, angry glare in Jon’s direction. “What— Was  _ that?” _

\---

"He wouldn't answer," Jon says, and slowly sits down on the armchair again. "So he killed himself, rather than talk."

Gerry spins and levels a heavy, complicated look with Jon. "No.  _ You _ killed him. Don't bury the cause here for the sake of your conscience."

\---

“So you can  _ kill  _ people now! Great! Fantastic. That’s good to know. Now we’re one step closer to nothing!” Tim starts to pace, like moving could stop him from thinking what he’s about to think. “We could’ve had him talking. Without your evil powers!” 

Mike, who’s closest to the staircase, looks up to find Martin with Poe in both hands, clearly half-asleep. He gives a tiny, stunned little wave, and Martin looks back at him with nothing but pure confusion. At least  _ someone’s _ not in a state. “What’s going on?”

\---

Jon jerks his attention up to Martin a beat before he arrives, and immediately drops his face into his hands. He's got a headache that's going to bloom into a migraine. He can feel it. Ugh. The adrenaline is starting to wear off.

"Jon killed a man," Gerry says plainly, and then he turns back to glance at Tim. "He wasn't going to talk, though. That was the most we were getting out of him."

\---

“Guess there’s no point asking how you know he wouldn’t talk,” Tim says, his tone acidic. But he’s tired. And frustrated. And all the excitement of the day is gone. “I... I want to go home.” 

Martin steps off the stairs while Poe wags his tail at everything and everyone in the room, standing in front of the bookcase he and Michael set up earlier. “We could call you a cab,” he says helpfully, back pressed against it and one hand shifting from underneath Poe to reach slowly behind him. 

“Yeah. Sure, Martin.”

\---

"At least they're both dead, now." Gerry says, giving the smallest of shrugs. The smallest of silver linings.

Jon doesn't move, voice muffled in his hands. "Breekon isn't dead. I was exaggerating the truth to upset Hope. He might as well be, though."

\---

“I thought you wouldn’t like to see him return,” Mike says quietly. “What do you want to do with the contents of their van?”

\---

Jon sighs. "Leave it here. I might need it later."

Gerry shoots him another look, scrutinizing him for a long, long beat. He then nods at Mike. "I suppose we keep it here."

\---

“Okay,” Mike says, once Gerry has confirmed. “I’ll be off, then. I am... exhausted.”

“No kidding. I’m out for a smoke, just— Tell me when you’ve called a cab.” And there Tim goes, right out the front door.

\---

Gerry flits Mike the smallest of smiles. "Alright. Thanks for your help today. I'll text you on a... Less chaotic day." There. One nice silver lining on this mess of a night.

\---

Mike gives him and him alone a warm smile, and then he too is out the door. 

The moment that happens, and the door is shut, Martin angrily places the paused tape recorder he’d found on the bookshelf on the couch, and stares at them both. Just waiting. The seriousness of it is happily betrayed by Poe's wagging tail.

\---

"He was an Evil, vile creature," Jon says, at length, breaking the silence. He does not sit up fully, but he looks up through his fingers, finding Martin's form and watching him. "We've lost nothing."

\---

Martin's expression softens. "I just didn't know you could do that. What-- He's not here, anymore, so what-- What did you do? How?"

\---

Jon shrugs. "He... He refused to answer me. I didn't let up on making him. Struggled so hard he... The Eye ate him, I think."

\---

"The Eye ate him." Martin says blandly. 

And then changes course completely. Maybe he's just too tired to care. 

"Well! That might come in handy. He was a bad person. I've read some of those statements. I'm just-- I'm glad you came home safe?" He looks down at the tape recorder. "You need to pick better hiding spots. Tim would've had a heart attack."

\---

Jon shakes his head. "They like to be found. Part of the drama, I think." He lets out a long, heavy breath. He's full. And tired. And the adrenaline has worn off. "I'm off to bed." He gets up and starts up the stairs.

Gerry blinks after him, and then gives Martin a look that says, quite plainly 'we need to talk about everything that just happened.'

\---

"Okay," Martin says to Jon, even as he looks at Gerry with a quizzical sort of anticipatory fear. He steps toward the back door, gesturing for Gerry to open it. "I just need to call Tim a cab."

\---

Gerry does just that, and the moment he's outside, he lets out a huffy little breath, his posture falling like all the stress from the house has collapsed in on him. Project Coordinator Gerry is tired.

\---

Martin sets Poe down, who happily runs off into the dark to investigate the yard. It doesn't take long to call up a cab, and it shouldn't take too long for it to arrive, so hopefully Tim's content to be on his lonesome on their porch until then. 

"Long day?"

\---

"It was going swimmingly. Still mostly did." Gerry eases himself to sit on their back porch, knees up a little as he props his feet on one of the lower steps.

He looks back at Martin. "I know you mentioned it before, but I suppose I didn't register what you meant. Jon can control people. Not just compel them. It worries me."

\---

Martin meets him there, settling a step lower. "I was wondering how you got him inside," he mumbles, shaking his head. "It just happened once. On accident, before he died. Before the Archivist. I didn't think it would-- We just never talked about it again, really?"

\---

"Has the Eye ever struck you as an entity that takes a commanding, active role?" Gerry watches Poe run about. He really is such a good creature to have to temper the mood. Keeps things from getting too serious.

\---

"No, but Elias seems to do it just fine. I can't prove most of it, but I'm pretty sure he orchestrated a lot of what happened to us. To Jon. So I..." He squints, tilting his head up at Gerry. "What are you getting at?"

\---

"I don't think having complete and utter bodily control over another person, against their will, is a gift from the Eye. I don't think he's supposed to be able to do that. Compel truth, sure, force it even, but force them to move? Act? Have their body puppeted?" Gerry slowly looks over to Martin. "Can _ you _ do that?"

\---

Martin looks over to the grass as slowly as Gerry rounds on him. "...Um." He wraps his arms around his shoulders. It's just cold out, really. "A... A few times. There's been a... a few times where, sort of."

\---

Gerry hums. "And did that feel like the Eye to you? You know what I'm getting at."

\---

"No," he says pathetically, some internal shame at being caught. Caught for something he doesn't fully understand. "But I don't know what it is if it's not."

\---

Gerry's expression hardens a little. "What do we know that controls? That puppets? That acts the overbearing, ever-domineering mother?"

\---

"Don't make me play guessing games, Gerry." Martin mumbles to the grass. "I know what that is. I thought this was about Jon. Not me."

\---

"It is. But I don't think it hurts to remind you that  _ you're _ playing with the Web, too." He sighs. "I wasn't expecting Jon to-- this complicates things."

\---

"He never used it on me again. Maybe he knows the right people to use it on." He starts to shiver. Definitely should've put a coat on, at least. "And I think-- I think maybe monsters are fine. Fine to do that to. They're not-- They're not people, right? I think I'm starting to-- To figure out how to make the distinction."

\---

"Sure. But I'm afraid Jon will start losing the distinction." He sighs again, and slowly makes his way to his feet. "Something to keep an eye on, I suppose. You didn't see him in there. He was-- he was quite terrifying."

\---

Martin is quiet, just long enough to debate telling him this. "The first one he ever knew about was the Web, you know? It was-- It should've eaten him, but it took someone else. He said that once."

\---

Gerry turns as he walks towards the back door, and gives a nod. "Well. I guess it marked him deeper than we thought. I suppose it makes sense. He's orchestrating fixing the world. That takes control of a _ lot _ of different players."

\---

"But he's not doing any of the controlling. Pretty-- Pretty much ever. Isn't it usually the opposite?"

\---

"But he thinks he's in control. And I mean--the Web plays games with him, too." Gerry shakes his head. "I don't know. It's-- this is the first time I've seen him do this. I guess it's all speculation."

\---

Martin claps his hands for Poe's attention, then scoops him up once he gets close. "I'll, um, listen to the tape, I guess? Maybe-- M-Maybe I can figure something out."

\---

"Convenient, those things. Harbingers of fucking chaos, though." He huffs. "I'm going to bed. Thanks for calling Tim's cab."

\---

"I--" No use arguing about the tapes. Not now. "Okay. Night. Want me to call you in the morning, or do you need a rest?"

\---

"Let me rest. Too much today. Too much. Mike was a huge help, though, I'll tell you what." He cocks his head. "He's good. When he's given a reason to be."

\---

Martin hums. "Mmm. I believe you." He starts to follow after him, back inside. "Love you, too?"

\---

Gerry spares him a smile, softer and a little more relaxed. "Love you. See you."


	93. Chapter 93

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW:  
> \- Suicide-baiting   
> \- depersonalization

Monday comes along with a wintery darkness, where eight o’clock sharp is still just barely dawn. Where the early-morning walk with a coffee is oddly lit up by street bulbs. It makes everything feel like the end of the day, not the start of a week.

There are never really easy days, now. Not at this job. While Tim runs himself ragged out in the field, Sasha collects, organizes, pulls together. She’s always preferred a spot on the sidelines, even when she knows she should be at the forefront of some collection of employees. Better to be strong when unexpected, than to be as weak as plainly shown. 

She doesn’t think much of it when Jon asks her into his office as soon as she steps by on the way to her desk. He’s usually here earlier, much earlier, except lately, now that it takes some time for him to arrive. Maybe it’s better for him to have some space at home. Away from the walls of this place. She drops her bag on the ground next to his desk and prepares for an awkward conversation, or perhaps another check-in about the Unknowing. She’d gotten a text from Tim last night, saying he’d be in and they all survived, and he had a few more developments to share. He seemed rattled, but controlled, and right now that’s the best they can hope for. 

She doubts, in this moment, that whatever Jon, or the Archivist, had used against Tim recently will be turned on her. The unfortunate thing about Tim is that he tends to throw himself straight into the grinder at any given opportunity, but she is more careful. More distant. There are several reasons she would have made a fine replacement for Gertrude Robinson. This caution is one of them. 

The conversation… is surprisingly positive. Jon seems to be in high spirits, actually speaking coherently today, and maybe-- Maybe that should have been the first clue, that one of his offbeat jokes made her laugh. But it isn't, because it's about Martin, about their relationship, a proposal, and that makes her soft.

_ Jon _ is late, only because he wakes up with a pounding migraine and nausea that leaves him on the floor in front of the toilet for a good twenty minutes, stomach muscles aching from dry-heaving. He's  _ late,  _ because it takes time after that to pull himself together enough to justify leaving without the threat of more sickness.

He hates being late, but he doesn't think anyone will mind. And besides; the world is down one more monster. Perhaps he's earned being a half hour late.

But he makes it, the lightest of snowflakes dotting his hair and scarf when he walks through the halls to the office, feeling better the longer he'd been outside in the chilly air. He opens the office door and-- blinks, frozen in the threshold. 

Jon is  _ not late, _ because he's sitting at his own desk, having a conversation with Sasha. Jon is not late, as the papers piled over his desk have an organization to them that was not the same as they were left the last time he was in. Moved by him, this morning, when  _ he _ came in  _ early. _

He abruptly stands up, hands braced over the desk, and where one fear instantly appears, another, more human replaces it. Sasha flinches, but she doesn't stand up until Jon does, having noticed what, exactly, is in the doorway. Props to her for keeping collected enough to speak. Such a spitfire, she is. "Jon?"

"That's... not me," Jon says from the desk, his tone gravelly and analytical, disbelieving and equally frozen.

Jon, at the doorway, blinks, and slowly squints his eyes, quite a lot of gears turning all at once as he figures out why there's been a strange  _ blip _ on the edges of his awareness for weeks. Fear blankets him, but something keeps it at bay. Maybe it's the awareness that he can rid himself of creatures like this now. Maybe it's something else. Maybe he's just too damn tired. But the fear is muted.

"No, I'm-- I'm certainly not you." He says, at length. "Which begs the question. Who are...  _ what  _ are you?"

“J-Jonathan Sims?” He says, scared but mostly confused. Sasha stands between them, snared with a possible death trap on either side. Jon shakes his head. “I— You think  _ you’re _ the real one, here? Deluded as ever. You’re in  _ my _ timeline.”

That takes him aback enough that he doesn't even look that scared anymore, tilting his head a little instead. "That's... An interesting angle. It's been my timeline for nearly a year, now. And you're-- you're not real."

"And you're so sure of that. You took it. From  _ me. _ You're the Eye's failure of a Frankenstein, and you're slipping." He levels Jon with a dark stare, eyes that are not reflecting back at him. But it's not just anger, either. Frustration, worry, sadness, something like desperation. "I Know. You play with the others, and you forget your role. I want my life back. That's all I had."

Jon watches this thing and his expression slips. He was amused. Now he's just getting annoyed. "What _ life _ do you want back? You don't-- whatever you are, this is my life.  _ My _ story."

“You are  _ not _ the protagonist,” Jon grouses, organizing the messy stack of papers in front of him.  _ “You _ are the reason everyone has to deal with the fallout of your mistakes. Mistakes I won’t make. You took away what chance I had to do so. Maybe I should say thank you, but I was never given a choice, was I?”

Jon slowly turns to give Sasha a look. "Can you-- can you go find Tim...?" He turns back to... To this. "What do you think you would have done differently?"

“Um—“ Sasha jolts to life, backing up from the desk towards the door. 

“I’ll never get to know the answer to that, will I? I can’t know what I never had a chance to  _ do. _ I was forced to do nothing but watch. I can see through— Through your eyes, every moment of fear and suffering you’ve ever inflicted on this world. I— I’ve spent nearly a year paralyzed, watching you ruin what I set to cultivate, in a flat you abandoned, before finally making my way out. I want it to be  _ over.” _

"What did you set to _ cultivate? _ If you're... If you're right, then--" He cocks his head. "I had no idea what was happening for over a year, the first time around. How could you know what to  _ cultivate?" _

“I had plans. For this place. It was my  _ job. _ I was going to do my  _ job. _ At least I could’ve— I’d rather have—“ His eyebrows furrow, and he just looks sad. Sasha slips by, careful not to touch Jon in the doorway, either. “I’d rather have had the opportunity to screw up my own way than have everything taken from me. You made me a voyeur in my own life. Maybe this one would have been different. Maybe I could have been a better version of you.”

He doesn't believe this thing. He doesn't. But there's the old, slow-creeping paranoia of what if. What _ if.  _ It's a question that had popped up, after all. What happened to the original, if he wasn't?

"But you didn't come here? Talk to me? Elias? Martin?"

He watches this... This _him,_ and his eyes aren't the corrupted black pools of a death gone horribly wrong. They're his eyes, eyes when he was still human, still passably a person. It bothers him, to see those eyes.

“I saw what happened. I saw you avoid Tim and Sasha, I saw you struggle to explain to Martin the simple fact that you did not belong here. I saw you denounce Elias as an unfortunate, persistent evil. You roped Martin into your story. Why would he ever believe me?” He hangs his head in his hands. “And now, now— I have nothing left. How could you ask me why I never spoke to anyone, when it took you  _ months!  _ I’ve only been back for— For days!”

"How could I have known! I can't-- I can't feel guilty for something I don't. Don't know!" But oh, he certainly sounds guilty. At least a little. There's a strange air to the office, an easy depersonalization that runs deep, deep, and makes it easier to believe what this-- what he's telling to himself.

“But you could have known. You just didn’t care to look.” Jon sighs, heavy and tired, and finally looks up. On the verge of frustrated, bitter tears. “Would you mind locking the door and just... sitting— Sitting down? With me? I’m afraid— They won’t believe me. I’ve seen how Tim is. With you, specifically. I’d rather just say what I need to say and accept what comes next. I don’t have much to live for, anyway.”

Jon doesn't move for a long, long moment. Looking him and up and down. It's like his eyes are trailing slowly, confused, like he shouldn't be seeing this. Maybe just the existential confusion of seeing yourself walking around, talking, existing in the space he's supposed to occupy. He'll go with that. Hard to legibly think of other reasons, right now. Molasses- slow, he slowly sinks down in the chair in front of the desk. "Not locking it," He mumbles. "But I'll listen. I'm good at listening."

“Okay.” They have time, anyway. “That’s fair.” 

He pulls his legs up to his chest where he sits, an old habit he never had the chance to shake. “I don’t know how to describe the feeling, exactly. My eyes moved even when I wanted to watch something else. I felt my limbs move, my mouth— but every step was out of my own control. I felt— From the beginning. The worms, the emotional turbulence day in and day out up until I woke up, the torture at the hands of - of barbarians.” He gives Jon a sympathetic look. “I don’t know how you could handle so much, twice-over. Is that what’s going to happen to me?”

"I don't-- no. No, because it happened to me, it happened-- a-already? Why did you wake up? It just happened? It--" He shakes his head. "This is confusing."

“I stopped trying to ask questions a few weeks in and just— Watched, mostly.” He wrings his hands nervously. “I don’t know. I just did. I woke up, and the whiplash was— Was beyond pain. I thought maybe it would happen again. That I would just go right back. I considered— I considered blinding myself. But I... have nothing. I doubt it would do what it did for you. Unless it’s a cycle. One where I take someone else’s in turn.”

Jon's eyes flick around the room, trying to keep-- to keep steady. This makes no sense. It doesn't. It can't make sense, but it's easy to listen. "I don't-- how wouldn't I have known about this? Felt you? You--"

No. No. This thing must be lying. It must be? "I don't-- I don't believe you." His voice sounds horribly weak.

“If I can’t even get myself to believe me, there’s not much else I can do.” Jon shrugs helplessly. “I don’t know. I don’t  _ know. _ I probably have— The least amount of answers.” He shakes his head. “I just want my life to be normal again. But I can’t.”

"We were never slated for a normal life. Ever, I don't think," Jon mumbles, and slowly leans back in the chair, almost unconsciously mimicking his own body language, knees pulling up to his chest.

Jon allows for a stretched pause, one where every passing second moves slower, and slower, and slower, without ever changing speed at all. When he speaks again, his voice has a static tinge to it, leaking out between his words. “Of course.” 

Something almost like humor joins the static, and something heavy hits the table. He’s kicked back in his seat, boots up on the desk. 

Gerry pulls at his hair, tugging apart the knots worked into the mingling strands. He looks livid. Controlled, but livid. “That’s your excuse, is it?  _ I _ didn’t turn into a monster the first opportunity I had, Jon. But, hey. I never got that chance. So what do I know? Never had friends to betray, either.”

It almost jerks him out of... This. The sudden change. But the words... They hit deep, somewhere where he can't just ignore and know it's false.

He shivers in his seat and holds himself tighter, his eyes snapping shut for a moment. "That's not-- it's not fair. It isn't. I haven't... betrayed anyone?"

“Is that what you think?  _ Wake up, _ Jon. Every day you get up and walk around is a betrayal. I’m worried. You think that stunt you pulled yesterday, or the stunts the Archivist is pulling more and more often now are leading anywhere but betrayal?”

"I don't... I don't understand. I don't--" He pulls himself even tighter, sucking in a scared breath. "That was-- it needed to happen. He's-- he's not my fault. I don't-- I don't know."

“Right. Not your fault.” Gerry says with a roll of his eyes. He stands up, hands braced over the desk to lean forward. “Who’s fault is it, then? Seriously. Always something else to blame. Imagine the field day you’d have if you had a mum like mine. Or Martin’s.” He gives Jon a look of pity. “You still haven’t even told him that one. And you’re  _ engaged.” _

"I don't..." Jon looks utterly miserable, breaths picking up speed. Oh, he's lost in this. He's forgotten to question him. It. Him. Forgotten to be skeptical. Forgotten-- Forgotten anything but his own swirling guilt and misery, the two things that sit heavy in his gut below anything else, always, always a background noise. Always. 

"That's not something to just-- Say, and it's-- It's not. It isn't. It can't be, I'm-- I'm trying to fix it, I am, I  _ am, _ I'm doing my best."

“The truth is, Jon,” Elias says, clearing his throat as he lifts both hands from the desk to fix his tie. “Your best just isn’t very good. You were always a last resort. But  _ my, _ the progress you’ve made, despite the odds.” 

He steps around the desk, fingers brushing the corners, to stand beside him. He offers a cheap, plastic smile. “Your job isn’t to  _ fix,  _ Archivist. If it were, you would have failed so very long ago. Yet here you are.”

Jon gives a small whimper. "I want to fix it. I want to fix it all. I'm-- I don't know why I'm so bad at it. I can't--" Oh. He feels awful. He feels so very wrapped up in his everything and it hurts and he's trying not to cry.  _ Oh. _ "I don't even care if I-- If I die. I just want-- I just want the world to be s-safe."

“You can’t deny who you are, Jon. Not to me. I know you better than you know yourself, after all.” Elias steps behind him, to the front door, where the lock shuts with a subtle click. Easy does it. 

He returns to the back of the chair, hands quickly bracing over Jon’s shoulders. “If you really wanted to fix the world, Archivist, you would have taken yourself out of the game years ago.”

"I don't know how to do that, without-- Without--" Jon's shoulders rise in tension, but he doesn't shove Elias off. He probably never will. Even this time, hands off, Elias has control over him in ways that no one else has ever wielded. 

He shakes on his next exhale, and his voice is quiet, pathetic, soft, teary. All the things he doesn't want to be. Weak, weak, weak. "I don't want to end the world, Elias."

“Then don’t, Jon! There are easier ways to stop the Apocalypse, aren’t there?” Oh, he’s not doing such a great job on this one. But it really doesn’t matter, does it? 

The Archivist removes his hands from Jon’s body, and wipes them clean of his filthy, human body. “Ah. But if that were the case, you would not have said yes to  _ me.”  _

He moves to sit down, stilted and inhuman in his efforts to return to his own chair. “If the burden is simply too much to bear, I am more than willing to pick up the proverbial slack.”

Jon shakes. "I never wanted this. I didn't know what I was saying yes to." That's a lie, and he flinches when he feels it come from his mouth, painful and acidic and awful. He can't even lie to himself anymore. He's lost even that humanity, that mercy. "I didn't want-- I meant to kill myself, when I tore my eyes out. I didn't-- I didn't succeed."

“Of course you didn’t. You can’t even do that right, Jon.” It doesn’t matter who’s talking now, but for a moment it’s just Martin, cold and distant and tired. “You’re just a vessel for something else. A carriage to bring forth the real thing. If there even is such a thing.” 

The faces bleed together, dripping hot wax and plastic over the statements. His pens, his pencils, little trinkets. There’s a dull thumping on the other side of the door, but it’s coming in time like a quickened heartbeat. The thing morphs through familiar voices too quickly to pin down, but they are just that: familiar. “I know this is stressful, dear. I could help you try one last time. What was your name, again?”

His eyes flick all around again, confused, scared, worried, and-- oh. Oh, he's nothing but that, isn't he. Fear and worry and anguish and trauma, wrapped up in skin that's fit to burst and usher in an ocean, an ocean. That's all he is. The door.

"I don't know. I don't-- I'm just an entryway. I'm just-- I don't... I don't  _ know." _

"That's okay," Martin or maybe Gerry or maybe Michael says. "You don't always have to know who you are! Isn't that better? Quite a burden they've put on you, to know everything, and it just isn't fair."  _ Thump. Thump. Thump.  _ "You don't have to worry about any of that again, if you don't want to. It's your choice."

"What does that mean? I don't understand, I don't-- if I don't know who I am, what am I? What-- it sounds nice, but-- but wrong. Not right."

"You're a door, remember? A  _ door, _ and one I can shut. I know life has been cruel, and so very hard, but it doesn't have to be anymore. Sometimes the best things feel wrong because we're so used to the bad things, aren't we?"

"What-- what do you mean? You can-- I can be shut? I can--" Jon takes a shuddering breath. There's tear-tracks down his cheeks. He's not sure when he started crying. He's not sure where he is. He's pretty sure he's a Where.

"Yes! You can be shut." A hand - _ thump _ \- reaches out -  _ thump _ \- to grasp his, open and inviting. "It won't hurt a bit. You can trust me."

"I don't know. I don't-- It hurts, you know. It's hurts knowing I'm-- I'm disappointing someone. Everyone? Definitely someone. I--" He starts to reach out. "Maybe if I was shut. Maybe-- maybe."

The lock finally snaps. Light pours into the room from those fluorescent hallway bulbs, and it makes the thing squint with something like pain, fingers mere inches from Jon's own. "What is--" 

Tim stands in the broken doorway, heaving sharp breaths as quick as his lungs will allow. Right place, right time. Sure is his superpower after all.  _ "Finally." _

He's aiming the gun at the back of Jon's head, loaded and ready to go. He would have shot already, if both versions of Jon that were supposed to be here were at the same level, if he could only see one with a clear shot through them both. But one of them is hovering over the desk, and it is  _ not _ Jon, and-- 

And he just stands, paralyzed, lungs collapsing in on themselves as they suddenly hold in nothing but stinging empty. Finger frozen on the trigger.

It's enough of a shock to Jon's system that he at least remembers his name. He is not a place, at least not yet. He is no  _ where, _ at least not yet. He is a who and who he is, in this moment, is very, very angry. He's not sure why. But he knows he is.

He twists in his seat and his expression is uncomprehending, unknowing for a moment, confusion snapping into anguished understanding the second he catches Tim's expression.

Oh. This isn't good. This isn't good at all.

He takes a deep breath, and makes a decision. He stands, pressing forward to take the gun from Tim, pleading, pleading silently for him to let him do this. It's hot, when he gets his hand Around Tim's hands and the gun.

The thing behind Jon's desk flinches back, and in that minute shift of light it is no longer someone Tim is hesitant to shoot. He's still too stunned to do anything but let go, and maybe it has to do with how part of him is scared of touching Jon, right now, but-- 

He loses control, it slips from his hands, and he didn't think someone could do that and get away with it, for all the burns they've all sustained for trying. And yet there Jon is, filling the room with that burned-skin smell he knows all too well. 

"Really, Jon?" That same, surprisingly deep voice says. But it sounds like a mockery. "Following the footsteps of Elias Bouchard, gunning down yet another archivist in cold blood? What does that say about _ you?" _

Jon ignores the pain in his hands. He's been burned here before, once upon a time. From a different wax evil. This one is wholly his fault, though, and it feels good. It feels good to feel something, after seconds, minutes, hours, how long was he here in the office? However long he was sitting there, scared, numb.

"That I've wanted to kill you for far, far too long," He breathes, and does not hesitate. A murder last night; this feels like self-care in the form of his own blood.

Jon shoots for one of its eyes, and the whiplash pulls him backwards, ears ringing, hands stinging with the sharp beaked bite of something on fire, something angry, something that lives inside him, and for a moment, the gun caresses his mind and Jon thinks of oxes, but it's not really his to keep, so the Rooster shoots the bullet for him.

Tim gains enough wits about him to grab both of Jon's shoulders on either side. An instinctual reaction to keep him upright, no matter who it is, because they might need it, and to the very core of his being a searing heat courses up and out, and every step of the way that heat has been compassion. Misguided, yes, too intense, yes, even turbulent, yes, of course, but he still  _ cares. _

And this is-- Well, it's all a bit much, really. He watches as the thing masquerading as Jonathan Sims grabs at the gaping wound in its face, as plastic melts from the inside out with the bullet lodged there. As the hand that grasps falls apart from mere proximity. It's a much slower process, one where Jon's voice screams out genuine pain, genuine terror, echoing along the office walls and to the hallway where Sasha stands on guard, crowding into the room with what looks like a knife. From the kitchens, maybe. From her own personal emergency after hearing she was taken once, just as likely. 

Eventually, though, with Tim and Sasha motionless, helpless to watch, the screams start to quiet. Start to fully, truly melt, wax and plastic and wires and blood, maybe, somewhere in there, heavy and warm and seeping into the wood. Sasha is the first to catch her breath. "...Jon?"

Jon cries, collapsing backwards against Tim, his breathing heavy and pained and scared, still, so scared of himself. For a fleeting moment, he'd hoped such a doppelganger would kill him, too, upon its death. Some extension of himself that ended him with his own trigger finger.

But he's still here, and his hands burn and his head hurts and his heart beats so fast, too fast, and he mumbles, "He almost got me. I almost said yes."

Tim hesitates for all of five, maybe six seconds before cautiously putting his arms properly around him from the back. He's really... such a small thing, isn't he? Not fragile, but-- Certainly small. He could blame the comfort on a lot of things. Seeing his brother just moments ago is one of them. 

But he won't do himself the disservice. "It's gone," he says quietly, and then repeats it a few times, like he's trying to convince everyone in the room, including himself. "Alright? It's gone. Show-- Show me your hands."

Jon complies, his brain a hot wire of too much impulse, too much activity, too  _ much, _ and his hands go up like a child caught doing something bad, the gun still held tight and burning hot in his left hand.

He's shaking, and a small whimper escapes his throat, something involuntary and animalistic.

Tim takes his own left hand and holds it palm-up beside Jon's, his own skin splattered with scar tissue. He tilts his head to one side to find Sasha, but she's already out of sight, the sound of her shoes hurrying down the hallway to the kitchen. Back to Jon, then, looking over his shoulder. His tone is still even, for how much it's taking to keep it that way. "Mind if I take that back?"

Jon lets his grip loosen, his eyes still vaguely confused, the crystal clarity that gave him a bullet passed in a haze of adrenaline, fear, shock. He searches Tim's face for malice, hatred, anger at him, displeasure to signify that he's gone wrong again, is wrong, will always be a wrong thing, his eyes welling with tears anew.

The gun goes back in the holster. He’ll have to count that one. It’s three. Two-thirds used on these things, and the other earned him a roundabout way of destroying another two. Sure. The math adds up.

“I think I might’ve sprained something kicking that door open,” he says, trying not to let that look get to him. Trying to smile instead, crack a joke. That puppy dog misery that works way too well when his resolve is already in shambles. “Can you walk with me to the kitchen?”

Jon looks blankly for a moment and then nods. "Yes," He mumbles. "I'm not hurt other than-- hands? Hands. It should-- it should mostly heal." His voice is thin.

Tim takes one last look at the corpse-thing pooled over the floor of Jon’s office, then nudges him along out into the hallway. “Mhm,” he hums softly. Damn it, he’s cracking. “You saw what to do with burns when this happened to me, right?”

"Yes," He says, and looks down at his hands as they walk. "I've been-- burned. Before. Another avatar, she-- she shook my hand and burned me. This is... This is worse."

“Nope, doesn’t feel great. But you’ll be fine. Promise.” Tim rounds the corner to where Sasha has already set up the sink so he can soak his hands. 

“We should talk about this somewhere else,” she says with an odd, controlled smile. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to be here right now.”

“Right. Jon, do you, uh, mind if I call the house?”

Jon makes his way to the sink and dunks his hands in, a low exhalation escaping him at the immediate relief. He shakes his head. "No. Please do. I'd-- it's not a good idea to stay here, alone, right now."

“Definitely not happening.” Tim leans back against the sink next to him, watching his hands briefly to make sure he’s doing it right. Not that he’s an expert, but hey. It’s happened to him. 

When he pulls out his phone, his hands are trembling. Can’t really fix that, so just try to be as mobile as possible. He clicks the first ‘M’ he sees and holds it up to his ear. The waiting game.

It rings once, twice, thrice, and then Michael answers, his voice far too cheery for it still being rather early in the morning. "Tim! Hi! Can I help you? I found out you all killed someone in the living room last night! Not fair that no one woke me up!"

“Oh. Er, uh, Michael!” ...Wrong M. “Yeah. I was just wondering if you could make sure, uh, Gerry’s around? Jon and Sasha—“ 

He looks up to make sure Sasha’s coming, and she seems to get what his unspoken question means, because she nods. “—And I, are coming over. We’re fine, just, leaving the office early today.”

"... You're fine, but you need Gerry, and you're coming home with Jon? That doesn't sound very fine." Michael snorts, and then his voice goes a little worried. "He's okay, right? You know, I really think he's going off the deep end but that's none of my business."

“We’re alive, and in one piece, and I  _ agree, _ but we’re getting out of here first. Just making sure it’s not a surprise.” He sighs. “So can you do that?”

"Yeah. Yeah, sure, we'll be here when you get here. Sheesh. It's not like you asked me to do a Sisyphean task." He huffs. "See you soon." He hangs up.

Tim scoffs as he pulls his phone away from his ear. “He’s a character, isn’t he? Okay. We’re letting you do that for a while, then we’re heading out. Sound good?”

"... Okay," Jon says. He doesn't have much resistance left in him. Too much of a migraine, still, too much confusion of who and what and where and why, lingering like a heavy hangover.

He soaks his hands for a little longer, just as Tim says, and then pulls them from the basin, letting the water drip to the floor.

\---

The ride goes without a hitch, mostly, the three of them packed into the back of a cab through a silence that is not enforced but certainly awkward with Jon in the middle. 

They don’t talk about it in the cab. Tim makes a few light-hearted attempts at humor, though they tend to fall flat, and Sasha checks in, only when the silence gets to be too much.

The van is still parked out front when they get there. Not too abnormal in the grand scheme of things, but it has such an imposing, awful feeling to it that Tim doesn’t want to look longer than he has to. 

“Out you go,” he says as he opens the back door for Jon to move, eyes on the front door to the house.

\---

Jon feels a little calmer, a little more settled into his own skin by the time they arrive to the house, but it's a marginal thing, and he trudges up the walk to the front door like a man who's never slept, never known a thing in his life, and certainly isn't the Archivist. 

Gerry opens the door when he comes close, and Jon does not like the way his eyes rake over him, searching, condemning, he imagines, and Jon flinches and squeezes around him to enter the house. Gerry shoots Tim and Sasha a confused look. "What happened now?"

\---

“We—“ Sasha starts, and then stops. Starts again. “When I came in this morning, Jon called me into his office. But then Jon—“ She gestures to the one currently escaping into the depths of the house. “—the _ real _ one, came in. And... It’s all, sort of, um, confusing.” 

Tim looks dejected. “He killed the thing. With my gun. It sure as hell worked.”

\---

Gerry blinks, and slowly steps out of the way of the door frame to allow them to walk in. "...The-- Alright. Fake Jon, and Jon-- Killed it? He--"

"It was the Stranger," Jon says. He's managed to procure a glass of scotch in the timespan of dipping inside and coming back to the foyer. "Something not unlike the Not-Them, but it doesn't take, it mimics. And it nearly killed me." His voice is quiet, slightly shaky, but it's not the silence he exhibited in the car, at least. He takes a drink. "I can barely tell who or what anything is, right now."

\---

“I almost didn’t come in to work,” Tim says, looking down guiltily. “I try not to miss Mondays, though. After the weekends I start to—“ He shrugs. “Okay. Clearly the Stranger. No arguments there. How long was it  _ here? _ How long did— It must’ve just been today, right? Just— After you killed Hope, what, revenge?”

\---

"I don't know how long, but he was-- it was there for a while," Jon says, and starts to trail to the living room, so he can sit heavily in one of the armchairs. "It knew-- It knew almost  _ everything." _

\---

Silence hits the room. One that aches. Unspoken questions of ‘how could we not have known?’ and ‘who else could it have been?’ and ‘how do we know that was the only one?’ and paranoia, paranoia, paranoia, a cyclone above their heads. 

Before Tim or Sasha can voice a single worry, Martin opens the front door, teeth closed around a stack of mail and one hand wrapped tight around a leash. He looks anxious, needing to go on a walk to calm down, and he drops the mail onto the floor the second he lays eyes on Jon. 

“Are— Are you okay? Is— You smell like ash—“ He comes close, up to the very edge of the chair, and Poe jumps up to investigate.

\---

Jon holds his hands out, showing him the burns, and his expression is one of utter misery. He takes a moment to rake his eyes over Martin. Martin, his Martin, he's Martin's, this is real, he won't say what he said, but he should, he  _ should. _ The worst part was the doppelganger didn't lie. It was right.

"There was an imposter, in the Archives," He says quietly, still watching Martin with heavy intensity. Like he's afraid of forgetting him.

\---

Martin looks down at the burns, grimaces, and then... well, he gets trapped in Jon’s face, really. Lets himself be scrutinized however Jon sees fit to do. Always so soft for it. Probably to a fault, he’s realizing more and more each day. 

He eventually manages to look between the rest of them, but it doesn’t look like anyone has any answers. He ends up on his knees next to the armchair while Poe tries to lick Jon’s hands. “Did— Did It say why?”

\---

Jon shakes his head, and pulls his hands away from the puppy, clutching them to his chest. "No. But I imagine it got all the information it needed for the Unknowing. It--" He grimaces, and looks to the floor. "Nikola will no doubt know exactly how to-- to depersonalize us. I'm still.... I'm still having a hard time keeping up."

\---

Martin pulls Poe back a bit until he lies down properly in Jon’s lap. “Okay. Um.” 

“I don’t think any of us should be at the Institute right now,” Sasha speaks up. There we go. “We know  _ nothing _ about this right now, especially how many of them there are, and Jon’s obviously not in a place where we can start questioning him. What do we do?”

\---

"I guess we stay here until we figure out the Unknowing." He squints. "How do we tell that we're all... ourselves? If this thing has been masquerading for a while and we didn't... Know?"

\---

Martin fidgets with the fabric of his sweater with one hand, the other braced over Jon’s knee. “You could...” He tries not to grimace, or make eye contact with Gerry for too long. “I-I mean, there’s always... com-compelling?”

"There's-- There's always that. Did you-- Jon, did you compel this thing?" 

\---

Jon shakes his head miserably again. "No. Didn't-- Forgot who I was, forgot I could do that, forgot that was a possibility."

\---

Tim leans up against one of the walls, shoulders hiked up. It stings. All of this stings. Too many thoughts racing in his head and he knows it’s fueling paranoia. He won’t let it. He can’t. 

He reaches out to brush Sasha’s hand with his own. She locks their fingers together. “If—If that’s the only way, just— No fae bullshit. Can’t just leave it at ‘yes, I’m the real one’, otherwise  _ yeah, _ obviously you’re the real one now if you killed the first one, s— so.”

\---

"Wh- What should I ask, then? I'm not-- I'm not very--" Jon shakes his head, trying to clear his thoughts. "Sorry. It's-- It confused me, is all, twisted me up, hard to get my bearings, here."

\---

“I have no idea,” Tim sighs. He looks to Gerry. “Can’t you verify it? God, this stuff confuses me. Endlessly.”

\---

"I usually know when someone's lying, but-- I didn't know this thing  _ existed, _ so I guess that kind of lying went under the radar." He tilts his head, and turns to Jon. "Maybe compel us for what we were born as? I don't know."

Jon shrugs. "Maybe that would work. How can we be sure? I can't even be sure-- I'm not even supposed to be here."

\---

“I couldn’t tell, if - if it was, if it’s been around,” Martin whines. “I can usually smell it.”

“It wants us to do this,” Sasha says before Tim can speak up again, with something that definitely was not going to be helpful. “It obviously wants us to start questioning everything. Each other. What if we just... didn’t? Is that a bad idea?”

\---

Gerry cocks his head. "Maybe? It-- I don't know." He worries his bottom lip. "Have we--" He spins and looks at Tim. "Remember when we saw Elias twice? In the span of... What, not long at all?"

\---

Tim frowns, squeezing Sasha’s hand a little harder. “Yeah. I do. I think we need to handle that problem sooner rather than later, too. The Elias one. He obviously doesn’t just watch. There’s no way he didn’t know, right? If - If that’s what you’re implying. That it— All the way back then, though?”

\---

"...It had to have been. That whole situation was... weird." Gerry frowns. "Which is a longer time than I'm comfortable with."

_ "He  _ might know," Jon mumbles. "How to tell."

\---

Tim rounds his gaze on Jon. Slowly. He’s thinking. “He  _ knew. _ He was— Fuck!” He moves his hand away from Sasha’s to pace. “He wouldn’t tell me about a third contact. Some - Some vague nonsense about games, about— I remember, but it’s— The wording, I don’t—  _ Ugh. _ He  _ knew!  _ Ask him. Now. Come on.”

\---

Jon flinches back in his chair, and shakes his head, fear falling over his face for a moment. He wipes his hand down the length of his face and frowns. "I don't-- It's hard to-- Can someone call for him? It's hard to--" He gestures to his head. "Talk."

\---

Martin frowns up at Tim. “The last time he was here was back when he came home and I yelled at him. I don’t— I don’t know if asking for him to come back so I can do it again will help?” 

He looks to Gerry. Tim does, too. Like they’ve decided their de facto leader in this whole mess.

\---

Gerry huffs out a frustrated breath and then nods. "I want to know if the little prick knew about this." That earns another flinch from Jon, who immediately sits up a little straighter. He gives the smallest of nods. 

Stepping closer, Gerry says, "Sirius, if you're awake, we'd really like to discuss something with you.  _ Now. _ "

Jon looks at Gerry with wide eyes and all at once shuts them, feeling someone else rustling about in a mind that is still so, so confused. Having the door nearly flung open and then nearly closed tight and shut has left them both off balance, but when he opens his eyes once more, Jon caressed away and gone to rest, Sirius looks around the room and scowls. 

"I don't enjoy these big meetings," He says. "And my head hurts. A Migraine. Jon has not had nearly enough water to hydrate him, today. Foul man."

\---

Martin stays where he is, near Sirius’ lap, but something about it now lacks comfort. A minute twitch in existence that leaves him feeling cold. 

“You should see the other guy,” Tim growls, and somehow, somehow, he can make a joke like that seem threatening. “We found him, by the way. The fake one. I suggest you start talking.”

\---

"Oh," Sirius breathes, and there's a flash of... What almost looks like guilt that passes over him for a moment, two. And then it's gone, smoothed away into his placid stoicism once more. "No wonder Jonathan seems so confused. I was not aware of any of that." He gives the smallest of one-shouldered shrugs. "It was harmless."

\---

_ “No. _ It wasn’t. According to Jon, he almost didn’t make it back  _ out. _ If I didn’t high kick that door, I’d be asking your corpse.”

\---

Sirius squints, watching Jon, thinking of him, pressing lightly against the edges of his awareness. Ah. "That is... That was unforeseen. That was not supposed to happen. Perhaps it was mildly stronger than I thought it was."

\---

_ ”Supposed _ to happen?” Martin whines up at him, head tilted in that sad, dejected way that makes him look positively betrayed. “What was supposed to happen, Sirius?”

\---

"It was supposed to be... Fun. Just fun. Just-- An extra failsafe, in the off-chance that Jonathan did not mark himself in the Unknowing." He tilts his head. "It's dead, now, there is no need to worry. I never thought anyone would be hurt by it. Even Jon merely has a migraine and burnt hands from--" he squints. "He wasted a bullet."

\---

_ “Fun. _ Oh, right, fun. It’s all just laughs to you, is it?” Tim points an accusatory finger at him from across the room. “We should use one on  _ you! _ If it knows that much about us, you really think it won’t have all the ammo it needs to win? Now we have to figure out everything! And who knows how much time we have!”

\---

Sirius bares his teeth at Tim, leaning forward in the chair. "If you shoot me, you lose a valuable ally in your hunt to stop the Unknowing. It will be  _ soon.  _ You will  _ win.  _ You must calm down .This was merely a side-game. I was hoping one of you would figure it out." He frowns. "I thought it would be fun. But no one enjoys my company right now, so I suppose not."

\---

“When have you ever been valuable to me? Your  _ lead  _ was a dead end! One I paid for with a piece of the thing that ruined my life shoved right back at me! You’re either on our side, or against it. There’s no in-between.” Tim refuses to get closer. He doesn’t want to escalate this. Really, he doesn’t. “We could’ve interrogated that one! Now we don’t get the chance. Because of  _ you. _ So unless you know when and where, right now, I think you should go right back into Jon’s thick skull and stay there before you ruin anything else for everyone on earth.”

\---

Sirius stands abruptly, fury flying to his face. He turns to leave; Jon does not want to be here, but neither does he. "There is no other. You are all safe, until the Unknowing. I will give that information to you for free."

"You should have  _ said _ something, from the beginning. You should have--" Oh, Gerry is not very happy. Reigning this in around him is hard, and he hardly does a good job of it. But take his tongue. Do it. Take what you want. "God, you're so fucking exhausting. More than Jon."

The fury is back in his eyes, but so too is there guilt. A foreign emotion, one that makes him feel slimy, and off-kilter. He hates humanity again, in this moment.

\---

Martin catches the dog, thankfully. That’s the last thing they need going wrong. He clutches Poe tightly to his chest. 

“Great.” Tim rolls his eyes. “That’s the first time you’ve ever been helpful. I’m sure it’s a very difficult moment for you. Now bring Jon back. He’s the one we need to take care of, right now. Unlike you, none of us are sadistic, and he’s not a _ toy.” _

\---

"He's scared," Sirius says, and tilts his head. "Perhaps it would be a mercy to stay. This creature hurt him, badly. It--" He frowns. He doesn't like what Jon's head is like right now. On either end. "It blamed him. For everything. Perhaps I should have killed this creature earlier."

\---

“No. It’s not a mercy. We’re all scared. But it’s better to be scared around  _ us _ than alone in your own head. I know that much.” 

Martin gives Tim a discomforted, vaguely confused look, then turns back to Sirius. “Jon?”

\---

Sirius gives Martin a complicated, sad look. Too many mixed emotions swirl around his being, and his shoulders slump. Fine. Even his Messenger does not want him here.

Jon isn't difficult to rouse, but he is confused, still. It might be the only reason he returns, when Sirius passes him proverbial reins and it's suddenly him standing in the living room, and not the Archivist. He sways slightly on his feet and frowns, then nearly falls, but Michael is there to catch him, walking into the room just before he loses his footing.

Michael snorts as he rights Jon. "Careful not to get so existential your whole body just unspools like thread, Jon!"

\---

Tim exhales the rest of his tension, and so does Sasha, and Martin, who leaves Poe on the floor to offer a cautious hand out to Jon. 

“Do you, erm, do you want to stay here today? I could, uh— tea? I-I guess it’s been a while since I really... made anyone...” Martin trails off, unsure whether anyone in the house or from outside the house even needs or wants that. “...tea. We have— s-space.”

\---

Jon immediately nods. "Tea. Please. I-- was he helpful? He seemed upset, in-- in our mind."

\---

Sasha moves to finally sit down on one of the couches as Martin makes his grand escape to the kitchen. “Um. He knew, Jon? About there being... something in the Institute. You should really take the day. We can always talk about it once you’re feeling better.”

\---

"He knew." Jon sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Right. I'll--" Oh. He's about to cry again. Better sit down and pretend he's not. He rubs a hand over one of his eyes and then flinches, having forgotten about how tender his hands are. "I'm just... Slow. Right now. Sorry."

\---

“It’s okay. Just focus on being here? That’s all you have to do right now.” Sasha smiles to the room as a whole. “It’s a lovely house.”

\---

Michael beams from where he's sitting. "Thanks, Miss Sasha. I'm really rather proud of it. You're welcome to stay."

\---

Sasha, at least, gives a smile of relief. Tim looks much like a wet cat about it all, but he holds his tongue. 

Martin peeks back into the room. “Gerry, Mike’s texting you about— About coming over, or something? Our house is becoming a zoo.”

\---

Gerry blinks. "Yeah, it is. He wants to come over now? I mean. Tell him yes. But-- tell him there's a situation."

\---

“I mean, he didn’t say  _ now, _ it’s— sure. Sure. I’ll let him know.” Off he goes, back into the kitchen. Moody. 

Tim scoffs. “It must be soon, if he was willing to risk a stunt like that. Seriously? Everyone knows Jon comes in early as sin. He would’ve only had, like, five minutes before the real one showed up.”

\---

"It's soon. Very soon," Jon says. "I just don't know the exact day. Can feel it."

Gerry frowns. "We could put a stake out, or-- or something? Have everything ready to go just in case it pops?"

\---

“Maybe. Depends on how close you can get without being noticed. We’re going in practically blind. And, uh. I don’t think...” Tim shrugs. “I don’t think all of us should go.”

\---

"Who are you thinking?"

\---

“Me. Keay. Jon’s— Jon’s a loose cannon, we just, have to be sort of upfront about that, so I really don’t know about him. Especially after today. And— I, uh.” Tim lowers his voice. “Unless you think a werewolf with anxiety will help us, I don’t know if Martin’s the best idea.”

\---

"No Michael?" Michael pouts and slumps into one of the seats. Not a real pout, he's mostly joking, but it's funny to him, how Tim didn't even acknowledge him.

"You'll spiral the second you see wax," Gerry says, rolling his eyes. "Jon-- he knows the most about how this goes. He'll be useful. Martin-- I don't know if he'd even want to go."

\---

“Yeah, he knows how it goes, but that doesn’t change... literally anything else.” Tim looks at Michael. “Sorry. Didn’t seem the type for it.”

\---

He snorts. "I'd probably die. Or worse. Oh, the Stranger is often worse than death. I quite hate them. And people always thought we were similar." He grimaces. "Disgusting."

Jon shakes his head. "I only was... I was unprepared for this morning. It will be easier if I know it's coming."

\---

"We'll talk about this when it's not so fresh." Sasha says, as Martin comes back out with a few mugs of tea. One for Jon, for Sasha, for Tim, and Michael, all balanced precariously as he hands them out. "I don't think any of our decisions right now will be the best ones we could make with what we have."

\---

Gerry nods. "Alright. What we do know, and what can give us solace, is that the Archivist might hide information, but he doesn't lie. If he says there's no more of these things, then that's the truth."

\---

"Then it's no use getting paranoid about which one of us is the fake. Got it. The dog's not the Thing." Tim chuffs out a breathy laugh. "So we take a breather and recoup. Uh." He looks to Jon, raising his mug as some sort of half-baked peace offering. "At the Sims estate?"

\---

"... Blackwood-Sims. Yes." Jon takes a slow drink from his mug, frowning down at the floor. "... Thank you. Today. For coming back."

\---

"I can't leave!" Tim says, with an oddly positive beat to it. "But, yeah. None of you are allowed to die to some body snatching freak of nature. Not on my watch."

\---

Jon hums, and shrugs a little. "Would have made things easier, maybe. If it had."

\---

"Yeah.  _ Maybe." _ Tim shrugs right back. "But we're not in the business of executing people. I'm, uh, all talk, really. Except when I'm not." he clears his throat. "...I guess."

\---

"You can save the last one for me. That's fine," Jon says.

Gerry rolls his eyes. "Shut up."

\---

“That’s my business,” Tim says coolly. “Whether I did or didn’t doesn’t matter right now.”

There’s a light knocking on the front door.

\---

"Oh my God." Michael says. "Someone should have told me we were having a party so I could have done my hair!" He all but screams the last part as he flings the front door open.

\---

Mike stands in the doorway, both hands tucked neatly behind his back. His hair, by comparison, is pulled back behind his ears beneath a dark grey ushanka that covers most of the scars along his face and neck. 

No scarf today, but his jacket is similarly fur-lined. Well-dressed and downright pleasant, perhaps. "Hello, Michael. I wasn't aware there was..." He looks into the house. "... a party?"

\---

Michael snorts. "Me either. Do you see how I look? It's downright disrespectful. Jon almost died today! Are you here for  _ Gerrrrrryyy?" _

\---

Mike somehow ends up smaller by the end of that drawn-out name than when he started. He tries to cover up the vague sense of frustration filling his face, but he's never been very good at displaying or packing away his emotions either way. "... You look fine." He pauses. "I might be."

\---

Michael grins at him and lowers his arm from where it's leaning against the doorframe, letting him enter. "That's cute. You two are cute. I'm glad you keep coming around!"

\---

Mike tries to ignore him. He tries very, very hard. And succeeds, for the most part. "Well, you've wanted help, and I had somewhat of a debt, and now you have... a house. Much nicer than my flat."

He steps into the main room, stopping awkwardly at the side once he's able to take stock of everyone still here. Tim and Sasha both smile, and Mike smiles back, but then his eyes land on Martin, who looks like he's trying to gauge how quickly Mike's legs can carry him out of biting distance and if it's worth it to go after him. "It... is quite the party. Should I ask what happened?"

\---

Jon's eyes land on Mike. Ah. Someone whose face doesn't confuse him, right now. He knows this person, and this person, despite hurting him another life, hasn't said the things every other person in this room has. He smiles, and focuses a little easier on him, and says, "The Stranger infiltrated the Institute. It attempted to... Kill me."

\---

"Oh. I'm sorry," Mike says, genuinely taken aback. "At least... now you know you're making them nervous, if they're sending agents after you? That's all a bit dramatic, isn't it."

\---

Jon shrugs. "We'll defeat them. It was never a question. The Circus will die." He pauses, looking back down to the floor. "I think... I think I'll lie down."

\---

Martin reaches down from where he's standing partway behind Jon's chair and runs an idle hand through his hair. "Do you want me to come with you?"

\---

Jon shrugs. "If-- if you want. I don't... Know. I don't want to-- I'm scared of hurting anyone further."

Gerry sighs. Great. Just saying it out in the open. Whatever. This is for him and Martin to discuss; he turns to Mike and smiles. "Welcome. Never a dull day, here."

\---

“You won’t hurt me,” Martin says quietly with a dopey little smile that’s supposed to be comforting. He’s trying. 

“No, I suppose not. I, um.” Mike’s not much for so many eyes on him, either. “Is this a bad time? I could... I could go.”

\---

Jon frowns, and slowly stands disbelieving. "Okay. Come with me." 

Gerry shakes his head. "It's always a terrible time. Take me out somewhere. Right now. Anywhere you like."

\---

“Oh. Alright. Sure.” Mike steps back towards the front door, expression caught between several overlapping emotions. “I can— I can do that.”

\---

"Good. Great, awesome. My knight in shining fucking armor." He turns to address the room at large. "You're welcome to stay here for as long as you want. Bye. Michael can probably feed you, but he'll probably get the bottle out first, knowing him."

\---

“Guess we’re pairing off,” Tim says, unaffected by whatever’s plaguing the entire room. “I pick the dog.” 

Sasha rolls her eyes. “Stay safe— thank you!” 


	94. Chapter 94

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cringe mike/oracle date interlude...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long pause! I got sick and couldn't edit. 
> 
> CW:  
> \- mild sexual content near the end of the chapter

On the porch, Gerry quickly closes the door behind him, grimacing a little at Mike. "Sorry about that."

\---

“I’ve come to assume that’s the norm here,” Mike says, trying to offer a smile that actually helps. “Have you ever gone ice skating?”

\---

Gerry blinks, and then shakes his head. "No-no? No, I don't think I have. Have you? Is that a thing people really do?"

\---

“...Yes? Yes, I would— I’m not the  _ only _ person who ice skates, if that’s what you’re asking. Would you... like to?” Mike frowns at himself. “I should have asked about the logistics first, shouldn’t I?”

\---

Gerry shrugs. "I can probably manage. Just might not be able to do it for as long as someone with an actual body." He snorts. "Downfall of taking a ghost on a date, huh."

\---

Mike’s brain stutters while he stares, expressionless, up at Gerry. “If you’d like it to be. I could... find a spot. I would just need to stop by my flat to... get my - my skates.”

\---

"We can do that." He smiles. "Beats standing around waiting for Jon to speak like something other than a mad king."

\---

“I would take you there the way I usually make the trip, but you didn’t seem to take too well to it last time.”

\---

"Ha! Guess I just got-- confused? I mean. I'm not exactly really here. I'm  _ here." _ He gestures to the pendant wrapped around his neck. "Hard to keep environmentally aware on a good day, let alone... With how you do it."

\---

“I see.  _ Well, _ if you think you can manage it, a private lake would be much... better. For skating. Than a rink.” He turns over his shoulder with a mildly perturbed smile.

\---

Gerry nods immediately. "God, please, I'm not learning a new-- sport? Is this a sport?-- while dead, in front of people. No thanks. Sounds embarrassing."

\---

“It’s really more of a hobby? So the plan is— We can take the walk to my flat, if you— Well, if you need to talk about anything, we can; I don’t know how important that is, but— I get my skates, and then we try... our best.” Mike inhales slowly. So many words. “Is that... Is that good?”

\---

"That's good. More than good." He turns to smile at him. "We don't have to plan everything. Just your company's nice, you know."

\---

“I was under the impression that dates were planned events,” Mike says as he walks, audibly mulling it over. “Your company has changed my life, for lack of a better way to phrase that. I’ve been solitary and— and felt solitary long before that.”

\---

"... Yeah, I've been there. Didn't exactly expect to have... friends? A house? It's new for me, too." He bumps into Mike with his elbow, hands in his pockets. "Hopefully being less solitary is suiting you."

\---

Mike smiles at the pavement. “It does. I’ve enjoyed finding new ways to be useful. And— It’s encouraged me to be more creative with what I’m capable of. I was too young to ever know what it was like to not be this way, before. Much of it has been a source of shame for my entire life.”

\---

"Well. I like you. What you can do is beautiful. So-- there's something, maybe."

\---

“It is something. You’re a remarkable ghost. All of this is very new for me.” 

He walks quietly, for a moment, before starting again. _ “Do _ you need to talk about what’s going on?”

\---

Gerry breathes in a frustrated breath. "It's... a rabbit hole, isn't it. Especially-- Especially when it ends in the world probably ending at the hand of someone I sleep with."

\---

“Ah. Yes. Very complicated.” Mike hums. “I doubt the end of the world will be that simple. Or... completely irreversible. I always wonder what happens to all the others, should one eventually... win out. I doubt we simply disappear.”

\---

"I doubt it. Just... One gets to be in charge, I guess. Fear is fear, and-- I don't know." Gerry shrugs. "Guess it depends on the entity. The Vast's world probably wouldn't be too kind to the Buried. The Eye-- It likes to watch, regardless of the form of pain."

\---

“Mm. None of them can exist without the others. I’m sure we’ll handle it as it happens. I can’t imagine it will be a surprise, if  _ he’s _ fated to end the world. Or to try.”

\---

"I'd still like to stop it. And figuring out how to do that is-- The options are narrowing. Not to mention his new propensity with controlling people, physically."

\---

“Mm. So can I. Only in a... slightly different way.” Mike shrugs. “Any option I might think of is likely one you’ve already considered.”

\---

"Right." Gerry lets out a frustrated huff. "It'll-- It'll work out. However it needs to, I guess. In the meantime, stopping the Stranger is our priority. Even if Sirius is so certain it'll fail."

\---

Well, this likely isn’t going anywhere but south. Maybe they need to move on. “Were you serious about this being a date? I couldn’t— Couldn’t tell. Very well.”

\---

"I-- I mean, yes, I-- If you'd like it to be." Gerry pulls back a little to look at him. "That seems to be where we were heading, right?"

\---

“Yes.” Mike smiles, awkward but genuine. “I just know very little about you. But that’s part of the point, isn’t it? All I know is what made you save my life, for the most part. And... destroy my book.”

\---

"Well... That's what dates are for, right? Like... Getting to know someone? A- a safe place to ask?" He shrugs. "I think."

\---

“Yes! Yes.” Mike falls silent as they walk, the worry that his space might not be up to par for guests settling in his head. He clears his throat. “...I’m not used to coming in through the front door, actually.”

\---

"You-- Do you often sneak into places? That--" Gerry blinks and then grins. "You're like... Like Jack Frost! But cute."

\---

“...I leave the balcony door open,” Mike says as he looks down, like that’s shameful. “Is it sneaking if it’s my own house?”

\---

"I suppose... In your case, the balcony is like a front door?" He cocks his head. "You know, I used to climb into my bedroom when I was younger. So I didn't have to walk past mum's study. I'd just climb up onto the roof and slip in."

\---

“I think it feels more like a Peter Pan situation. I’m small enough. _ And _ I can fly, in some capacity. I just don’t have a fairy that’s doing it.”

\---

Gerry laughs. "That's where Michael comes in. What, are you going to take me to Neverland? That's awfully romantic for a first date."

\---

“That is what I thought, yes. There aren’t many open, unguarded frozen lakes near my flat. And I’m really not a fan of closed-in spaces. Cabs, for one.”

\---

He raises an eyebrow. "So we're flying. Well. Take me inside first, don't want to keep a lady freezing."

\- - -

Mike is so  _ very _ unused to walking up to his flat in the normal, acceptable everyday fashion. Making it as far as putting keys in the front door is so unusual he’s almost forgotten how to do it, really. 

But, despite the odds, they make it in. The door to the balcony is flung wide open, dark blue curtains swaying against the wind. The breeze feels nice, and that’s the point for someone with a much higher tolerance for the extremes of this weather by nature. There’s a simple white couch with a lamp looming over one side and a blanket curled up in that exact corner as evidence of his having been here. 

There are books piled on the coffee table, not fitting any one theme or topic. A bookcase that is his sits where a TV might go, and on top of it are a few random objects. A small snow globe, a few framed pictures of different places, nothing too fancy. The door to his bedroom is slightly open, his new scarf hanging on the doorknob. “It’s not much. I just need to find my skates. Um, make yourself at home?”

\---

Gerry walks in and smiles. It's so very humble, and so very  _ Mike. _ He makes his way to the couch and sits, even going so far as to be polite and keep his feet on the floor as he thumbs through a few of the books in the coffee table. "It's cute."

\---

“Thank you,” Mike sighs, warmth blooming in his cheeks. He’s quick to disappear inside the bedroom, but not as quick to come back out. “I think you’d like the one with the blue cover, the paperback—“ He calls from behind the door. “—It’s about Tempestarii. Weather-manipulating witches in the medieval ages.”

\---

He reaches forward until he finds it, plucking it from the stack and flipping through a few of the pages. He's right. It sounds interesting. And it amuses him how witchy Mike finds him. He's not wrong, but it's amusing. "Mind if I borrow it? I haven't had too much time to go book shopping since we moved."

\---

“Sure!” Mike pops back out, two skates laced together and dangling from one hand. “I’ve finished it, either way. So— No rush. I... think the question now, though, is how we get skates for... you?”

\---

"I--" Gerry leans forward and thinks for a moment. "I know. Resummon me and hold the locket and we'll both-- it makes it easier to change my appearance. Or add skates. Okay?"

He pulls the locket off his neck and places it gently on the coffee table and then disappears in winking eyes.

\---

Mike stares down at the locket. 

...Right. 

He gingerly picks the chain up. No use calling him right back here just to lob him fifty miles any direction, so Mike places the chain around his neck for safekeeping and sets along his merry way. 

Not that he knows how to  _ summon _ him, but he’s seen it happen before, and that’s a start. 

He picks some place he knows is untouched. Except by him, obviously. A little frozen body of water just big enough to skate around in, where the rare person who might stumble in on the experience likely wouldn’t have any desire to intervene. Somewhere cold, and secluded, and away from city pollution. Fresh snow, white and too cold for anyone else he might take here, but not this one. 

Mike sits down on a lonesome stump, the locket still heavy on his neck, and it’s very hard to not feel very, very stupid about speaking into silent, empty thin air. “...Hello?”

\---

It's not the best summoning, not even a _ name,  _ but it does the job, albeit a little slowly. Her eyes blink slowly into existence, bright green against the wintery landscape behind her.

And... She almost immediately stumbles, leaning forward to grab onto Mike's shoulders, not fully registering that she's on skates until this moment. Her breath does not fog the air when she huffs in amusement, right in Mike's face.

Her skates are black. She's never owned any or done this before; her entire outfit is a spectral projection of something that might have been and now is, in a way. Her coat is gray and lined with black fur, and her hair is pulled back into two French braids tight against her scalp.

"Hello," Oracle says.

\---

It might be slow, but so is Mike— his eyes widen, and he instinctually moves to keep her upright with both hands at her waist. 

“You took my coat,” he says nervously, like she’s the one who might be offended, and then pulls back his hands. “Welcome to the ice rink.”

\---

She looks down at herself and blinks, then grins down at him. "Seems I did. Guess we both manifested that one." She turns to look all around, still using Mike to hold herself up, and her eyes widen a little. "That's-- this seems dangerous."

\---

"It is. As a general rule." Mike follows her eyes, over the crystalline surface of the water. "Neither of us will die of hypothermia if the ice breaks. I can make sure I never fall in at all. Unless you'd like another reason to take care of me."

\---

That earns Mike a sputtered laugh, one that has her losing her balance and holding onto him even tighter. "Well. We'll see how the day takes us. I don't need a grievous body wound to take care of someone."

\---

"I'm steady on a good day," Mike smiles, watching her laugh with a curious sort of wonder that makes itself right at home here in the snow. "And stronger than I look." He holds both his hands out for her to grab if she needs to. "Can you stand?"

\---

"Hold-- hold on. Let me--" She slowly eases up on clinging, trying to find her balance, hands sliding from his shoulders down to his wrists and eventually his hands, straightening with every inch of movement. "When did you learn to do this? Is this something you just-- just learn as a kid?"

\---

"Mm. I used to, as a kid, yes. I picked it up again after I took a break hunting books." Mike holds himself still, careful not to make any moves that are too sudden as he steps backwards towards the frozen water. "There was a period of several long years where I had no hobbies outside of studying the thing that had me. After that I slowly worked back up to it."

\---

Oracle goes slowly with him, thankful for his casual discretion in how shaky she is on her feet with these damned skates on. Ugh. She's normally very graceful, thank you. Or... Less graceful, and more purposeful, in a very physically present way. Not so dancer-like.

She hums as she goes, her hands tightening in his. "I had a couple years, in my late teens, early twenties, where I did nothing but obsess over the Eye. So I get it."

\---

Mike hums right back, understanding and calmly collected. He moves backwards until he feels both his skates tread over ice and not snow. “Time for new hobbies, then.” 

Her skates join his, sliding forward as he gently pulls and holds them both up. Just a few inches. 

“I’m letting you go now.” He’s still smiling when he slips his hands from hers and slides back out of her reach.

\---

"Oh, Jesus,  _ fuck, _ fuck--" No time for swears once she hits the ice, and her legs bow out like a fawn's, Bambi fragile. She slides down the ice, her palms meeting it, and she slowly, slowly works her way back up, shaking slightly.

If she weren't so corporeal, maybe it would work. But she's trying to stay here,  _ here, _ and Mike is sweet enough to make her want to try. So the energy output is justified.

After a few shaky moments, she manages to reach equilibrium while standing, and flashes Mike a victorious grin. "I'm doing it. See? You're a dick, but I'm doing it."

\---

Mike laughs, just a touch sadistic as he tests the ice a bit further out, keeping his eyes on her. “It’s a leap of faith, isn’t it? I knew you could. You seem the type to take to it.”

\---

"I don't know how to move my-- My feet? I don't know how to  _ normal _ skate, Mike. I'm standing, and I'm-- Stuck?" She grimaces.

\---

“You’re not stuck. Pretend you’re not allowed to fall. Then don’t fall.” Mike skates a circle around her, emboldened by his own expertise.

\---

She scowls. "Easy for you to say. Rich kid." She moves one foot forward and nearly trips, just barely catching her footing.

\---

“Money has nothing to do with it,” Mike says as he stops a few feet in front of her. “Make it here and I’ll help you.”

\---

Her eyes light up in fiery indignation. "That's not-- ugh. Ugh."  _ Fine.  _ She's so slow, each step painstaking and heavy on the blade, but she finally, finally makes it to him. Her balance nearly tips her over in her eagerness to he upon him, and she lurches forward, trying to grab him again.

\---

Mike catches her; it’s sloppy, but it just barely works out in his favor, balancing her awkwardly with both hands over her arms while he figures out what he should do. 

“Here—“ He moves to her side so he can grip just one of her hands in his, facing the same direction. “Just follow me. Kick out to the side, um— You don’t fight the ice, you move with it. Does that make sense?”

\---

Her eyes drop to watch how Mike's feet move, smooth and graceful and with ease, and she tries to mimic that. Nowhere near as poised, but she moves, at least, blade sliding smoothly across the ice. "Okay. Okay. That makes sense, yes, Mike."

\---

“Good. I’ve never taught someone how to do anything. Just follow me.” He continues, carefully pulling her along until they’re far from the shore. Nothing but an expanse of ice, frozen shapes stuck motionless beneath them. He looks down once they get there, curious. “I wonder how deep it goes.”

\---

By the time he gets her out to the center, she more or less can keep herself upright and stable on her own. She's not winning any medals, and she knows she could just teach herself with the great expanse of the Eye's knowledge, but it feels nice to learn organically. To have such a sweet man teach her.

She grimaces as she watches the way the ice forms bubbles in its depths, the way the water below lurches beneath their weight. "Very, I'd imagine. Fifty meters, maybe?"

\---

“Or more,” Mike hums appreciatively, holding them still together over the lake that seems to go on, and on, and on. “That is one thing I never understood about your patron. Is there a fundamental opposite? Or equivalent? The Vast and the Buried go hand-in-hand, but who brushes against yours? Is it the Dark?“

\---

"I suppose partially." She looks up, out into the forest surrounding them. "Maybe-- I think the Web, more so. Hands-on control, rather than just mere... Surveillance."

\---

“I’ve never thought much of the Web. But maybe that’s the point. Hard not to think of the Eye when it looks you right in the face.” He gives her a once-over. “Several times, in your case.”

\---

She snorts. "The Eye controls with transparency. You know-- all that Foucauldian prison complex of the ever-seeing tower keeping inmates in check just for the sheer fear of being caught doing something...naughty." Oracle shrugs. "I never really-- Jon clearly has a classical fear of the Eye, and is such a good avatar for that consuming fear. Me and my mum... I think we just used it out of convenience. Wanting to make a family dynasty and all that, and, well, in Hunts, Knowing things came in handy.

"I've never been scared of being known. Maybe the opposite. Scared of being erased. Misconstrued. Contextless. Guess that's pretty Eye, too."

She stabs one of the blades into the ice to watch it squeeze through the thick sheet, ice shavings and dust on the surface from the scuffle.

“The Web stays hidden. It's becoming more and more obvious to me that it's puppet strings are being laid around us without us knowing the trap. It worries me. The Eye's one blind spot."

\---

Mike listens, motionless and almost stuck in her words as she speaks. “Do you have a spider problem? I’m not sure I ever got that impression. But... I wasn’t looking, either.”

\---

She shrugs. "Fuck if I know. Martin's got some kind of pet spider or something, but-- that's it, I think? Jon had some Leitner as a kid that had something to do with a spider?"

\---

“I wish I could help. Unfortunately, I’m just— One avatar, with very little awareness of the going’s-on of other entities. And I doubt the Web makes much room for cordial interviews.” Mike steps away from her to skate a bit further out. The ice remains sturdy beneath his feet. “I don’t even make much conversation with my own kind.”

\---

"Avatars seem to be... Territorial, almost, usually. I mean-- well. I guess with the Vast, there's the Fairchild's, they seem to like company more than-- than the Lonely, at least."

\---

“Mm. No one’s picked me up. Makes you wonder whether there’s a reason. If something is wrong with me. Or if I’m just a bad avatar, somehow.” Mike lifts onto one leg as he slides along the ice. “Maybe they can go rotten.”

\---

Oracle stands and watches him, and perhaps another time, she'd agree. Not here. Not with this one. "Could be ambition. You don't care for the Apocalypse. Or power. You just care... For you and your well-being. Maybe that's not something they're looking for."

\---

“Maybe. But I am also tainted. Have you noticed that? The ones where— Your Martin, he’s hard to like. So is Jon, from what I’ve heard. So am I, assuming they’re aware of me.  _ Polluted.  _ The Spiral and the Vast, of several marks. I wonder if that means a thing, in that hierarchy.”

\---

Oracle cocks her head. "... Being... Muddled with other marks? You think so? I suppose... I guess it isn't common. I've never thought of that."

\---

Mike shoves his hands in his pockets with a shrug. “Otherwise I’d assume I might have gentlemen callers at my door, for what I can do. But no, maybe they’re...” He continues doing circles around Oracle, slow and thoughtful. “...hesitant, to muddy their image with something so deeply touched by the Spiral. I would be the ugly duckling, literally and figuratively.”

\---

"And strangely enough, being able to wield more than one ability from multiple entities is, as far as I can tell, much more advantageous than just one." She turns to watch him as he spins, moving her feet slowly in time with his. "But like most, I suppose brand loyalty trumps real power."

\---

“Brand loyalty,” Mike scoffs. “I... I suppose it is advantageous. It forced itself upon me, though letting it have control was always my choice. Cruel, considering I was so young, but— I did feed it. And it nurtured something deep inside me that I can’t hide. I’m starting to grow used to the way they make little sense. The scars.”

\---

"You've seen what it can do to people's heads. Look at Michael." She slowly brings herself lower, so she can crouch over the ice, burying her cheeks into the fur fluff of her coat. "Better some interesting and striking scars than... What I assume is a permanent level of madness and temptation that will always be brooding just below the surface."

\---

Mike watches her carefully, skating himself closer until he can look over her from behind, hands braced on her shoulders. Looking down at their faded reflection in the ice. The locket charms brush up against one another as gravity aids them along. “It is. I just know what to keep to myself, except with meals.”

\---

"Guess I can't get too angry about that, anymore, considering what Jon's started doing, huh." She frowns at their reflection. Hers is far, far more wavery than his, like the ice is having a hard time picking up a stable presence.

\---

“I would say we should hope he doesn’t do it to us, but we don’t have Hope anymore, do we?” Mike says it confidently, but then his expression turns on itself, down into a frown. “Sorry. That was... really not a good joke.”

\---

Oracle jerks out a laugh anyways, shaking her head. "It was awful. But funny. Utterly ridiculous. Christ."

She's quiet for a moment. "I don't think he will. And if he gets to a point beyond reckoning.... Well. I met someone the other day that will take care of that."

\---

Mike lifts an eyebrow. “Oh?”

\---

"That's it’s... own situation. But-- we have... Some fail safes. And hopefully it won't come to that." She sighs. "And that's a discussion for after the Unknowing, I think."

\---

“Mm. Quite a bit on your plate, isn’t there? I— I’ll help how I can. Your desire to keep this world intact is admirable, I think. Infectious, too.” Mike lifts himself up off her shoulders, moving around to face her properly. And upright. It’s good to be tall, for once. “My flat is always open if you need somewhere to think.”

\---

She looks up at him, and her eyes are wide, surprised and pleased, and she smiles. "I-- I appreciate that. You've been very kind to me. Don't know how I've swung a charmer like you to fancy me."

\---

Mike tilts his head, like a confused little dog, odd smile and all. “I’m hardly charming. I— I’m amazed I’ve gotten this far.”

\---

"Aren't we all," Oracle deadpans, and continues to smile up at him. "I mean-- You took me to a-- you took me skating, in what, the middle of-- Russia? Is this Russia? Don't tell Michael, he'll freak, and you don't think that's charming? This Winter Wonderland bullshit?"

\---

“Oh. Yes, it is, but—“ Mike looks around at the untouched, snow-covered trees, the skid marks of their blades against ice. “I’ve never had another person with me to say so.” 

He feels an errant strand of hair hit his face, and he pulls it back behind his ear. “Would you like to come home with me?”

\---

Her smile softens, and she slowly nods. "Sure. Yeah-- Yeah, that would be nice. Really nice. Um-- Yeah, sure, I should just text Martin or something to let him know."

\---

“We can do that when we get back,” Mike says, visibly relieved as he offers her a hand to get up. “I have no service here. It’s not exactly on my plan.”

\---

She takes his offered hand and slowly pulls herself back to her feet, a little more steady this time than her previous attempts at standing well. "Alright. Lead the way, I guess. Do you need-- Do I need to disappear?"

\---

“Yes. Unless you think you can suddenly handle my version of transportation. I would say it’s a pity we didn’t meet when you were alive, but at least this way you won’t vomit on my couch.”

\---

Oracle laughs again. "Guess that's a plus. Alright. See you there." She gives a little salute, and then falls away into the winter snow, eyes gleaming glitter green against the frozen landscape.

\---

Right, then.

Mike takes a few extra minutes to work out the residual jitters, skating along the ice with one hand on the locket to ensure it stays safe.

He heads back home soon enough, though, skates in hand as he climbs over the railing his way into the flat. He drops them just inside the door without a second thought and stands... somewhat awkwardly for a minute, trying to figure out what sort of hospitality he should even employ. 

Ghosts can’t drink, or eat, but— Well, he doesn’t have much in either department, really, since food is very much recreational these days. 

“We’re back. Made it safely. You just might have some... frost, on your locket.”

\---

Maybe it's the frost that sends her back to the world with the coat on, eyes a little slow to blink open from the cold. She appears on the couch, much the same, sans skates.

She looks around the living room again and smiles warmly at him. "I will say, there's some perks to traveling like this. No anticipation. Just one second I'm not here, and the next, I am."

\---

Mike starts to shrug off his own coat, dark fur brushing against his shoulders as he moves to stand in front of her. “It can easily go wrong. I used to practice with shorter falls. If I wasn’t afraid, it wouldn’t work, would it?” He returns the smile, just as warm, color rising in his cheeks. “I can feel my heart beat louder than it ever did when I was technically alive after each jump.”

\---

"Are you an adrenaline junkie now?" She grins at him. "How about now? Is it beating loud now?"

\---

“I’ve always been an adrenaline junkie in some way, haven’t I? Have to, if you hunt books.” His coat pools around his legs, fractal scars lacing from his fingertips to where his upper arm disappears beneath his t-shirt. “You tell me.”

\---

"You'll have to come closer, Mike." She sits up while also leaning back on the couch a little, enough that she's looking up at him from under her lashes.

\---

Mike lifts one knee onto the couch, using that as leverage to bring the other leg up, too. He doesn’t settle in her lap, holding his weight up just slightly above her, enough that he still has the height advantage. He cages her in on both sides with his arms against the back of the couch. “Better?”

\---

Well. Color Oracle surprised by how smooth he actually is. She was not expecting this. But it's a pleasant surprise, for sure. Her smile turns a whole lot more interested, and her hands reach out to wrap around his hips. 

"Much," She says. She tilts her head. Before they go further, or do anything else, she wants to know. "Have I been good company so far?"

\---

Mike keeps his reaction mostly to himself, save for a puffed out exhale just warm enough to mist in the air between them. 

“I think that’s obvious. You have me working for people. I never work for people. And I find it very entertaining that you’re very bad at skating.”

\---

She wrinkles her nose at him in a very pointed way. "Okay, rich boy." She snorts, and runs her thumbs down low enough to just barely dip under the hem of his shirt. Her skin is not warm, but it isn't freezing, either. It's a strange non-temperature that still holds weight, still holds feeling. She might not know it, but it can take some getting used to. 

"I think you fit into our merry band of misfits. In all the good ways, of course. I wouldn't entertain the thought of coming over to your place if i didn't think so."

\---

“Mm.” He doesn’t think to correct her on that, instead trying to hold his composure and not squirm. He ends up shifting slightly forward, so her fingers press closer. 

“You’re all very odd, but... well. I am, too. I like being useful. And... mm. I am attracted to danger, I suppose. Your ‘band of misfits’ provides plenty of that.”

\---

Her smile widens, and she leans forward and up, trying to get closer to his face. "Good thing people have considered me very, very dangerous my entire life."

\---

“Have they, now?” Mike lets her close distance, pale eyes intently focused on her every move. “You seem rather docile to me.”

\---

"Oh do I, now." Her expression sharpens and her grip on Mike tightens. "Guess you still have a lot to learn about me."

\---

Ah. There’s the heartbeat. Mike stops just short of brushing noses, his own hands tight on the cushion. “Show me, then. I’m an avid bookworm.”

\---

"Good thing I'm really a Book, then." She sits up the rest of the way to ghost her lips against Mike's, eyes searching his face to capture every last detail and commit it to memory. Her touch is light, Making sure this is okay.

\---

“That’s the joke,” Mike says against her lips, having courage enough to laugh at her hesitance. Something sparks briefly there, where they connect, but he doubts she can really feel it to its full effect. Little threats, little reminders, static shocks against another inhuman surface. “I’m not fragile, unless you’re a beast made of flames.”

\---

"No, no, I didn't think you were," She murmurs and takes that as an enthusiastic yes. Her next kiss is not so gentle, pressing tight against him and the hands on his hips moving to pull him closer, flush against her, legs spread on the couch to accommodate the way he's sitting up on his knees.

\---

Mike hums, hands moving to grip the front of her coat and pull, first, and then her jaw, ecstatic at the realization that neither of them need to come up for air nearly as much as humans would. There’s another perk. 

All at once he pulls back. “Oh. You wanted to message Martin.”

\---

She makes a displeased and surprised _mmmf_ noise, huffing out a breath when he's not on her. "Right. Right. Just-- just tell him I'm staying here. Okay?" She pulls at him insistently.

\---

“I can do that,” Mike says softly, trying and failing to untangle himself from Oracle. He ends up leaning back enough to grasp at his coat pocket and make his way back up, phone in hand and having successfully showed off some flexibility. 

He types just that, then tosses the phone right back down. “Where were we, then?”

\---

Oracle grins. "I think you were making your way to my lap." She pulls him in hips first.

\---

Mike follows along, straddling her hips with a short laugh. He reaches up to card fingers through her hair and tug. Any hesitance he might’ve had falls away with the wind, or maybe he just seems far less polite when he’s using anything but his words.

\---

She huffs a laugh against him, and pulls the hair ties from her braids. She doesn't pull them to her wrist, instead just letting them fall from her grasp into nothingness, no longer part of this spectral illusion. She leans into his hands, silently begging him to undo them with his fingers, her hands dropping back to his waist.

\---

Mike complies, carefully unwinding her hair and cataloguing the odd sensation of some strands falling through his fingers while others bend to his physical whim. He spends a decent amount of time easing her hair into something he can pull, tight and commanding as he holds her there. “How dangerous are you?”

\---

Her eyes widen, not used to someone taking the commanding route with her, and takes a few seconds to let her brain reset. She can't fully feel his fingers against her scalp, but she feels enough to know it feels good.

Her smile is sharp, and she tries to lean forward, pulling against his tight hold, her nails digging into Mike's sides. "Very. Seems you've caught me, though."

\---

Mike makes a soft sound in his throat, sitting more heavily down on her lap. It brings him down a few inches, and that’s not ideal, but he’s willing to make a few sacrifices. “Catching you is easy. Your necklace can’t hide very well. Or run. I’m more interested in what you’ll do  _ after  _ you’ve been caught.”

\---

"Depends on what my gracious captor has in mind," She purrs, and her eyes drop to the locket and it's charms for a moment, and there's a joke about a bell and collar on the tip of her tongue, but that's a joke better left for other company. She leans into him and very lightly nips at his jaw.

\---

“I was expecting a fight,” Mike hums, giving her better access with a tilt of his head. He lifts one hand to her neck, trailing over the swell of her throat before closing his fingers around her jugular. “You seem the controlling type, for how much you order the others around.”

\---

She lifts her head. "Normally I am," She says softly, slowly, her eyes boring into his own and she looks at him from under his jaw. "Maybe you don't need that."

\---

“Maybe not. But neither should I be trusted in a leadership position.” Mike smiles, his other hand joining the first and squeezing, just slightly. “But if you’d like.”

\---

"Fun thing about me is I can just disappear if your... Leadership proves unfulfilling." She winks, and then, thinking, pulls back a little and tilts her head, just enough to keep his hands where they are. "Another thing about me, is, ah, not a lot works, so everything depends on what you have here." She gestures with her eyes to the apartment as a whole, not just him.

\---

“Mm. I suppose I’ll know if that... happens.” He follows Oracle’s eyes, a hint of confusion in his own tracking. “I have a bed. You can carry me there, I’d imagine.”

\---

"Yes, well-- yes I could carry you there, but-- I don't know what your plans are, for me carrying you elsewhere, but we might be limited in--" She huffs out an awkward breath, neck bobbing against his hands. "My dick doesn't work, Mike."

\---

”Oh.” Mike eases up on her neck, an accidental motion he can’t help with his small outburst of laughter. “I can think of other ways for you to be useful, if that’s what you want.” He smiles brightly. “If you can follow directions.”

\---

She breathes out a soft sigh of relief, or something like it. "Never been my forte, but I guess I can learn a new trick."

\---

“Mm. I’m sure there’s more than enough room in your head for some of those.” He loops his arms around her neck, this time, to keep stable. “Pick me up, then.”

\---

"Oh, I'm carrying you. Okay. Okay, I can do that. Demanding. How cute." She sits up straighter and then hoists first herself and then him up, wrapping his legs around her.

\---

Mike takes a selfish moment to revel in the weightlessness there, shutting his eyes to feel his heart speed up. So easy to trick the mind into thinking the drop is so, so much longer than it is. 

"You wanted me to take control of the situation, didn't you? Or was I misinformed?" He says as he moves his hands to the sides of her face, trusting she's stubborn enough not to drop him while he's distracting her with his lips against hers.

\---

Her responding hum against his lips should be all the answer he needs. She'll tell him how much energy it takes to be this present for him later. Right now? There's a thrill in keeping him afloat, just as he wants, just as he needs, exactly as he asked for.

Terrifyingly easy to just lose the need to keep a constant eye on everything, to give herself in to trust Mike, to close her eyes and feel his hands and lips guiding hers. It's like a thread of anxiety washing fully away, and oh, maybe she _ isn't  _ dangerous, right now.

\---

The bedroom door is still open, leading into a carefully put-together arrangement of furniture. His dresser and the headboard of his bed are the same matching black wood, bed sheets white on dark blue. The walls are dotted with glow in the dark stars, and off to one side is a large map with various circles and lines drawn onto it. Mike finds the stars look rather classy in the dark. 

“Put me down,” Mike nearly growls against her mouth once they’re close to the edge of the bed.

\---

Easy to comply with that. Oracle doesn't so much as drop him as just let him go, curling over him to keep them both connected, not wanting to cease this kiss. She pulls back just enough to suck in a breath and grin down at him. Can't help but look at the room, take stock of her environment, everything around them. "What's the map for?"

\---

“What are maps usually for, Oracle?” Mike huffs, dropping the polite front. “Places I’ve gone. Places I’d like to visit. Places of note.” 

He keeps his legs looped around her waist, tugging at the front of her coat. “Take my hat off.”

\---

The movement jerks her attention back to Mike and she leans forward to pull the hat from his head, tossing it behind her. "I like that hat. It looks good on you," She says, smoothing her hands through his hair to unflatten it from the bedhead.

\---

“Thank you. I wish I could wear it all year long, but it loses its appeal in the summer.” Mike sighs and shuts his eyes, letting her fix it as he holds her close. “The big question now is whether you have better control over your mouth or your hands. It could go either way with you, really.”

\---

"It could," She says. "The bigger question is, which do you prefer? I can make do as needed."

\---

“I don’t know,” Mike says around a short laugh. “I’ve never done this with a ghost.”

He leans back against the bed, resting his arms above his head like his wrists are tied. “Hands, usually. Touch where you want. I’ll think of some ideas for how I can use you as we go along.”

\---

"Okay," Oracle says, and does just that. She peppers his face in kisses as her hands make busy work of trying to remove his clothes, at least as many layers as she can get away with. 

There's an almost imperceptible shock that comes with touching Mike, something that Oracle likes; it's a feeling bigger than the majority of ones she gets, and it has her feeling like a live wire.

\---

Mike shivers beneath her, energy passing in a closed loop while he enjoys the attention. His shirt is tossed away, and there’s a quiet moment of self-aware bodily shame he’s never quite unlearned, for several reasons. 

The scars arc across his chest, down half his ribs, then back over his stomach, tendrils of long-remembered but faded pain strikingly present against his skin. He hums, before they can move farther along. “You’re soaking this up. Is that an Eye thing?”

\---

"Me thing," She says, and yes, her eyes rake over his chest in a new appreciation that she hasn't been afforded before, when she's seen him shirtless before. Now, there's a hunger in her eyes that she so rarely let's come out and play. "Not everything is because of a patron, Mike."

\---

“Well, it was a decent guess.” He watches her from below, eyes wide like a hunted thing waiting for jaws to snap and shut. He reaches up to tug at her coat one more time. “Let me see yours.”

\---

She looks down at herself, having forgotten she's completely and utterly clothed. Right. Her bodily awareness isn't at its peak. "Give me a sec. Difficult."

Sitting back, she tugs at the cloth tie around her waist, and then unzips it. Easy part. Hard part is keeping bodily aware enough to pull the fabric from her body completely. She takes her time-- better this be the slowest strip tease on God's green earth, than to fail halfway through and get embarrassed-- but eventually she pulls that and the simple black shirt underneath off, tossing them to the floor where they disappear from existence. Her chest and torso are scarred, burns lacing up and down, discolored.

\---

Mike is in no rush, and so he settles back to watch the show with keen interest. Once she comes close enough, he reaches out one hand to follow the path of fire across her chest. The way flames once licked up the expanse of skin. “Amazing what you can remember. Your memory of this, from before.”

\---

She leans into the touch, wanting to be able to feel his hand to its full capacity. She can't, but in this specific moment, it just makes her needy. Desperate for connection. "Soul-Deep. Desolation mark. Hard to forget."

\---

“I can imagine,” Mike says softly, evidently lost in the way he traces patterns in the burns. “I think if I focused on the locket’s relative closeness to the ground, not yours, and took you along, you might be able to feel it. Just a thought.”

\---

She blinks, and smiles. "We'll have to try that. Always looking for more things to-- feel." She watches him trace his fingers along her torso, and smiles.

\---

“And you call me the adrenaline junkie,” Mike scoffs. He lifts one of Oracle’s hands to his mouth, pointer and middle fingers brushing up against his bottom lip. “Make do.”

\---

Oracle smiles, sucking in a quick breath. "Happily." She pushes them into his mouth, her eyes trained on him, anticipation and sheer hunger still naked on her face, leaning closer down over him.

\---

Mike rests both of them on the flat of his tongue before sucking. He doesn’t make it any more obscene than necessary, not unenthusiastic but not putting on an excessive show of bobbing his head and all the vulgar metaphors. Just locking eyes with Oracle as he watches her watching him. 

Until he thinks the job is done, tilting his head back while a thin string of saliva connects her fingers to his bottom lip. “Is there no way you can orgasm at all? Is there nothing similar in a... a ghostly sense?”

\---

She watches him intently, her eyes half-lidded as he puts on... Well, not really a show. But it's enough. She doesn't need the theatrics that someone like Michael would openly display. When he pulls back, she almost chases him with her fingers again, but just barely holds back.

A waver runs through her in a ghostly shiver. "Something similar. It requires all my concentration. Best to do it at the end of... Whatever we're doing. If you're not used to feeling most things, opening up the concentration to feel, at full capacity, is... It's similar to an orgasm."

\---

Mike hums, licking up to the tips of her fingers. He can make a show, just a little bit. “Good. I would hate to be the only one having fun. Or to leave you unsatisfied.” 

He smiles deviously against her fingers. “Or we could see how long you could keep it up.”

\---

A waver runs through Oracle's body at that, and she gives a slow nod. "We could do that. If you're willing. I've only done it a couple times."

\---

"I am. If you are." Mike lifts one hand to the back of Oracle's neck, tugging her closer. "Let's see it."

\---

"Right now? You don't want-- I want to make sure we both have energy." She goes willingly, happily, but there's an adorable crease between her eyes.

\---

“I’ll be fine, unless you’re about to give me the best finger-work of anyone dead or alive.” Mike grimaces slightly to himself at Oracle’s lips. “That sounds... worse than it did in my head.”

\---

"I can't promise the best," She says around a smile and a laugh. "But something, for sure."

\---

Mike makes his grip tight at the back of her neck. “I’d like to see you fall apart, then. Make yourself present.”

\---

She blinks at his tone and then gives the smallest of nods. Okay. Not much room for argument there. And she appreciates a pragmatist, even in bed. She sucks in a deep breath, and does just that, slowly concentrating to make herself as physical as she can.

Her eyes glow, first, blinking as though waking up from a long, long nap and snapping wide awake with a jolt of coffee. Her expression loses its focus in the pursuit of something far, far more spiritually present, trying to bridge the gap between a physical projection and a soul, and her breath jumps as her form wavers, suddenly feeling far, far more of Mike's skin, feeling the hand on the back of her neck in particular..

\---

Mike hums, slowly inching his fingers up the back of her neck and into her hair again. He frees up his other hand to skate up her ribs, squeezing his thighs on either side of her waist. "Fascinating. And you don't know how long it can last?"

\---

Her eyebrows knit down in frustration and she huffs, _ "... No... ," _ but it sounds more like a whine than anything, her body hitching upwards from the feeling on her ribs, in her hair.

\---

"Mm. Fun." Mike moves the hand on her ribs up to her shoulder, raking his nails down the outside of her arm. "Can you feel pain?"

\---

Oracle curls over herself and lets out a breath that's perilously close to a moan, her eyes widening and the green glowing ones adorning her body flaring up with more light. "Evi.... Evidently. Evidently!"

\---

“Oh. Is that a good thing? I can do it again.” Mike pats at her cheek, just slightly on the edge of too hard. Maybe he’s having a bit too much fun with this.

\---

Her form wavers again, and she nearly loses her balance where she's perched over Mike, hands dropping to the mattress to steady herself. "Ohmygod," She mumbles, just on the edge of incoherence already. This isn't hand holding in a forest. This is everything at once.

\---

Well, Mike’s sufficiently lost the plot with this development. He snickers below her, moving to tightly grip one of her wrists with one hand and place the other square at the center of her chest. 

“What about this?” He mutters as something sparks at the center of his palm, a barely-there, instantaneous current of electricity racing through the fractals that course through him.

\---

Oh, there's the moan. She has to struggle to keep herself up, limbs shaking and blurring at the edges of her form, like even keeping a physical reminder of herself is getting hard.

It's a hard thing to categorize; what once would register as pain, long ago, in a body that's long decayed, is now so overwhelming at its core that it no longer does, exactly. It just feels like more feeling.

She'd feel absolutely obscene right now, if there was any room to have any thoughts. As it is, she's lost here, lost so completely in Mike's control of the situation that she can't feel anything but naturally responsive to everything. No filters. Just Oracle.

\---

Mike keeps it up for a few seconds, basking in the ethereal glow of the room. Much better than cheap plastic stars, he has to say. 

“You’re beautiful, you know,” he says softly beneath her, back to tracing patterns over her chest, enjoying the numbing sensation of lightning at his fingertips. This was something he hated, once. “It’s a shame you’re already claimed.”

\---

She tries to pull herself together to form a string of words, and manages, "Open to-- open to negotiation," but it's huffed out and breathy, interspersed with a soft pleasured gasp, and it sounds nowhere near as collected as she'd like.

\---

“Mm, if only that were true.” He pulls his hands back away from her, just taking her in. “No, your soul has already decided. But that’s alright.”

\---

Oracle uses the slight reprieve to breathe, trying to collect herself again. She doesn't drop the physicality she has, but she uses this to at least try and recompose herself, watching Mike with naked adoration. "My soul didn't exactly... Exactly choose the End part of this arrangement."

\---

"Maybe it did, in some way. I didn't choose the Spiral, except it chose me just the same. I wasn't aware what the exact nature of our relationship would be, but... it became what it was regardless." Mike shrugs.

\---

"Maybe so," She says, and scoots up on the bed to have better purchase, more stability, over him. "But I didn't exactly choose to die. I'm rather certain I wouldn't have fully died, had my boss not bound me to my Book."

\---

“Maybe... it’s better not to occupy ourselves with ideas of what could have been.” Mike shifts beneath her. “The present is still here.”

\---

"Very well." She smiles down at him and slowly presses a couple fingers to his chest, following some of the scar tissue. She wavers again, still so sensitive in the state she's in. "I'm making do, regardless."

\---

“I’ll make the assumption that my leadership has been satisfactory and offer the reins up to you, then,” Mike says, half-lidded and self-congratulatory.

\---

She snorts, and sits up a little, straddling his hips, just to get in enough of a position to join her other hand in exploring his chest, touches feather light and curious. "Aye aye, captain."

\---

Both of Mike’s hands find the bed sheets, watching his own body react with shivers as her fingers move. His chest rises and falls with steady breaths he’s forgotten he doesn’t need to take, but that’s alright, they’re both practicing vulnerability today. And he’s pinned now. That’s fine.

\---

Now that she's got a modicum of control, her smile is more akin to a smirk, as her fingers tighten as they move, slowly drifting downwards, down the plane of his stomach and ribs. "Have you decided? Hands or mouth?"

\---

Mike's hips shift involuntarily, a subtle motion that can't really be called subtle with how close she is, a very real weight keeping him otherwise still. He hums, like he's genuinely thinking it through and not just staring at her hands as they inch down. "The former."

\---

"Very well." She continues her path downwards, thumbing along the crest of his hipbones. She keeps one hand secured there, while the other starts to drift lower. "Gorgeous. You're gorgeous."

\---

Mike sighs softly, lifting one hand off the bed to find her neck again, to bring her closer to his mouth. “High compliment when you look the way you do, Oracle.”

\---

She curls her fingers lower, and bridges the gap between them, compliant to his hands as always. "Rest assured my compliments are always the truth," She purrs.


	95. Chapter 95

Martin sits at the edge of the bed, a warm mug of tea in one hand and the other close to brushing over Jon’s own where they exist together. The bed is an organized wreck; bedsheets piled up into the center by the headboard, for all their very literal nesting habits, pillows arranged in a semicircle around the mess to prop it up. 

On the dresser sit various objects deemed important, including an old corkscrew that Martin can still smell his and Jon’s blood on, when he thinks to check again. An incense holder, that’s Jons; some makeup, Michael’s; there’s a collar, too, but Martin isn’t the one who put it there. He’s pretty sure it was thrown there to mock him, but he refuses to get riled up about it. 

The table by the bed is usually where Gerry’s locket goes, but right now it just has a book Jon’s been reading, the little lamp to go with that, and a half-full glass of water. The walls have a few paintings, some of Gerry’s and some of Michael’s, one that Martin made that he hates but it was for Jon so it wasn’t  _ his  _ choice to put it up regardless. They’ve been pretty good about keeping the floor clean, between Martin’s fussy house habits, Michael’s astounding attention to detail, and trying to keep the new dog out of things… well, it’s turning into a proper home. 

There are signs of their life together everywhere he looks. Including in Jon’s eyes, which he’s trying to find by tilting down to catch his face. It’s dark, with none of the lights being on, but he’s pretty certain that both he and Jon can see. Something about monsters. “Jon? Is there, um, anything else I can get for you?”

\---

In the darkness of the bedroom, Jon allows himself to drift. He knows he just needs to sleep this off, to work through the residual confusion, but he also knows that his dreams will not be kind to him. He must be in a bad spot; every so often, he'll feel the brushing of another against his mind, a surprisingly gentle offer to take over, if Jon so needs.

He'd accept, if it wouldn't make the only connection he has to the waking world upset. As it is, he can just feel Sirius there, paying attention, living within him, keeping... An eye on him that is far less invasive than it once felt.

Martin speaks, and it rouses him somewhat, a small noise pulling itself from his throat as he rolls a little and presses his face to Martin's thigh.

"No," He mumbles. "This will-- it'll pass."

\---

“You don’t want to talk about it? Or— Or— Are you hungry?” Martin takes an awkward sip of his mug, mostly keeping it here for the way steam rises up from it. That’s always helped calm him down. “Or a bath? I could run a bath, I just— I don’t want you to just have to sit in it. The feelings. Not the bath.”

\---

Jon lifts his head just enough to peer at Martin through the dark, the very minimal light catching on his pupils and reflecting it back. He furrows his brow, and frowns. "Still hard to keep track of it all. What's-- real and not. What I deserve to feel and not."

\---

“...Okay,  _ well, _ I can help with that. You deserve to feel safe, after what happened, and I’m real, and - and you’re real, I think we should find some way to help you feel good right now because—“ Martin huffs, trying not to get himself too amped up. “—because I don’t want you to sink into it.”

\---

"And-- and if I deserve to sink? It's inevitable, isn't it? Me drowning?" He buries his face back into Martin's thigh. "It offered to close the door, today. And I shot it. I should have-- I should have let it."

\---

“Stop that.” Martin reaches over him to put the mug on the bedside table, so he has both hands free to touch. To pet Jon’s hair, to find one of his hands. “It’s not inevitable. And you don’t deserve it any more than I would. Okay? I’m telling you now I-I want to take care of you.”

\---

Jon's gaze softens when he lifts his face, and then immediately hardens again, a soft shake of his head. "You shouldn't. I'm going to-- Martin, I'm going to end the world."

\---

“And I’m, uh, I’m with you either way, so—“ Martin tries to offer him a soft smile. “Even if that’s the case, right now, there’s no good reason for you to be hurting like this. Whatever happened there was bad, and I want to help make it better.”

\---

"I don't-- I don't think it lied, though. Not once. Just-- just its face did." He scrunches up his face, a sheen of confusion passing over him once again.

\---

Martin runs his hand over the back of Jon’s head. Repeated downward motions. “I can’t imagine it was— If it’s been around, it learned a lot. About, um, how to manipulate our... our fears.”

\---

"What it said wasn't lies. What it-- it was  _ right.  _ It lied, at first, when it was me, but then it didn't need to. To-- to hurt me. Confuse me." He slowly, slowly sits up, his shoulders hunched in.

"I forgot who I was, for a, a bit. But I don't think I'll always be a who, anyways."

\---

Martin moves a hand between Jon’s shoulder blades, pressure to try and ease the tension. “Well, what did it— What did it say to you? You’re safe now. And you’re still you.”

\---

"That I'm betraying you all. That I'm-- I'm selfish, and monstrous, and I can't remember it all and I don't think it said everything, I think I thought a lot of it, but it's--" Jon shakes his head. "I know I'm safe. That's part of the problem."

\---

“How is that a problem? Um,  _ kind _ of hard to betray us when we know it’s a thing that we need to look out for, like— It’s no different than you all not letting me growl at people!” Martin holds him tight around one shoulder. “I want you safe.”

\---

"I know you do," Jon mumbles. His voice is slurring just slightly as he speaks, still too out of it to be fully present. "And we are, for now."

\---

“Good! Now let me take care of you. Because if you don’t let me, I’ll just get more obnoxious about it. You know.  _ Joooooon,” _ He says for emphasis as he leans to rub his head obnoxiously against his cheek. He pulls back. “I could be doing that. But I’m sparing you.”

\---

"I don't mind it," Jon says, and chases Martin's head to rub against it himself, uncoordinated and a little out of it. "Thank you. For-- for staying with me, right now."

\---

“You’re welcome.” Martin sneaks a kiss to Jon’s forehead when he gets close enough. “What would help you feel real right now? Just— Anything. Anything I can do, I will. And don’t say you don’t know, or you don’t want to ask, just— Anything. Free pass.”

\---

Jon flicks his eyes around, thinking. It's hard to think, but there's something, and maybe it's because he knows something about Martin that Martin doesn't know, but-- "Tell me something I don't know about you."

\---

“Okay.” That gets Jon an odd, surprised smile. He has to think about that. “I used to— I had a car, way back when. It was almost as old as I was, but I— I was really proud of it? I didn’t know anything about cars, I still don’t, but I think I just got lucky and found a car that just wouldn’t die. Ever. I had to scrap it when she moved and I didn’t need it anymore but— God, it had a name. What was it?” He clicks his tongue. “Oh! It was Ollie! The— The V fell off, um, Volvo, on the back, so... Olvo. Ollie for...” His smile grows, more out of embarrassment than joy. “...nicknames.”

\---

Jon's expression quickly becomes all heart eyes and adoration, sitting up a little easier. "Ollie," He says quietly, and allows himself a small smile.

Yes, yes this is new information. And it's not sad or traumatic, but sweet, endearing. It won't fill him up, but it makes him feel good. "I love that."

\---

Martin immediately brightens up. “Thanks. Begging my car to start on its own in the parking lot of whatever awful job I had at the time would’ve— Probably been funnier if I had friends. Please, Ollie, don’t let me die after working nine hours straight, I looked deranged.”

\---

"What did you do before working here? I've never-- I guess I've never thought about before."

\---

“Um, a little bit of everything? Badly. I’ve never been good at... most of my jobs? Low-paying stuff, never kept any for very long. That’s why the Institute was such a big deal for me.”

\---

Jon hums. "I wasn't good at anything much other than academia. I think my record was getting fired after... Four days? At a Cafe in uni."

\---

“Oh  _ no,” _ Martin laughs, holding him close. “That’s bad. Grungy introvert uni Jon telling some poor girl her taste in drinks is abysmal? Every time I thought I was about to be fired I’d just... I’d ghost.”

\---

Jon rolls his eyes. "In my defense, they would order-- I mean. I enjoy a good latte with sugar in it. But those fruity drinks with no actual coffee in them? Abysmal indeed." He huffs, and then fields a smile to Martin. "Oh, I've-- that's classier, honestly. I've been fired... Quite a few times."

\---

"Well. We have... job security, now, so. No worries about that!" Martin tilts his head with an awkward smile. "Hey, what do you think about the whole... Gerry and Mike... thing?"

\---

Jon cocks his head in a mimic of Martin's gesture, and then slowly shrugs. "He seems fond of Mike. Should I have an opinion?"

\---

"...Maybe." Martin squints. I don't know. I think I'm overprotective. Is that the right word for it? It's not jealous, it's--" He pauses, grimacing at himself. "No, this is-- Childish. I'm taking care of you, not - not gossiping."

\---

Jon shakes his head. "No, no, by all means-- I. I haven't exactly been paying attention. I'd like to know what you think."

\---

Martin hums, considering dropping the subject. "He'll be coming over more. So we have to be nice to him. And I'm not... the best at being nice to people right now! Or, um, in a while! E...Ever? Was I ever nice to people?"

\---

"You were nice to me." Jon pauses, squinting. "Or scared? There's a difference, I think. I don't know. That's-- that's not great." He scrunches his nose. "As long as he doesn't.... Well. I guess I can't say anything on that, either, considering the past few days."

\---

"...Yeah." Martin lets the awkward silence hang there, so they can both feel a little ashamed for their weird, antisocial tendencies. "I wish I could keep putting off talking about... that. That it'd just-- Just go away, like things used to?"

\---

"Ignoring doesn't mean it didn't happen." Jon sighs, and frowns. "It was inevitable, I guess. At least it was-- monsters."

\---

"It was. So they deserved it. One of them wouldn't tell you anything, and the other-- The other tried to kill you, and  _ spied _ on us, and God-knows-what-else, so-- I mean, I think you're pretty justified." Martin looks down at Jon's hands. "Does it hurt?"

\---

"Yeah." He holds them up so Martin can see. "I used to have a-- a very bad burn on my hand, though. So it feels-- I'm used to it. He's the one who's pissed about it."

\---

"Who, Sirius? He can stay pissed. He's the reason you're in this mess, anyway. And I hope he can hear that, somewhere in there. It's not your fault. You didn't know."

\---

"Mm. He's listening," Jon says and looks down at his hands a moment, before putting them back in his lap. "One less bullet, though."

\---

"Well, we have more than bullets. I don't care about the gun, it-- It smells bad, and I hate it. But I'm glad it helped you." Martin pushes his head against Jon's. "Offer's still open, by the way. I could make it a real spa for you in our nice new bathroom."

\---

Jon squints slowly and then nods. "Fine. I'll try it. Only because you're so sweetly insistent."

\---

"I like taking care of you," Martin says, leaving no room for debate. "And it's been a bad day. And-- I know what it feels like, to um, to question if something is real, so-- So I just, want to give you something that... definitely is?" 

He stands up, moving over to the open bathroom door. He leans against it with one shoulder, lifting an eyebrow. "Join me?"

\---

Jon watches him through the dark for a moment and then slowly nods, sliding off the bed and stretching once his feet hit the floor, arching his arms above his head. He feels a little more stable, at least. A little more present, even if it's still foggier than his usual hyper awareness and anxiety.

"Alright. We just need to be careful with my hands while they heal."

\---

"We can do that. Any idea how long that'll take?" Martin says as he moves into the bathroom, setting two fresh towels next to the bathtub as he turns the water on. It really is a nice tub. He has Michael to thank for that one.

\---

Jon shrugs. "Not really. I'm not sure-- normal wounds, I heal quickly from." He brushes a light finger over his throat. "A burn from a magical Desolation gun? Who knows."

\---

“Just don’t call it magical in front of Tim. We’ll never hear the end of it.” Martin moves to one of the cabinets, where he’s pretty sure— ah. Yes. Little cheap candles and a lighter. Perfect. 

He talks as he places a few of them around the bathroom. “At least Michael doesn’t mind entertaining them. And Poe. They’re probably having a blast.”

\---

Jon looks towards the bathroom door, and snorts lightly. "They're drunk. So yes, I imagine they're having fun."

\---

“Well, I have you, so that’s just as good. Right?” Martin continues moving, setting things up, like every facet of the bathroom has to be some perfect oasis.

\---

"Better, even. I don't think I can deal with drunk-Michael's energy right now." Jon snorts and starts to pull off his shirt. "I'm pretty sure he'd try to flirt about my hands, or something."

\---

Martin shrugs his shoulders, trying to hide his smile as he’s half-turned away from Jon at the foot of the tub. “They’re nice hands!”

\---

"They're burnt, Martin! Now's not the time!" Jon laughs a little, leaning against the counter.

\---

“Well! Burnt or not, they’re— Okay! Okay!” Martin tests the water and shakes out his hand when it comes back out. With the lights off and the candles dimly flickering across the walls, Jon is a real sight, honestly. It shows off all his best angles; though, Martin would be hard-pressed to find an angle he didn’t like. 

He thoughtlessly squeezes soap into the stream of water just to watch it bubble, and then reaches behind himself to pull off his own shirt. “We’ll just have to use mine.”

\---

"I can... I can accept that compromise," Jon says, and starts to strip the rest of the way. He shoots Martin a fond look. "Thank you. This is-- it's already helping."

\---

“Good. That’s the goal, isn’t it?” Martin returns the look, an openly pleased sense of smugness there. Something like ownership. “I wonder if it would help to give a statement. Is that like— Would that help you heal faster, you think? Sorry, that sounds— A little messed up, out loud. Just an idea.”

\---

Jon tilts his head. "It... I don't know how much healing I'm capable of. I might be becoming a house for trauma. But-- I suppose it couldn't hurt, right?"

\---

“I just mean, you know, if you need to talk about what happened so it doesn’t feel as real, I...” Martin huffs, untying the loop on his pajama pants. “I mean if you want to go through it step by step, if that’s helpful, we can. Just seems easier to call it a statement.” He speaks to the floor. “I really should be better at knowing what helps you by now.”

\---

Jon shrugs and steps out of his pants, letting them drop to the floor. "Not your fault. Seems to be a rotating door, sometimes. What helps and what doesn't. What I need versus what I should want or need." 

He steps to the edge of the tub and dips a finger into the water, shivering when the heat flares up the pain on the frayed nerves in his hand. Oh well. It's not like it'll kill him. "He feels like the more human one sometimes, these days. It's confusing."

\---

“Well, what you need isn’t a morality contest, if you need something you—“ He pats at Jon’s wrist to get it away from the tub, scowling as he turns the water off. “I don’t know if that’s what’s happening, Jon.”

\---

"Neither do I. All speculation." Jon frowns at him. "I don't know. There's too much happening, all at once. I can never-- I can never sort through it to start, and so I never-- I never think about it."

\---

“Just one at a time, however you can.” Martin shrugs. Maybe he’s not the best at this. That’s why he’s running a bath and not jumping to solve all their troubles himself. He starts to slowly make his way into the water. “The Unknowing’s about to happen, and I think once we figure that one out it’ll be a lot easier to... focus on the rest.”

\---

Jon hums, and slowly follows Martin, the heat of the water a balm to his skin. It's grounding, in that way where it at least shuts off the parts of his brain that are floating. "I suppose. We can hope."

\---

“Mhm. I can definitely do that.” Martin sinks deeper into the water, then holds both his hands out for Jon. “Come here. I’ll do your hair.”

\---

Jon pulls himself across the soaker tub to meet Martin there, and there's a small smile on his face when he presses himself into Martin's hands, trying to fit himself so he's cradled there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://shock.tumblr.com/post/619210841844252672/shock-someone-was-talking-about-if-tma
> 
> martin's volvo origin story


	96. The Letter

Tim had gotten about four words into the letter, coincidentally just the greeting, when he announced to Michael that someone had to go and grab the lovebirds, and to do it as fast as possible. Of  _ course _ he had to be the one to notice the gaudy thing left behind by Martin's failed mail delivery at the front door of the house, of  _ course _ he had to sober up so quickly and violently it was nearly painful, of  _ course _ he had to get nosy and open the thing up in the first place. 

It was addressed to all of them, after all. He couldn't be blamed. For all the work Gerry's tried to teach him not to open foreign parcels, it seems he's still got a weak spot. 

A weak spot that's left him covered in a glitter bomb of confetti and holding a piece of paper that is not made of paper with two shaking hands, Sasha sitting next to him to read what she can where he can't make his eyes focus. 

He's still on Jonathan Sims' couch, and it doesn't look like he's leaving any time soon. Sasha is a hero, using Tim's phone to text Mike to tell Gerry he should probably head back while Tim’s ears ring loud around his skull, and so is Michael, for climbing up the stairs despite it all to do what Tim doesn't think his legs will work well enough for. While he does nothing, nothing at all, completely useless and motionless while his eyes sit trapped and captivated by the thing in his hands.

_ ‘Hello, Archivist and company!  _

_ I really  _ must _ thank you for all the wonderful work you’ve done to help us along. I hope you enjoy the confetti. Plenty more where that came from, but the stationary is… priceless, so do keep it safe, will you? What a treat, to have so many bundles of skin under your very own roof all at once!  _

_ Well, to make a long story short, the cat’s out of the bag, isn’t it! You’ve left me without some of my favorite helpers, and that’s a bit of an inconvenience, but was it ever worth it. I have a sneaking suspicion you won’t be the one who reads this first, but I’m sure you’ll find a way to weasel your little way out of whatever delightfully confusing trap our friend has sprung for you, so I do hope you recover well enough to accept my invitation!  _

_ You do tend to leave corpses lying around, don’t you? I gleaned quite a few things from those pesky past-future mistakes, but you seem determined to repeat them! I have heard so much about you, and you, and you, and  _ you _ these past exciting weeks. Full of adventure! Full of pain, and suffering, but lucky for you, the time for that is almost up!  _

_ Now, I must warn you, we have everything up and ready, minus a few  _ special _ guests. I want no funny business, no tricks, just to fill a few empty seats for the grand event. That’s where you come in! Remember; I know what you have, bad and good and all. Isn’t that funny, Archivist and company? I know more about you than you know about me!  _

_ Don’t worry, we all know that where there’s Knowing, there’s an Unknowing to be retroactively taken!  _

_ Love, _

_ A friend _

_ P.S. Oh, it seems I’ve forgotten the date! Silly me. You have twenty four hours from just about when I think you’ll find time in your busy schedules to check, and that is five o’clock sharp!’ _

There's a moment of silence, and then the door to the master bedroom creaks open, Michael's babbling voice echoing down the hall to an audience of a very silent and still wet Jon and Martin.

Well. At least Jon got two seconds to bask in the warmth and love of Martin's presence. Never a dull day. He holds tight onto Martin's arm on the way down the stairs, his Knowing pickling something awful. He's not even listening to Michael's incessant chatter, but he already Knows the gist of what's going on, and when he reaches the ground floor, he turns to Tim and holds out his hand.

"Let me see." He's scowling. Any reprieve from a tense and wrinkled face and brow is long gone. He's back to business. Nothing like the Unknowing to make him severe.

\---

Tim hands it off to him without a word or a complaint, too stunned to do anything else. Powerless, is probably the word for it, but he’s not trying to find the  _ most _ humiliating vernacular for his situation.

\---

Jon reads quickly, eyes scanning at an increasingly wide pace, and when he finishes, he looks up at them, his expression very, very sober. The image is ruined, a little, by the fact that he has one arm wrapped around himself to keep a soft plush robe from undoing itself around his waist.

"Well." He clears his throat and wordlessly hands the letter to Martin. "I suppose that answers our time frame for planning."

\---

"No kidding," Tim mutters, as Martin takes the letter like he's afraid of touching it. He is. Very much so. It's also drenched in something awful.

Martin grimaces. "Who--Who's skin is this made of?"

\---

"Jurgen Leitner," Jon says automatically. He didn't even know that until he said it. It makes him shiver. "I suppose they found their ritual skin."

\---

Tim shifts on the couch, burying his head in his hands. "...Whoops."

Martin holds out the letter to anyone who will take it. Sasha does, luckily. "I had that in my  _ mouth!" _

\---

Jon rolls his eyes. "It's just skin, Martin. We'll be seeing quite a lot of it in the next day or so. Mannequins and all."

\---

"That doesn't mean I have to  _ like _ it! Just because---  _ You _ put skin in your mouth, doesn't mean I--" Martin holds his breath. "Did someone call Gerry back? We need Gerry."

\---

Michael nods, tugging anxiously on his hair. "He was texted. Poor Gerry. He was probably getting his dick wet."

\---

"The second he gets here, we need to start planning." Tim turns up to glare at Jon, less  _ towards _ him and more a general air about it. "For the next full day, I have no problems with you. We're best friends, and I trust you. Sound good?"

\---

No more moping around trying to recover. They have an Apocalypse to stop. Jon stands up a little taller, a little straighter, and gives a solid nod. "I'd appreciate that, yes. I know some of how this should play out."

\---

Tim's look turns more sad than anything.  _ Depressed, _ is the word. "Right. And what you know is what they apparently  _ also _ know, since we haven't been very subtle about anything we've been doing. So we-- I mean, we have to scrap the whole thing, don't we?"

\---

"Some of the specifics perhaps, yes." Jon cocks his head. "But the abilities they possess? The danger to ourselves? That isn't something that will-- that  _ should _ just change. The Stranger is still the Stranger-- it will attempt to disorient, confuse, and ultimately convince us to forget ourselves in the pursuit of the Dance."

He moves to the couch to sit, beginning to clear off any of the clutter from the coffee table. "Michael, if you would, there's a box of files on the desk in the other room?"

Michael blinks and then nods. "She never figured this much out. So that's a point for you, Jon."

Jon's returning smile is thin-lipped.

\---

_ "She _ never got a second chance," Tim points out, mostly to himself, as Martin sits down on the far end of the couch. 

He knows what happened to Tim, roughly, but... he's not sure he ever knew about this part. "What did I even do last time?"

\---

"You..." Jon frowns. "Played the distraction. We didn't want Elias to know what we were doing, so-- you stayed at the Institute and burned Statements."

\---

“I burned  _ statements?” _ Despite his overwhelming sense of dread, Martin laughs. “You know, if he knew, Elias probably knew, too. We should— Well, we should probably all talk to him first, but he’s next.”

“Martin’s out for blood,” Tim says, recovering marginally from the initial shock of this complete mess of a situation.

\---

"I don't know what he knows." Jon looks away. "And we need to be careful with him. He can do that memory extraction, when pressed."

\---

“Grand.” Tim sighs. “Let’s get started, then. We can fill the ghost in when he gets back.”


End file.
